On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have history and kinesiology. I’m glad my schedule is relaxed on these days, because it means I have more opportunities to nap longer in the afternoons. Also, I don’t miss lunch, which basically makes my day.

There are a few down sides to scheduling those two classes on days that only come twice a week, though. Each class is longer than a regular class by at least thirty minutes. History isn’t too bad on most days, but some times I get so bored that I start picking at my cuticles, which is a bad habit that I seriously need to break. As for kinesiology … well, I don’t like working out. I’m a lazy person with no motive to keep up a physical regime of exercise, so being forced to do it because the school requires it doesn’t make me love it more. Also, I’ll have to wear sweatpants or other athletic gear, and I’ve never been fond of wearing those things. I didn’t even own sweatpants before college, and I had to buy some before this semester started.

For the first time since this semester started, I eat lunch alone. I texted Nam and Bora to ask if they were going to lunch, but both of them said they were still in class. I guess my class does end early (it’s only eleven o’ clock). Most students go to lunch around twelve since that’s when the majority of morning classes finish. I assume that’s the reason why there are only a small amount of students in the cafeteria right now.

I choose a place to eat near the back, where the tables only accommodate two seats. I always feel like an outcast when I eat alone even though I try to look confident when I return to an empty table. I imagine everyone looks at me and judges me for being alone. I wonder why I can’t feel as sedate as the other people act when they eat by themselves. I guess my self-confidence only amounts to so much.

Trying to look busy, I read homework material while eating soup. I don’t pay attention to the soup I eat, so I miss my mouth and end up almost dropping scalding liquid onto my pants. Grabbing a napkin, I wipe the corners of my mouth and look up from my book to take a break.

I see Lange walk into the cafeteria by himself. My heart tightens at the sight of him. I want to slap my face or something, force myself to stop looking, but I can’t. I watch him as he scans his ID, and then, with that cocky yet lazy stride that is exemplified by all the boys on the soccer team, he waits in line for food. I try not to admire how his back looks in that fitting pink t-shirt he doesn’t wear very often, or how perfectly styled his hair is from behind. He turns his head, and I duck my own. I wait a few seconds, and then I look up again.

I like to think I have a good sense of knowing when people are discreetly observing a person or not. Their head always tilts a little, in a way that looks like an apathetic of the head but is really a sideways nod to the person of their interest. Lastly, their eyes never stop moving. If all somebody wanted in the lunch line was lunch, they wouldn’t be looking everywhere around the cafeteria and occasionally settling on one person.

But the problem with Lange is that he isn’t afraid to look, which makes it harder for me to watch him. When I was obsessed with him last semester, I asked my friends to watch him for me. They would report that when he was on the way to the bathroom, he abruptly turned his head to look at me, or how this one time while we were having late night dinner, he stared at me from the doorway all the way to the dessert section, which is across the cafeteria.

I don’t understand Lange. We had the most ridiculous relationship – well, if it was even adequate to call it that. I used to wonder what he and I were doing. It was an absurd game that we played. A game of no words, or hardly any actions. A game of sly glances and cold shoul