December came faster than anyone thought it would. One second, I was mindlessly practicing for the Winter Spectacular. The next, I was backstage, people rushing by where I sat. With my headphones blasting in my ears and my crossed legs bobbing to the beat, I watched as they frantically set themselves to putting together everything at the last minute. Boys yelled about choreography changes. Girls screamed about the amount of, or rather lack thereof, electrical sockets to plug in their long flat irons and bulky curlers. 

Sara had done my — considerably — makeup for me an hour ago. My hair was still freshly trimmed due to my visit to the salon last weekend. I was wearing a simple pair of black tights, shorts, and a t-shirt. Choreography wise, I was just planning on winging it if something went wrong anyway. I had heard more than enough comments about how I wasn’t “taking this seriously.” But I was. 

I was comfortable. In my clothes. In my own skin. In that squeaky, plastic chair in the middle of everything. Under those dim lights, I sat up straight and firm.

There was nothing that needed to be attended to. There were no loose ends. The chains I had cut had long since disappeared.

And I felt good. 

And the fact that I could acknowledge that, that I was aware of that all on my own, without the help of someone else, of anyone else, had me smiling. 

The people who passed me then whispered in voices loud enough for anyone to hear, “What’s up with her?”

Nothing much. Just the sky. High up. Star-filled. Twinkling bright enough for anyone to see.

I happened to meet him there. A few minutes before he was scheduled to go on. As he was waiting stage right, a short rendition of Swan Lake droning on in front of him. I approached him, taking in the sight of his tan colored pants, his long-sleeved denim shirt, and his bare feet. 

Toes wiggling against the cold wooden floor, his thumb massaged his lips over and over and over again. He was nervous. I couldn’t have imagined this same scene had happened last year as he was preparing to dance alone on that big, sparkling stage. He seemed so confident, too powerful, to be reduced to the flight of trepidation and worry he exhibited now. 

But, thinking about it again, thinking about it for longer than just an impulsive second, something I had to restrain myself from doing, he probably was. He probably was a big bundle of nerves, his stomach in knots so tangled all he could do was give into the constant jumbling over here and over there. And that thought humbled me to him. 

That thought had me approaching him after more than four months of avoiding each other. 

Or, rather, of opting on not going out of our own ways to give ourselves a chance to.

“Hey,” was the first awkward, stammered word I whispered to him: my best friend, Kim Jongin. 

Because he was.

No matter what, he always will be.

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t have to. Recognizing my voice immediately, he nodded, called my name the way I haven’t heard anyone call it in so long, and said, “Hey,” right on back.

“You’re next, huh?”

“You make it sound like I’m heading off to be slaughtered.”

“I can assure you the audience will do anything to keep that from happening after they see you dance out there.”

“You’re blowing my ego up quite a bit,” he let out a laugh, though hushed himself right after, being mindful of the group still performing, “but I’m certainly not telling you to ever stop.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

We both went quiet as the performance reached its crescendo, long legs stretching out forever as girls leaped across the stage. Their partners were poised before them, there to stop them from falling. From leaping on forever. There was something so beautifully familiar about it, you know? 

Jongin knew.

“Are you going to watch me?” He asked, deciding upon that of all things. 

“Of course.”

“Good,” he nodded to himself, finally looking at me, gracing me with his signature prodding smile that always had the ability to coax one right out of me without fail, “you shouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“But, you have to admit, the world’s got a pretty impressive resume. You’d have to be hard-pressed to ignore it.”

We both stifled laughter, Swan Lake ended, and he stepped out onto that stage barefoot. 

I watched him without fail, giving up my bias towards the world for a handful of minutes. Exchanging it instead for the three prime privileges of being best friends with Kim Jongin. 

Firstly, he never disappoints.

Secondly, he’s not the type to hold a grudge. 

After the Winter Spectacular came to a close, we all went out to eat: Sehun, Baekhyun, Sara, Chanyeol, Jongin, and I. We walked the streets of the city until our legs were aching and blisters were forming. We ate here, there, almost everywhere. Sweetened waffles. Spicy rice cake. Green tea ice cream. My stomach felt like it was bursting at the seams.

So we decided to rest at a nearby park. 

Baekhyun and Sara were off in their own little, bright, sparkling world. Her dimples greeted him as his lips moved quickly, throwing one of the many jokes he had her way. Like he had been storing them up, perfecting each one, just for her. Just little pieces of comedy gold, only for her ears to hear. 

He may have been a social butterfly. He may have approached acquaintances with ease and strangers with poised grace. But the Baekhyun that basked in Sara’s smile, who didn't protest in the least as she delivered a smack to his shoulder for his off-hand jest, who couldn’t have seemed happier than to be sitting on an old bench in a park in the middle of December with her, he was different.

The kind of different that made me think he’d ignore anyone — stranger, acquaintance, or otherwise — just to see her even a second faster. After chasing after her, after attempting to lay siege on an otherwise impenetrable fortress for almost a year now, he deserved every bit of attention she was practically giving him by the dozens. Half-off. Free of charge. A service, just for him.

“I give them a week before they announce their engagement.” Sehun had said out loud, shamelessly — and yet he remained unheard in that alternate galaxy holding Prince Charming and his lovely queen.

Noticing no one bothered to address his claim, he continued his conversation with Chanyeol. The two discussed different kinds of computer software I couldn’t even begin to paraphrase all on my own. I just sat there and listened. Even if I didn’t understand. Even if I never did. 

I just couldn’t stop. No. I could. I just didn’t want to. 

And after a month to ponder over the last year of my life, I knew this wasn’t an impulse. It was a choice. It was a well-informed, well-thought-out choice. One I was more than glad I made as Chanyeol’s eyes shifted towards me, the absence of any awkwardness or hesitance in his gaze — as though we had never fought last Fall, as though we never could — causing me to smile. 

He smiled back, lopsided and large, lips a light shade of purple. 

I curled my fingers into the sleeves of my coat, tingling all over.

And Jongin?

Jongin was meandering towards us, hands holding four coffees and two hot teas dancing together, pleasantly bumping against one another, within the confines of drink holders. Giving away smiles for free, he said something clever. And while I can’t remember what it was anymore, I do remember my reaction: I laughed. We all did.

Thirdly, I’m okay with sharing him.

Everyone deserves someone like Kim Jongin. 

You may find your bias shifting because of it, the world be damned. 

But he’s worth it. 

He deserves it: the attention of all the worlds over as he moves to-and-fro, barefoot.

A/N: I think sometimes we forget how easy it is to mend a relationship with someone. We get stuck in this little ball of worry we've created for ourselves. And we convince ourselves it'd be simpler to not try at all. But, if we just humble ourselves (because nobody's perfect), if we make it easier with a smile, how different would everything be? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this update. Four more chapters to go!