Spring, 2010

Jongin and I went to different schools. Mine was just a few blocks away from the orphanage. It wasn’t much; a normal state-run school with the usual jaded teachers and rowdy, gossipy students. School fees were subsidised for us children of the orphanage, and that didn’t leave much space for us to spend on fancy lunches or co-curricular activities. Parents would cluck their tongues in sympathy at meet-the-teacher sessions, and sometimes I would get the itching urge to break the noses of boys who ran past us whispering poisonous words about how we were unwanted children. Still, it was heaven for me, for that was where I discovered the piano.

It had been by chance, really, something along the lines of community service and a young college student looking for experience to add to her transcript. I picked up fast enough, and practised hard enough to prove to Mom that I was serious about learning. We couldn’t afford a piano, but she did what she could, pooling her resources to allow me to continue with lessons. School was bearable with music, and I got to be with Ara and the rest of the kids. We sat together during lunch and shared our meals. We went to school together and gathered after classes to walk back to the orphanage. I wasn’t an exceptionally bright student, but I liked school, despite all its apparent shortcomings.

Jongin’s school, however, was slightly different. It was a private middle school, further away from the orphanage. The children there were soft-spoken and polite. They were never noisy at bus stops, never got into fights with each other in public. Classical music was played over the speakers during break time. It was a school of poise, and from what I gathered, Jongin disliked it there.

I know this because I visited him once, made the foolish journey to his school with the wrought iron gates and sleek, ceramic floors. He had told me that he was going to perform on stage that afternoon, and I’d brought it upon myself to pay him a special visit.

I knew Jongin danced. It was one of the first few things I got to know about him, but I’d never actually seen him in the act before, and this left a slightly sour taste in my mouth, one that I would never care to admit. It was why I had wanted to visit him that day, so that I could see him shine on stage. That was admittedly one of the many reasons why I decided to ditch last period in order to catch the bus to his performance on time. In truth, I was curious about how he was like in school, about his friends, of whether he smiled to anyone else. About whether other people knew that he had a girlfriend. Surely someone with his looks and quiet, smouldering demeanour would attract the attention of female classmates. I thought about this frequently, and I will admit now that my curiosity then was burning, bordering on obsessive.

Jongin had told me that the performance was for a talent showcase, something of a celebration before spring break. He’d never danced in front of his schoolmates before, and even though he would never admit it, I had the feeling that he was nervous. I wanted to be there, as moral support. I thought he would be glad if I were there to cheer him on. It was a few days before our anniversary, too, and I didn’t know if he remembered, but I wanted to do something special for him. I thought that the showcase would be the perfect opportunity.

So I skipped last period, ignored the strange look that Ara gave me as I snuck away between the changing of classes and climbed over the hedge out of school. Got on a bus and stared out the window as the scenery changed from familiar to unknown before alighting at a wide expanse of land that comprised clusters of tasteful, low-storied buildings. I had to check in—had to give my student pass to the security guard on duty—but soon I was in, and made my way towards the largest building, hoping that there was where the mass hall was. The compound was mostly empty, but the sounds of music and cheering increased with each step I took, and I knew I was heading in the right direction. I bit my lip as I approached, hands clutching tightly onto the paper bag in my hand. I had been all enthusiasm and bravado when I’d thought of this plan, but now the excitement was ebbing away, slowly being replaced by an irrational nervousness.

There wasn’t any need to worry about standing out, at least, for the hall was packed with people. Students sat on the floor, and teachers and parents on seats. Other people stood at the back watching. The place was packed, and noisy. Cheers and catcalls were thrown every which way, as the audience wowed over the acts on stage. I breathed out a sigh of relief, sneaking in through the back and standing at the corner of the room. It was quite different, really, from how Jongin always posited his school as a place where everybody was quiet and toed the line. Craning my neck, I could make out most of the stage, and I stood, contented that I would be able to see Jongin when he began performing.

He’d told me that he was going to be the last to go, and so I stood patiently, clapping along with the crowd as each performance ended. The hall was humid, even with the cool spring breeze outside. It was hard to breathe, and my palms got clammy from holding onto my paper bag. But I pressed on. I had to be here for Jongin. He didn’t know that I was here, at his school, but perhaps me being here would give him a little more courage, a little more support. I was pleased, truthfully, thinking that I would be here to encourage him through the performance.

