I’ve met up with him every day at forty-three minutes past twelve since the semester began. 

The first time was a coincidence as I sat just outside the library near Pearl Hall, waiting for Sara to finish printing out a syllabus for her first class of the day — her schedule had her busy from one in the afternoon to seven at night this fall. I had nothing to do after the fact, and I would have continued to have an absence of ways to occupy my time had he not shown up there at forty-three minutes past twelve; a time I memorized due to the fact that seconds before he came walking down to the first floor of the building, I checked the clock above the stairwell. Soft clicks echoing. Long, thin legs appearing to never end — like a pair of meticulous chopsticks, I remember thinking at first. Eyes staring forever forward. 

It was a coincidence then, the first time. The second time was as well, as Sara forgot she had a journal entry to complete before class a mere thirty minutes before said class would begin. The third time, I had sent off Sara early. By the fourth, it had become a habit I didn’t see a reason to break. 

I didn’t need a reason to see him: Park Chanyeol.

I merely wanted to, so I did. 

Every day at forty-three minutes past twelve, he’d be leaving his psychology class on the second floor to get lunch with me. 

Every day at forty minutes past twelve, I waited with my feet tapping down against tile, with my fingers absentmindedly scrolling through my phone, and with my eyes glancing at the clock every twenty seconds.

It was only an hour of my daily routine that I managed to sneak him into every day. It was only an hour I looked forward to more than eating lunch itself. It was the only hour I could spend with someone who wasn’t scared of openly saying, “I don’t like you.”

And I liked that he wasn’t satisfied with me. 

And I liked the fact that being with him didn’t feel like I was either making attempts to become a better person or seeking some kind of personal retribution.

I just was, and I was with him.

He had changed considerably in terms of his hair. It was an almost dirty kind of red, black sprouting up from the roots. His fringe hung lower on his head, hiding his spotless forehead from view. Stray hairs got tangled up in his brows, clinging desperately to avoid being plunked by a wandering hand — in no way Chanyeol's. Because it was never Chanyeol who'd end the life of an external, floating strand so cruelly and abruptly. 

It was always someone else. 

And for no reason at all, I felt sad. 

I felt bad.

Clutching onto the buttoned down strap of his black leather jacket, right there at his elbow, I matched his steps, I met his gaze, I made a smile just for him, and I felt a little bit better. 

“Green tea, double scooped, please.” Chanyeol ordered, his voice deep and throaty. He had caught a cold last week and he was still getting over it. Though it was in its last stages, it still made his voice produce an almost painful sounding scratching noise every time he spoke. I felt bad for him and told him to rest today, but he insisted on eating with me. He insisted with a smile and and a bass tone, “I’m fine,” before we had egg sandwiches from a vender down the street, extending our hour long time limit by leaps and bounds on this particular Fall afternoon. 

Now, it was ice cream. 

His eyes lit up when he spotted the sign, and I didn’t have anywhere to be. So I followed his wide stride into the ice cream shop and was presently sitting at a table by the window, watching him absentmindedly. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. I was merely looking at him, waiting for him. For him to get his ice cream, yes, but also for the words he looked like he wanted to say when we met up today. 

“I didn’t get you anything.” He admitted upon walking back towards the seats he had chosen in the small ice cream parlor. Forgoing the private nooks and crannies here and there, we sat instead right in front of the ceiling to floor windows by the entrance. It was getting colder recently, Winter well on its way, so the sun felt good on my exposed skin. He chose as sensibly as always. And yet another part of me had a feeling that even if it were Summer and the blistering heat had us drenched in sweat, he’d still chose to sit here. 

I mentally reminded myself to come back here with him during that season. Such hopeful possibilities for a time so far in the future, stretching past seemingly everyone’s fateful graduation, had me shaking my head, forgiving him, “It’s fine.”

“You don't have to get angry about it. You didn’t ask for anything to begin with.” He flippantly responded, plopping down into his seat with a frown on his face. 

I was understandably confused by his change in temperament, “I’m not angry about it.”

“Okay, I get it, stop yelling.”

“I’m not yelling.” I argued, my voice instinctively rising in pitch without me even realizing it.

He exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, “You really want to cause a scene here?”

