After about two weeks, every student will continue to choose the same seat he chose in previous classes even if a teacher doesn’t appoint assigned seating. I suppose it has to do with habit, and that changing seats is troublesome. None of my teachers require assigned seating, but nonetheless, every student sits in the same seat over and over again.

In my math class, for example, I repeatedly sit near the back, Chanyeol sits beside me, and Lange sits in front of me. Is this his way of taunting me? I can’t avoid him by changing seats, either. That would mess up everyone else’s quietly established regime. In changing seats, I wouldn’t just affect one person, but about four. Plus, doing that would be too obvious. Lange would definitely notice that I went to the trouble of seating myself farther away from him.

“Morning, Junah!”

I raise my head. It’s Chanyeol. He sits beside me and takes off his backpack.

“M-morning,” I say. Why is his happiness so consistent? Isn’t it difficult to smile so repeatedly, to the point that it’s as perfunctory as asking about the weather?

“How’s it going?” He asks. “Did you make it back?”

“What?”

“Back to the dorm,” he smiles. “Since you said you didn’t want to go up those stairs.”

Oh, right. “Yeah, I did. I had to go up there eventually anyway. I probably could have just gotten my ID.”

“Nah, climbing fences is more fun,” he corrects me. “So if you need help climbing a fence again … “ He gives me a thumbs up, “I have your back.”

“Thanks,” I grin, and then turn to my notebook.

“By the way,” he says, “why didn’t you text me?”

I gulp. “I’m sorry. I forgot your number was on my hand, and I erased it accidentally.”

“I can give it to you again,” he proposes.

“No, it’s okay!” I say a little too loudly. I glance at Lange. Did he hear me? Lowering my voice, I explain, “I actually don’t need help with … you know … my love life. I’m waiting, you know? For the right one.”

“Serendipity?”

I blink. “Huh?”

“You want to find something good without actually looking for it, right?”

That’s it exactly. How does he know that?

“Then I’ll wait,” he decides, as if he heard my thoughts, “if you decide that I can help that good thing come your way.”

The teacher starts his lesson. I write a lot of notes in my notebook, but occasionally my focus drifts to my conversation with Chanyeol. Why is he asking me if I need help with finding someone? I’m completely content. I resolved to wait. However – I glance up at Lange - waiting just seems so dang endless.

When the class finishes, I pack my things and move out before Chanyeol can bring up the same subject again. I push my chair in when a hand bumps my arm.

I turn to face Lange, who must have tapped me. “Hey, Junah,” he greets, giving me his signature smile. It’s been forever since I’ve seen it this close. He looks good today, too. He looks so good, and I hate it. “Did you write down the homework? I kind of zoned out at the end of class, so … “

“Oh. Um. Yeah, hold on,” I say, pulling out my notebook. With my heart pounding so quickly that I can barely tell one beat from another, I flip to the page with my recent notes. “Right here,” I say, and he copies down the homework onto his hand.

“Thanks,” he says, and I nod and pack up again. I start to dash out of the room, so afraid am I of bursting as an effect of fear and excitement, but he voices a question, holding me back.

“How was your winter break?”

“It was all right,” I reply sincerely. “I didn’t really do anything fun.”

“Yeah, same here,” he smiles. A weird silence follows, so I hurry to make up for it.

“I gotta go to class, so … I’ll see you later.” Leaving, I pull out my phone and text both Nam and Bora.

Me: You guys will be at lunch, right? I’m going to try to make it before it closes.

They both reply yes. I start sprinting to the cafeteria, but someone stops me. It’s Chanyeol, waiting for me outside of class. Innocently, he asks, “Do you like him?”

I wrestle my arm away. “No. I don’t know him.” That’s the condensed truth. He nods his head, but I know he can see right through me. Even though he has an appearance of being happy, it’s his shield. How else can he understand my conflicted emotion