Prologue.
Love TrialTo The Current Ji Eun:
This is our poorly written diary. To the future me whom may feel worried about the words I've written, what's in a diary is not exempt from punishment. However, this is a chance for you to visit your mindset from several months ago.
A mindset I presumably believe you do not remember.
The reason for this, you see, is because you were bestowed with a clock whose hands move faster than most. The seconds become minutes. Minutes become hours. Before you’ll know it, your expiration date will draw closer than a freshly bought milk carton's.
Oh, dear Ji Eun. Like a phone, I've yearned for a reception, desperately attempting to regain connection to this world. To a certain degree, I knew that that reality wasn't possible. The fact was simply buried within my heart and I prayed to God that I wouldn't have had to dig it out again. I've grown to realize that I could no longer feign ignorance. There was only translucent hope. I have no memories; this is my truth.
Of course, you wouldn't remember any or that. . .obviously.
You are, but an empty shell of me.
Are you frustrated? You never really were good at receiving bad news—but hey, who knows, you may still remember more than what I put it out to be. Albeit, what I do know: Everything you would normally hear is beginning to sound horrifyingly vivid——like a child's foot rustling around in a sandbox or a fly landing on a piece of paper, the rustling of its wings as it prepares to take off again. Continuations morph into scratch because the mere thought of not recalling the beginning point irritates you. It's almost as if you've reached insanity. You want to rip off everything. Your hair. Your clothes. Your skin.
The first time you met him was also during a time like this...
❝Day 00 | Prologue❞
Papers enshroud the work area, my eyes counting more than there actually were. Sheet after sheet, the material scattered about seemed infinite. I unconsciously scoff, recalling that the reason the other students shoved the handouts in my direction was because 1) I would have no say otherwise and 2) I wouldn’t have disagreed with their logic. In all reality, I hated wasting time.
After giving the last request a stamp of approval, I begin aligning all of the paper work, placing everything out of sight. With my desk clear, I tap my pen against its vandalized exterior, my lips mimicking the silence that accompanies me. Out of pure boredom, I analyze the harsh carvings applied onto the torched oak, paying close attention to the crude language engraved and repetitive sketches of male ia.
So, my seat situates in the last chair of the first row, presumably because I spent most of my time in class sleeping rather than speaking. In the beginning, I would try to participate and make friends; every year starts off like this. Lately, though, I’ve become “inverted” as my Sociology teacher describes it. It just became too hard for me to remember names and faces—so, I stopped. And friendships ended. And rumors exploded.
I don’t know how news travels and why it does so fast, but then I remember: it’s high school.
I remember once, Leone, the foreign exchange student from Switzerland, asked if I wanted to sit at her lunch table. At the time, I wasn’t trying to be too skeptical about things, so I agreed. And Leone introduced me to her friends and me to her friends, as if we weren’t eligible of doing it ourselves. It was strange though, how the exchange student knew more than I did about these girls I’ve been going to school with for years, but it was nice to see that she was “participating.” I don’t really remember much of what happened after that except that a lot of Leone’s friends looked very tense about me sitting there; one of them kept tweaking her earring.
Kim Chi Soo, who they called ‘Kimchee’, asked if we had any classes together, and I told her Calculus, and she answered with an “oh.” That was the last time she said anything to me. Lee Chae Rin, who popped her gum a lot, only stared at me through half lidded eyes and would smile a bit every time we made contact, which was nice. It was a little hard too though; I didn’t really like watching her repeatedly pull out her gum, stretch it out, and at the bubble-pink center to make this ‘ pop! ’ sound.
Switzerland’s Leone was genuinely nice to me the whole time, and for some reason, this made two girls at the table very upset. They would do this thing where they would take side glances at me. Then, at her. Then, at each other. This cycle repeated quite often. The strangest thing was that once she left the table, they started badmouthing her.
“Oh, just sometimes…”
“I know; she always acts like she needs to know everything.”
She doesn’t.
“And didn’t you think her hair looked really weird today?”
It didn’t.
“It always does. I mean, who does that anyway?”
This went on for a while.
After a while, it started irritating me. I could tell that it was starting to irritate everyone else at the table, too. And the table to the right of us, too. And the table to the left, too. They were talking rather loud. So, I sort of gave them this look and asked them something I probably shouldn’t have asked.
“If you guys are friends, then why the hell are you ing about her?”
Everyone stared at me like I asked the most unanswerable question in the world, Frankly, I didn’t think it was. I just didn’t feel like hearing them talk anymore. And they didn’t.
Somehow, though, I ending up becoming their “Leone.”
Oh, dear God, what time is it?
I pull out my phone from my back pocket and—my stars, there’s so much drool dripping down from the corner of my lips. Wiping, I try to unlock my phone, finding that I only slept for twenty minutes. It felt eternal though; my body feels a little heavier, my visions a tad more hazier. There’s a buzz that sounds in my head and I eventually give the evening some recognition. . .just not enough for my undivided attention. As much as I should’ve gotten up, I used all my power to place my phone back into my pocket, cross my arms over the desk, and lay my head back down.
With eyes round like an owl’s, I stare into nothing. I feel as if I should be deep in thought, but I just stare. I can feel the back of my knees sweating a little as well the spaces between my toes, but for some odd reason, it made me sort of giddy. It was all the reason to let me know that my glands were functioning properly and my body was somewhat healthy at the moment. It’s strange though, I was never this positive about anything.
I guess it was just one of those days.