“I’m not—”

“Sometimes it feels good to raise your voice, doesn’t it?” 

He bit down onto a spoonful of ice cream, smiling to himself. Completely and utterly satisfied with the reaction he coaxed out of me. Like a child. Like a child on a mission. A single, self-gratifying mission. A part of me felt flattered to be the center of his self-assigned “Cheer Her Up” mission. Another part of me felt like laughing outright. So I did, only after yelling so loud I’m surprised we weren’t immediately told to leave the humble establishment. 

Because there was no better way, no more fitting way, to say his name. 

“Park Chanyeol!”

He jumped, almost choking, staring at me with wide, alarmed eyes. I laughed — as I wanted — at the sight, because he was right. 

Somehow, everything he said always sounded right.

As soon as we stepped out of the ice cream parlor, Chanyeol produced a pair of big framed sunglasses from the pocket of his leather jacket. He slipped them on slowly, flipping his head back, his freshly trimmed set of unstyled bangs out of his face, only after he properly adjusted them to that slight seventy-five degree angle. Just enough so that his thick eyebrows peaked from above the rim. Just like he had read exactly how to wear sunglasses in the middle of the afternoon from a fashion magazine. Like he had lived in that drawer I pulled him out of not long ago, he stood tall and proud by my side. 

I nudged him with my elbow, putting on a disgusted, scrunched up face, “Stop acting cool.”

“One does not simply stop acting cool when one is naturally so,” he waved his hand in the air majestically, as though summoning any and all pedestrians to feast their eyes upon him: the cool, chic guy, wearing his overly glamorous sunglasses and that pair of expensive skinny jeans whose true price would remain only between the two of us and Summer. But those ears of his gave him away. Big like his personality that could only be partially covered up by flashy sunglasses. Speaking louder than his vintage-bought jeans. 

Thoughts of floppy auburn curls and stomach flipping smiles sprung to the forefront of my memory.

I jeered out loud, hiding my smile. 

He nudged me right back.

We ended up sitting on the steps outside of his dorm. It’s not as though he hadn’t invited me in. He had. I rejected the idea. He always does. I always say “No thanks.” “No,” because I don’t want to. “Thanks,” because I appreciate the thought. And at any other time, believe me, at any other time than today, this hour, these minutes, that single second, I would have said “Yes.” But it’s too late for that. We already ended up sitting here, on the steps outside of his dorm. 

“I decided to give my computer to Sehun when I move out.” He added — a transitory comment after the topic of graduation came up — as he took another sip of his cola, forearms balanced on the tips of his propped up knees, a small sigh of content leaving him before he continued, “And before you complain,” he stopped me before I could speak, before I even opened my mouth, right after the thought occurred to me, “you were my initial choice when it came to deciding where to gift the monster.” 

He called it the “monster” because of how big the screen was. That, and because it fell on Baekhyun one day and the shorter boy proclaimed loudly at the time, “It’s trying to eat me, Yeol!”

All of this and more was divulged to me in the form of the short, laugh-inducing stories Chanyeol liked to tell. 

“What made you change your mind?” I asked with a huff, pretending to be much more put off about his decision than I really was. 

“Sehun decided he wanted to try out graphic designing, see if he was good at it and what not. He always was into online comics, superheroes, zombies and gore and all that. Plus, who am I to not help a kid reach his ambiguous, presently undetermined dreams?”

“You’d be the equivalent of Cinderella’s stepmother.”

“Nobody likes her.”

“And everybody likes you.” I stated mindlessly, smiling ignorantly.

“Not everybody.” He laughs, a conditioned response as though this isn’t the first time someone’s said that same sentence to him. I started to feel bad again. Half because I didn’t want to be like someone else — or in this case, everybody else. Half because he didn’t seem to like the statement. He seemed to be laughing for the sake of being compliant, rather than due to discovering the genuine hilarity of the statement itself. So I corrected myself, for anything but just the sake of it. 

“Of course not. Everyone’s got an enemy or two.” I flashed him a smile, not as naive as the last, “Or more. Who knows how many people you’ve pissed off for just being you?” 

