Even after twenty-one years of life, I still don't like anything about libraries.

My childhood has been a period where I did not know the names of all Disney's princesses, because I have been rather busy pretending to be the ideal daughter to my parents—and perhaps to every other parent in my neighborhood too. I grew up to be quite older than my real age, thus I did not have the belief in fictional tales.

I practically did not have the time to read a book, even more to visit a library.

To my parents, it is not important if their daughter did not know about Cinderella or Rapunzel. The only important thing is that their daughter—which is my self—knows how to make them proud, even if it happens to be against her own wish. Other than visiting a library and read at least one fairy-tale during my childhood, I have hundreds of other normal routines for other children that I did not experience.

Probably due to this, I don't like libraries or playgrounds and even shopping malls. I horribly spent the past ten years since the age of eleven until twenty, trying to gain back what I did not have during the first ten years of my life. In the past ten years, I did the things I could not experience until the age of ten. Although, ten years of not visiting a library did not make me fond of it. But this is normal—most people don't like libraries too.

“Hyeyoung, you're spacing out again.”

“What?” I unconsciously muttered. I lifted my head up. “I am not spacing out.”

When I looked down on the thick text book on the desk, I instantly remembered the essay that every third-year student of the Faculty of Fine Art has to submit for the History of Korean Art class conducted by Professor Kang. I held onto my essay paper and heaved a deep sigh over the short first paragraph I have poorly written. Even an elementary school student could write a better essay than mine.

“How could you already write two pages?”

Probably if I have spent more time reading the thick textbooks for History of Korean Arts, I could write at least one page of better essay. Unfortunately, I do not enjoy reading any textbook—of which I blame my childhood for the lack of interest in reading. My best friend, Jeon Boram—a petite, introvert girl who could probably recite the names of all the artworks by Salvador Dali more fluently than anyone else in the university—blinked her eyes in confusion when she looked at me.

“You could probably start by actually reading the notes given throughout the class today,” Boram grabbed a handful of notes from her thick folder and handed it over to me.

I stared at the paragraphs of nothing but paragraphs of notes written on the papers she handed over to me, and widened my eyes in shock. “You should really consider a job as a textbook writer,” I muttered as she slowly glared at me. I immediately stood up. “On a second thought, I should go and get some reference books for my self.”

I made my way towards the row of bookshelves at the left side of the spacious library, leaving Boram alone with her notes and textbooks. Glancing from one shelf onto the other, I searched thoroughly for the Fine Arts section. I took the right turn into the Literature section and continued searching, coming across several other students who would easily find their way around unlike me.

Just as I turned into the second row in the Literature section, I carelessly jumped in surprise. Knocking my elbow onto the bookshelf on my left, I adjusted my eyes onto the guy who sat on the floor, sleeping with his back against the bookshelf. I inhaled knowingly and straightened up my back as I made my way passed the guy. However, something caught my eyes and I hesitantly stopped by his side.

“Le Vilain Petit Canard,” I quietly squatted down next to him and muttered the name of the book he held against his chest. “French.”

Much to my horror, he suddenly opened his eyes and pulled the book away from my sight. I startled, eventually losing my balance and fell onto my back on the floor. Stretching his arms, the guy lazily yawned before he too, startled by my presence. “What are you doing?” He asked, his right hand ruffling his dark maroon hair as he stood up.

“Le Vilain Petit Canard,” I nervously replied.

“Excuse me?”

He continued to stare at me curiously before unexpectedly held his right hand out to help me. I hesitantly grabbed onto his warm hand and pulled my self up, back to my own two feet. Brushing the dirt off my jeans, I looked down onto the book he held in his left hand. “That book,” I pointed at the book.

“Do you want it?”

I immediately shook my head, “No, I don't need a French book,” Surely the last thing I really need was a book regarding an unfortunate ugly duckling that could not find a place where he perfectly fitted in until he found the one beautiful group of swans that accepted him gratefully. But he could have not known that. “But it intrigues me because it is in French.”

Even more unexpectedly, he started to charmingly smile. “So you must understand French then.”

“I don't understand French,” I said, squinting my eyes. I glanced to his face and immediately digesting his perfection. He has fair complexion, with a pair of beautiful eyes and plump desirable lips. A pretty boy. I exhaled heavily when he started fixing his bangs, which hovered over his eyes nicely. Awkwardly, I smiled at him. “And surely you don't look like you understand that language either.”

“How could you say that?” He smirked, lifting the book up where I could see it clearly in his hand.

“There are less than fifteen boys majoring French in this university and you don't look like one of those boys,” I witnessed the change in his expression before I continued, “And surely no boys would want to be caught reading Le Vilain Petit Canard too.”

There was a moment of pure silence between the two of us before he suddenly chuckled—a sound that I could relate to as a laughter from my childhood—breaking the short silence almost instantly. I gasped upon listening to his voice, echoing between the space between the two of us. Oblivious to my shock, he continued to chuckle, “I am Lee Hongki.”

A nice name for a pretty boy.

I literally gasped again when he introduced him self, a brief moment when I imagined what it would be like if I ignored him in the first place. If the French book in his hand has not excited me, if I did not talk about the proximity of boys in the university to understand French with him. I tucked my hands onto the back pocket of my jeans, trying to hide my anxiousness.

“I should go,” I uncomfortably start to rub the back of my neck. “I have an essay to write.”

His smile instantly disappeared, as a part of my stomach felt as if it was twisted into a knot and tightened within seconds. “At least tell me your name,” he calmly replied.

I hesitantly shook my head.

“We don't need to know each other,” I muttered under my breath as I turned around, quickly searching for the fastest route to escape Lee Hongki. I immediately jerked again when he managed to block my way, standing in front of me with the perfect smile still plastered onto his lips. I desperately wished he could stop smiling.

“What if I could prove that you are wrong?”

I wrinkled my nose, “Wrong about what?”

Hongki tucked his left hand into the back pocket of his skinny jeans. I silently cringed when I finally have the chance to have a clear look at the jeans he was wearing. I desperately wanted to tell him that boys should avoid tight, leg-hugging pants that make them look as if they have prettier legs than girls. His other hand lifted the book up and he examined the written words on its cover. “I'll prove to you that I do understand French.”

“How will you do that?” I became highly curious, even more when he started to cynically smirk.

He flipped the book opened and showed me the page numbered forty-six and forty-seven respectively. “I'll translate these two pages and give it to you as a prove that I do understand French.”

“That is not my point,”

“Then what is it that you want me to prove?” Hongki approached me as he closed the book. He stood inches away from me, enough to let me breathed in the scent of his shampoo and his cologne. He smelled too good for a boy. I sighed and looked up to him, trying to continue smiling as I looked at him straight into his pair of gorgeous eyes. His eyes seemed rather endlessly dark and deep. I warned my self not to drown in it. I might never find a way out.

“Pretty boys like you do not read The Ugly Duckling, Lee Hongki.”

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Title taken from the song We Might As Well Be Strangers by Keane.