A boarding school. You've never been to a boarding school before, and yet here you are, touring the campus with other transfer students. It's your first time having such an experience, and to be honest, you're excited. Being away from your parents is a plus, and being surrounded with people your own age is another plus. It's going to be fun; you can feel it.

The guidance counselor leads you and twenty other girls down a corridor, where the floors gleam with their newly polished shine, and the cream colored walls are flecked with gold paint. Large arched windows decorate one half of the hallway as the other half is filled with closed doors, following each other in equal procession. Sunlight streams through the sheer glass, casting temporary patterns on you and your companion's clothes as you quietly walk forward, intent on following the guide. 

"This is where some of our extra-curricular classes partake," the elderly lady explains as she sweeps her arm in a grand gesture. The girls, in their crisp, untouched uniforms, ooh and aah at the closed doors. "Unfortunately, we can't open any right now. Some activities are currently in session, but once you decide to participate in a few clubs when school starts tomorrow, you'll be able to freely venture into your specific rooms," she adds. 

"Excuse me," you raise your voice as all unfamiliar heads turn to stare at you. "Um. I'm sorry to bother." You smile slightly. "Where's the bathroom?"

"Right down that hallway," the guide points, and you thank her and hurriedly rush to where she points. You turn left into an identical hallway, away from the prying eyes of your companions. 

The bathroom? Her directions had been very vague. You silently pad down the hallway, peering at each door you pass to see whether there is a sign that indicates what's inside. You're getting farther from the group and quicken your pace, wanting to use the bathroom and return to the tour as soon as possible. There it is; at last, you find it. You twist open the golden knob and push it open to find yourself in a highly stylized bathroom, with porcelain sinks and marble counters that shimmer with streaks of silver. 

After using the restroom, you wash your hands and look at your reflection in the spotless mirror that stretches across the entire wall. You wonder what it'll be like to start attending such a high-class school as this. You're surprised you had even gotten in, since rumor has it that competition is tough. Oh well, you're not about to complain; it's no small feat to be on this school's student list, and you're not about to change that.

You exit the bathroom and look left and right. Where was it again? You don't recall which way you had turned to get to this point. Trusting your gut, you cautiously turn left, perking your ears to catch any sound of the guide's voice to pinpoint your whereabouts. 

Normally, you have a pretty good sense of direction, but it must be your off day today, because you've been circling hallways for the past five minutes and have not yet found any sign of the guide and her followers. You start to panic. This place is like a labyrinth. What happens if you never get out? There's orientation tonight ... and dinner. Your stomach is already grumbling in response. You need to get out of here, if only to satisfy your hunger.

You turn down yet another hallway, this one more narrow than the others you had come across so far. The lights are dim here, and you wonder if maybe you should turn back, but before you do, muffled music begins to reach your ears. You your head, curious as to where the source of the music is coming from and whether it will lead you back to the guide. Taking a chance, you follow the sound, down the shadowy hallway and past closed doors until the music reaches a crescendo. You stop in front of the last door in this hallway. Music escapes the crevices. Hoping that the guide is here, perhaps performing some sort of musical introduction, you tentatively twist open the knob and peek inside.

It's a dance studio, and a large one at that. Two walls facing each other are entirely made up of reflective glass, while the remaining walls are lined with railings and various other equipment. An iPod connected to black speakers sits on a table near the door, and beyond that is a boy, sitting down on a bench with his back to you. His hood is up, and he is bobbing his head as if to better grasp the rhythm of the fast-paced song. He gets up suddenly, and you fear that your location has been found, but he only stands to stretch. You know you should go back - considering how lonely this place seems, you probably shouldn't be here - but you can't bring yourself to leave. Instead, you watch as he turns up the volume and starts to do what people do in a room like this - dance.

You've never seen anybody dance like this before. There's just something in the way he moves that's so fluid, something in the way he whirls and gestures his arms that shows barely suppressed tension. It's as if, at any moment, he'll burst with all that raw talent he's exuding, raw talent he promotes with every stomp, with every step he takes as the song continues. It's in the way he holds himself, in the way he gracefully lands on the ground or positions his body. It's magnetic. 

Abruptly, he stops. With his back still to you, he speaks out, "If you're going to watch, you might as well come in."

You're startled. You hadn't known that he knew you were there. Hesitant at first, you step forward, closing the door shut behind you. You approach him timorously, unsure of whether you should be here despite his lax approval, and stop just a few feet from him. He sighs, as if your interruption had ruined his state of mind, and turns around, letting his hood fall back to reveal his face.

Oh.

He's gorgeous.

He casually walks over to the bench to retrieve his water bottle, which he uncaps. He drinks from it, and you watch, almost enchanted, at the way he throws back his head and consumes the beverage. Satisfied, he wipes his mouth with the back of his palm and bends down to dig something out from a duffel bag that lays at his feet. He pulls out a paper and pen and, with a flourish, writes something on it. He then approaches you, signed paper in hand, and offers it to you with an uninterested gaze.

"What's that?" You ask, confused.

"Isn't this what you came here for?" He asks you. He waves the paper a little. "Here. Take it. And leave."

Befuddled and slightly insulted, you respond, "I don't want that. I don't even know what that is."

"It's my signature," he shrugs, as if it's a natural thing for a guy like him to randomly sign his name and hand it out. Maybe it is; you wouldn't know that yet. You've only just met him.

"I don't want your signature ... "

He blinks at you. "You don't?" You don't respond, and he considers your statement before shoving the note into the pocket of his harem pants. "You're new, aren't you? Part of the students coming in?"

"Yeah," you reply. You look away to avoid his bland gaze, but he hinders your action by closing the distance between you with two long strides.

His sudden close proximity scares you, and you're not sure what to do. Should you step back? You don't even know him. You don't know him, and yet he's been so bold as to go this far. He's so close. He's too close, and unable to make a decision, you stay still. 

He smirks then, a smirk that infuriates you as much as it makes your heart beat wildly. He leans in, with that irritatingly handsome, smirking face, and whispers, "Then go back to your little group. And don't say a word about this, okay?" He raises a finger to his lips to illustrate how modest he wants you to be about this situation, and you involuntarily nod, unable to respond in any other way. He leans in closer, as if to confirm that he's successfully manipulated you into keeping this apparent secret, before he steps back, laughing a little as he returns to his iPod. "Turn left, take the stairs, and turn right. You can wait at the office for your guide." Offhandedly waving goodbye at you, he says, "Later," dismissively. Feeling lightheaded, you obediently rush out of the room.