The emcee introduced Jongin and his item, and I stood up straight, eyes wide. The crowd was clapping loudly, and shouts of encouragement could be heard from all over the hall. I smiled. It seemed like Jongin really was the popular boy I’d thought him to be.

The lights dimmed, and Jongin walked on stage, dressed in dark jeans and a black button down. He was alone, but somehow his grace, the lilting way in which he walked, commanded the stage. My smile grew wider. I had gotten to see the way he moved ever since I was a little ten year-old kid, and his poise had never changed. It made me feel proud, this small connection that I thought I had with him, with his past, with the way he was.

But then the music started playing, and Jongin started moving, and all thought flew from my head.

I was not well versed in ballet then, but I knew that it was what he danced that day, along with a little jazz and modern. I went home and did research on ballet after that, and now I know that each pirouette he executed with finesse, each rond de jambe with his legs stretched as far as they would go, each jete proof of the power of his legs, of how hard he worked to condition them that way.

Jongin knew how to work the music to his advantage, hitting the hard beats and riding out the soft ones. His moves flowed from one to another, smooth as silk but still powerful, with a kind of inner strength that made my breath catch in my throat. The stage lights shone off him, reflecting the sparkle in his ash-coloured irises, highlighting the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones.

I was in awe, a foolish girl at the back of the hall, fingers clutched tightly and mouth open in wonder. Eyes wide and drinking in every bit of Jongin. Heart drunk on the music, on the way his hair spun every time he did a turn in the air, on the way his eyes burned with such intensity.

The audience had fallen into a hushed silence, and stayed that way even after Jongin ended in a pose, leg extended up high in a vertical split. Then they erupted in applause when the lights turned back on. Jongin gathered himself in a graceful bow, but I was still stunned, frozen. It took me a while to notice that I wasn’t breathing. It was only after Jongin began walking off stage that I started clapping along with the rest of the crowd, screaming my lungs out as a huge grin spread across my face. The dizziness was overwhelming, a combination of the crowded hall and his performance, but I suppose that was always what Jongin made me feel, like I’d lost all sense of where I was, who I was. Jongin always made me forget how to breathe.

The performance was over, and everyone started streaming out of the hall, meeting up with friends and heading off in different directions. I saw many performers surrounded by their peers, being congratulated by family members, but I couldn’t see Jongin, no matter how much I searched. He wasn’t here, and for a moment I panicked, thinking that I’d come here for naught. I had planned on showing up after his performance, so that he knew that I had been rooting for him. But in the sea of people, it was hard to know where he had gone.

“He’s probably gone back to his classroom,” I muttered, trying to keep myself hopeful. I didn’t know where that was, but I knew what class he was in, and so I set off, heart pounding in my chest as I left the rapidly emptying hall, praying that he had yet to go home.

His school really was different from mine. I stared at the polished floor and artfully decorated walls. The lockers were made out of wooden panelling, unlike the shabby metal of those at my school.  Recycling bins stood at every stairwell. The plants lining the central courtyard were artfully trimmed. As I peered into classrooms, I saw charging ports at every table, along with floor to ceiling whiteboards and television screens. Desks were immaculately arranged and kept clean. Bags hung from personal hooks, as were coats and jackets at the back of the hall. The children mingling around after school all had pretty pencil cases and designer bags. Most of them had phones clutched in their hands. I breathed out in amazement at the amount of luxury in one place. I know now that this wasn’t uncommon, but at that time it was like a whole new world to me.

I found his classroom. The doors were wide open, and the room was bathed in the orangey glow of the afternoon sun. I stood outside, peering in curiously as I tried to locate the head of dark hair—less unruly compared to when we were children, but still wavy and soft enough to make me want to thread my fingers through them every time I saw him.

Said head of dark hair was surrounded, so much so that I almost missed him. Jongin had his classmates crowded around him. He was still dressed in his performance outfit, and all around him people were gushing about how great he had been on stage.

It was exactly like how I’d imagined. My boyfriend was handsome, talented, and sought after by his peers. The guys were thumping him on the back and putting him in playful headlocks, out of which he twisted, a small smile on his face. Girls had their elbows on his table and were asking him rapid-fire questions, all scrambling for his attention. They looked at him in reverence, almost exactly like how I looked at him.

My steps faltered then, and for a moment a wave of fear swept over me. I didn’t look too bad in my uniform—a maroon skirt and cream jumper—but definitely couldn’t compare to some of the pretty faces that were talking to Jongin. I felt suddenly much colder than I had been a moment before, wanting nothing more than to retreat into myself. I shivered. Self-doubt was new to me, and it was a peculiar feeling.

