When the door slams in my face, I stand there for a few seconds in silence before it finally sets in. Then, of course, comes denial. I pound on the door continually, shouting her name as I demand explanations--for the break-up, for her weird behavior, for everything. 

What's going on?

Why won't you see me?

Is everything alright?

Do you miss me?

Do you hate me?

When will everything be okay?

I pound on the door more, waiting for an answer.

But it never comes.

Instead, I am left outside and I can only let bitter tears run down my cheeks. A drop falls on my hand and I ignore it. But soon, another falls on my arm.

And another.

And another.

And another. 

I curse as the rain begins to pour, as if the heavens themselves are crying for me. I shake out my hair and take a seat on her front doorstep. I remain relatively dry though my feet are soaked as I wait. I look up at where I knew her bedroom is and call her name again, but she doesn't answer. The only response I get is silence. 

In a way, it was ironic. This reminded me of when I first introduced her to my teammates. It had been pouring just as it had today. I hadn't meant to let her meet them to be honest. I was afraid that they would steal her away. It wasn't that I wasn't enough--even if that sounds a bit vain of me to say--but having a girl so...amazing made me so insecure. 

We had been spending a wonderful date together, and to be honest, I had hoped it would never end. But the rain had poured without end and since our dorms were closer, I brought her there to dry off. As all things did, it didn't end up quite as I had hoped and she stayed for dinner. The members were taken with her immediately and though a bit awkward at first--like she had been with me--she grew on them too. 

How in the world was I supposed to let my jealousy not take over me? Her hair was wet from her shower and the clothes she borrowed from me, a large shirt and grey sweats, made her look, in one word, y. It didn't seem like I was the most...manly of my group, but at that moment, it didn't matter. Seeing her with the group so naturally made it so hard to not believe that she belonged with us--with me. 

But when I dragged her to the hallway and hissed a complaint, she. Kissed. Me. 

I could have melted right there, as girly as it sounded. It was so rare for her to initiate anything, especially something as intimate (for her) as a kiss. Our lips met again hungrily and when we pulled apart for air, she pushed me away with accusing eyes.

The reason why I like them is because I love you and they're important to you. Stupid.

Then she left, answering the call of another member with a bright smile as if nothing had happened.

(How sly.)

Then, borrowing an apron, she set off to cook for dinner. She had insisted and we couldn't deny her.

Sadly, though I loathed to admit it, none of us were good cooks at all. (How we were able to ruin water was still a mystery.) So, being the selfless girl she was (and still is), she decided to make dinner for all of us. We were all in the living room, watching TV when we were first slapped. Not literally. We were hit with the scent of her food. Though I was still occasionally able to eat home-cooking whenever I was with her, it had been so long since the rest of my group had and they were drawn like moths to light.

They poked their heads into the kitchen and watched her, asking questions that she answered easily while she chopped, diced, and cooked. The most aegyo-prone even dared to follow her around, eagerly asking questions and offering help. She had agreed for all the Teen Top members to help, especially when they offered and soon, each of the members--including me--were cutting, mixing, doing something. 

The odd part?

It looked so natural.

I know I said it earlier, but it really was. It seemed like she belonged there, cooking with us, encouraging us, laughing with us, just being with us. Eventually, several accidents, food mishaps, scoldings, and laughter later, we sat down to eat. She had been able to save most--if not all--of our mistakes and made a warm chicken soup with it. 

We ate like it was our last meal. 

We sent her home after bugging our manager to drive her home and we talked the whole car trip. She was almost glowing with happiness as she entered the home and it seemed almost like tradition ever since then to have her show up at the dorms randomly once a week to cook dinner.

They loved her. 

We loved her.

I loved her.

And yet as I sit on the step for hours, letting raindrops hit my fingertips as teardrops fall down my cheeks, I wonder if she loved us. I flick my tongue out and taste a salty tear, waiting for the rain--for the nightmare--to end. I listen to its steady sound as I hum to myself, trying to not let my cracking voice portray my worry and fears. I whisper her name to the wind once again for the innumerable time in hours only to find no answer. As always. I turn around and knock on the door, softer this time, more controlled and tired. 

I miss you. 

Then, I stand and walk away slowly, willing her to open the door and run up to me, throwing her arms around me and letting me know that it was all a dream, a nightmare really. For her to whisper the three words I want to hear the most and for the warmth I knew she had. For the bright smile and for the chiming laughter.

But when it becomes clear that she isn't coming, two blocks away, I hit a dead-sprint and throw open the door of the dorms without recalling any of the passing scenery.

My group members crowd around me, genuinely worried now--unlike their teasing from before--but I can't answer. The run had my ears filled with only the sound of my heart and, unlike I had hoped, left me filled with thoughts of her.