“Tell me about it,” he took another swig of his drink, his lips right after to catch the drop that had sneaked its way to the corner of his mouth. Right before it slid down, so quickly I almost didn’t notice. He was so caught up in his own thoughts, he almost didn’t notice who he brought up then, “The last time Jongin and I went to—” 

Almost. 

He stopped himself — and it wasn’t for my sake in the least.

“How’s Jongin?” I asked, because there was no avoiding him now — in both conversation and everyday life. 

“I don’t know.” Chanyeol answered honestly, shrugging his shoulders. It was an action that didn’t suit him. My sentiments towards the gesture were much like how I felt whenever Sara committed it. Except, somehow, I was angrier. I was mad, sad, and I felt bad — for the umpteenth time. “I haven’t seen him for almost a month now.” 

“I’m sorry.” The apology came out without much thought or hesitation, along with my explanation that followed it up, “I mean, I’m not pretentious enough to assume it’s my fault; as though your relationship with Jongin were so weak I could even fathom breaking it. I’m just sorry everything turned out this way.”

“What do you mean?”

“What?”

“Exactly what is your definition of ‘everything’?”

He was staring at me with furrowed brows, his sunglasses hanging off of his t-shirt’s collar, his drink set down beside his thigh, all of his attention on me. It was as though he really didn’t understand. As though he were completely lost, wandering aimlessly as he attempted with all his might to comprehend my thoughts. And I realized then that the phrase, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone,” is absolutely right.

I took Chanyeol’s ability to understand me, to work his way through the twist and turns of my mind and make sense of both the random dead ends and the hallways that stretched on forever, for granted. 

Even if he didn’t like me in one sense, I thought he’d always get me in some sense or another. 

“Just,” I shrugged my own shoulders, and I hated myself for it, “everything.”

“We both know you’re not that ignorant.”

I went defensive against that statement. We were arguing right now, weren’t we? It wasn’t the standard, “I’m right, you’re wrong,”  but it was undeniable that we were fighting. Over what? And why? I don’t really know. I didn’t feel good as I raised my voice at all. 

“We both know I wish I was.”

He didn’t argue against me on that point.

Taking his silence for granted, I defined what I meant by “everything,” “I just wish I could start last year over again. Before I knowingly led Jongin on and went out with Taemin just for the sake of it, you know?” He didn’t. “I want to go back to that time where no one liked me. Where a male friend was a male friend and precious female friends came one in a dozen — and I was okay with that. Back when nothing was complicated. Back when I liked myself the way I was.”

“There’re three problems with your dream.” He took another sip of his drink, chugging it down, wiping his lips with the back of his hand instead of letting his tongue lazily take care of it for a second time, in a rush to iron out the crinkles in my logic, “Firstly, life, in itself, is complicated, unfair, and cruel. Secondly, a person can never stop liking themselves, they simply forget why they do in the first place.” And he says he hasn’t taken Psychology. “Thirdly, you’re going to have to go back farther than last fall.”

I stared at him without saying a word. This was it. I just had a feeling that this was it. This was the moment he would finally let me know what he had been meaning to say since we met up today. Since even before that, during a time period where I would have said “Yes” without much thought or hesitation in the least. 

“I liked you before that.” 

His lips went to that soda bottle again, only to find that it was empty. Setting it back down awkwardly, I think we both began to understand why we fought for no reason at all, his voice steady and low as he finished with:

 “And that feeling was nothing but complicated.”

I didn’t know what to say. He twiddled his thumbs, playing a game of war with himself. I watched in anticipation, wondering which side would win. I was secretly rooting for the left, even though I would publicly cheer for the right. I was knowingly biased like this. The right was my familiar friend, but the left had the ability to keep me guessing. To prop me up onto the tips of my toes, as though I wanted nothing more than to be closer to the cooling breeze the sky brought down like waves on the Earth, telling of cold mornings and colder nights. To make me want it. 

To make me want it when I didn’t deserve it.

It was then that I realized, without a doubt, that my favorite season was Winter.

And I felt bad all over again.

Because I can’t figure out how else to describe how I felt. 

I just was, but I wasn’t with him.

A/N: Inspired by RAC's "Cheap Sunglasses." Thank you for sticking with me up until this point. 6 more chapters to go. Are you excited?