Perhaps retreating would have been the better idea, but something kept me from turning around and going home. I didn’t want to have had wasted my afternoon coming all the way here. I wanted Jongin to know that I had seen him dance, that I thought he was the best out of all the performances. I wanted to give him my present, which I still had clutched in my hands. I wanted to be perfect, and perfect girlfriends were there for their boyfriends. Perfect girls weren’t whiny or wishy-washy. They certainly didn’t let their pointless fears get in the way. So I took a deep breath, checked to make sure that my fingers weren’t shaking anymore, and put on a smile. Just for Jongin, only for him.

“Jongin.”

Heads turned when said his name, and there was a subtle shift in everyone as they moved, trying to see who it was that had called out for him. And as they moved, I saw him through the crowd.

My eyes found his instantly, fixing on them as he stood up from his chair.

“Rin?”

His hands were the straps of his bag, like he was getting ready to go home. His sleeves were folded up to his elbows, exposing strong, long forearms.  Sweat from the performance blotted his shirt. I always find that I notice the smallest of things when I am nervous, but then again, there is never anything small about Jongin.

“Yes,” I whispered, like I was taking roll call. I couldn’t tell what he was feeling— his expression was unreadable— not until the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly. That was his version of a smile, something that I had spent all my life studying to get to know.

He pulled his bag from the table and walked over to me, and even up to this day I pride myself in the fact that he’d ignored all his classmates once he saw me enter the classroom. Kim Jongin was an enigma, and he frustrated me to no end with his ability to be warm yet cold at the same time. That day I concluded that he was happy I came, but I could never decide if he was glad every time I showed up to his future dance practises with apple juice and snacks. Learning how to understand Kim Jongin was like a lifelong journey, one that I spent so much time on that I forgot how to learn how to understand myself.

His lips tugged up into a small smile then, and he asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to watch you,” I said. I didn’t care if his classmates overheard our conversation. They were outright staring now, but it hardly mattered. They had faded into the insignificant background as I once again found myself orbiting around Jongin. All previous insecurity had vanished as soon as I saw him. I felt contented now, like I could do anything as long as he was by my side.

“Moral support?” He quirked, and I nodded, letting a tiny laugh escape.

“Thank you,” he said. Jongin reached out, fingers lightly brushing the sleeve of my jumper, and I heard a collective gasp from the crowd. I shivered, in pleasure now. We had our fair share of innocent touches, but I could never get enough of them.

Jongin’s eyes travelled down to the paper bag in my hands and he raised an eyebrow playfully.

“Is that my congratulatory prize?”

“Oh!” I let out a gasp when I realised that I’d all but forgotten about the bag. I tried to smooth out the creases I’d caused from gripping it too tightly before ing it at him. “Happy anniversary, Jongin. Happy one-year-since-we-first-went-out.”

I heard a second collective gasp from the crowd as Jongin took the package, our fingers grazing each other’s. He opened it then gazed back at me, his eyes twinkling. I wasn’t sure if he’d remembered. I was almost sure he didn’t, but Jongin is someone who does what he wants, and he shocked me by saying, “But it’s not until next week.”

I find myself constantly reviewing all the times I had with Jongin, but this is perhaps the best memory I have of him, the one I think about the most. It’s why I’ve saved it for the last.

I remember grinning then, sudden euphoria coursing through my veins. He remembered. Jongin remembered the day of our first date.

He smiled back at me, lightly shaking the package I’d given him like we were sharing a private joke. And indeed we were.

“Shall we go?”

Jongin’s fingers found mine, and I held onto them tightly, nodding as he led me out of the classroom. We walked back to the orphanage together as he opened his present in earnest, splitting the Oreo donut and apple juice I bought for him with me. He apologised for not giving me anything, but I told him that it didn’t matter. The walk back was peaceful, and I was happy, contented, the sweetness of confectionary on my tongue nothing compared to the feeling of being able to walk home with Jongin’s arm around me.

We never got to celebrate our anniversary in the end— we had our first fight when we next met, ten months later— but to me at that point in time, this was celebration enough.

________

In case that was confusing: the previous chapter took place after this one. I just wanted to put this memory last becuase it is Rin's favourite memory of her and Jongin.

Thank you lovelies for reading :)