“What’s this?” I voice aloud, pulling out a thick, rectangular object. I stare at it closely. The sensation of the white elastic against the base of my thumb indicates that it was an eraser, an eraser that didn’t belong to me.
I found the specimen around the time of putting my pen—the same initial pen I was using to fill out paperwork—back into my desk. I knew I couldn’t have owned an eraser because that would conclude that I would have had to own a pencil and pencils are keen examples that people are allowed to make mistakes. I couldn’t afford to make anymore mistakes in my life.
As I carefully remove the paperback slip, I immediately came across sloppy scribbled Hangeul. The characters had made out my name, just barely. Enveloped in curiosity, I turn around, pulling out a sheet from the stacked paper. I quickly place the eraser alongside the self-signed attendance list and search for a match. This looks identical, but so does this one. After minutes of mentally eliminating obvious incapable suspects, I came down to three.
My train of thought is disrupted when a familiar baritone from behind calls out: “Class representative?”
That voice. I couldn’t put a finger on it. I desperately attempt to remember without turning, as if I was creating a game, participant number: me. It was deep, pure—incredibly raw—and clear. Almost one that even I couldn’t have forgotten easily. Still, why was it that I just couldn’t place it?
Wait a minute.
“Cho Kyu Hyun,” I exhale with satisfactory before turning around to hand him the eraser, “Is this yours?”
His eyes lower, fixating themselves on the center of my palm. I take a moment to take a good look at Kyu Hyun, riveting the lush of his full eyelashes. His normally tousled curls were now damp, shriveled tendrils that clung onto his face, specifically highlighting his rather pronounced cheek bones. My eyes continue the travel downward, getting a glimpse of the sweat beads that were comfortly housing on the nape of his neck.
“You knew?” Kyu Hyun asks, almost as if he was astounded by my confirmation. ‘I knew’ what? I decide to remain silent as I watch his lips puff out and gape, as if to say the unsaid. As if to say more than words can say. In the end, he doesn’t say anything. He grazes his fingers over my hand as he grabs the eraser, the tips of them still lingering on my palm. Kyu Hyun opens his mouth once more.
“Or, could it be that the feelings are mutual?” he dawdles, smirking at his own words.
And as his hand’s just about to leave, he slyly interlaces his pinky with mine. “Fine, I guess I have no other choice but to let you date me.” he laughs sarcastically, raising his head a little.
“I don’t want to though.”
“I wasn’t expecting it to turn out this way bu—excuse me?”
Those dead, obsidian orbs were now kissed with an anticipating mahogany hue. Every streak, every pale mauve streak, left from the sunset drapes over him. As if, he was some sort of god. Of . Of beautiful, passionate, aggressive—
Oh, breathe Ji Eun, before your ing soak.
Exhausted, I rest a finger on my temple, figuring out a way to phrase my words. “I’m not interested.” I retort with a shake of head, removing my hand from his.
“In men?”
“In relationships.”
“I’m not either, but I like you—and you like me too.”
I choked. Excuse me; wait, what? Not once do I recall the words “I like you” escaping my lips. Not once did I recall making any references associated to even being infatuated with him. I just. . .I don’t like him! I don’t like him. I don’t like him. I don’t like him—
I really, really don’t like Cho Kyu Hyun.
Four minutes have passed since we’ve been sharing awkward side gazes. ‘We’ve’ as in ‘Kyu Hyun and I’. Kyu Hyun seemed a lot tenser though, which was weird, since he always appeared to be ‘Mr. Cool. . .er Than I Am Guy’. I cough a little and arch a brow, signaling him to speak first. He obliges, his voice sounding slightly less—okay, a lot less—cockier than before.
“Y–You gave me this eraser,” he informs, waving the rubber high in the air.
“And if I give you a sharpie, I’m proposing?”
He laughs. He laughs so casually that my skin begins to itch. Every word or action prior to Kyu Hyun coils around my well-being. It’s as if I’m tangling myself in these vines of irritation. Why? I don’t understand it myself. I wasn’t usually this hateful or pessimistic. I’ve seen him in homeroom, but this has to be the first time he has said more than a handful of words to me. Sure, I’ve heard his routine Friday live performances with his band mates and those trite geometric puns he’s shares with the teacher staff, but personally, no, he has nothing to do with me. So why, why is it that this person suddenly bothers the hell out of me?
“The school’s legend,” he begins, interrupting my train of thought before taking a seat at my desk, “So, a student, like such, is supposed to write the name of the one they love on an eraser and place it in said person’s desk. If the person who receives it returns it to the same person who wrote their name, the two are destined to be together.”
“You believe in that kind of stuff?” I query, analyzing the way he twirled the thing in the palm of his hand.
“Sure, I believe in fate. Destiny. The whole nine yards. And why is it that you’re laughing again?”
As a corner of my mouth lifts to smile, the rest is still as an almost condescending expression. I wouldn’t have been able to explain, but I found his words hilarious, still leaving that itchy sensation on my skin. Fate? Fate’s cruel. Biased. It’s everything I wouldn’t want a manner to be, wrapped in this sickening delusion and I was going to prove just that to him by mustering: “Thirty days.”
Kyu Hyun gazes up at me with a hum as his legs alternately kick back and forth in his seat, a silly childish smile plastered on his face.
“Give me thirty days to prove to you that it’s impossible for us to be together.”
He laughs. “Fine. Prepare; you’ll be crying for me before then.”
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