Prologue

Love, to him, was nonexistent. It simply just couldn't be found - not with his eyes and definitely not with his heart. He tried - God knows how much he tried - to look for it in places, in people. Love, as his confused mind concluded, was far from how unrealistic novels and romantic clichés made it to be. There was no love at first sight, no stupid butterflies in the pit of his stomach, and certainly no transfer student distracting him during -long lectures. (Not that his attention span was something to boast about in the first place.)

Love, to him, was fictional. Period. And so he gave up his search, his thoughts leading him to the conclusion that-

Love... is forcedly built.

Unicorns and rainbows and pixie dusts just didn't - wouldn't - happen to him, making his conclusion all the more real. Maybe there stood an invisible line, a great divide, between those who were qualified to be in love and those who weren't. (And he categorized himself in the latter.) Older girls, younger girls, girls his age, hot girls, innocent girls, and even geeky girls - he had given them all a good look. Look, being the accentuated word (highlighted, italicized, and underlined for his mental stability). He simply looked.

And looked.

Until he grew tired and just internally shouted ' it'.

It wasn't that he couldn't lure them in and have them all wrapped around his calloused finger, no. Everyday he would look at himself in the mirror (the narcissistic bastard that he was) and one specific thought would crawl up his brain: God must have spent a little more time on me. He was well-aware of the girls (and a few guys) swooning over him every time he made a basket, an assist, or a steal. It felt good, that much he would admit. But 'good' wasn't what he wanted to feel, at least not when it came to love.

Love was supposed to make him feel happy and contented and submissive, even. Yeah, that.

The desire to do the craziest things for someone, he craved for that. He wanted to hold someone's hand while walking down the beach, to hum a lullaby over the phone for someone, to wrap his arms around someone, to kiss someone under the moonlight, to actually be head-over-heels for someone. Damn, he mentally slapped himself because all of those were nothing but clichés written on paper.

Love, he revised, could exist. But it required practice.

Maybe he could cross paths with love when he was ready; when he was good enough to be in love. He would dribble on his own pace, not taking a step forward until he had perfected his tactics; his pivotal abilities. He couldn't pass the ball without someone to actually be there on the receiving end. It just didn't work that way. He needed to be sure that his feelings would be equally reciprocated, if not more.

Kim Jonghyun liked to believe he was a practical man. A very practical man indeed.

He liked to believe that with constant training, far-fetched goals wouldn't be too far anymore. And so he formulated this brilliant idea (according to him) that would pull him out of his misery. It was the most practical thing to do and he applauded himself for having to come up with such a plan. Marvelous, he praised himself with a satisfied grin pasted on his face.

Circles, lines, curves, and he was done; he just got himself a partner (well, sort of).

He sunk his teeth onto his lip, anticipation building up in his chest as he watched the boy before him make the last few of his all-too-common name. This, Jonghyun thought giddily, should be called a masterpiece. With this, no one would get hurt; no heartaches, no tears, no nothing.

Just plain business.

And that was practically a good thing, right? Right?

Right, he convinced himself as he held the paper right before his eyes; two names written legibly under distinct signatures.