So I’ve been contemplating about exploring the story in Sojin’s perspective for quite a while now. Okay, to be really honest, I’ve already written some scenes in her perspective while the story was still ongoing (just really really short scribbles though, like slice of life sort of thing). I wonder if I should compile them all under one fic or just update this story occasionally or whatever. But then I’ve also thought of writing a sequel but this time, using her perspective. So I think I’m kinda torn between these two. LOL. Anyway, for now, I’m sharing to you guys one short scribble I’ve written in Sojin’s point of view and it’s nothing big really and… I don’t know, tell me your thoughts? (:

PS: This is the counterperspective of Luhan's in the first part of chapter 3 of the original story (:

The wind blows as he ambles inside the room, book in hand and bag over one shoulder. His hair is unkempt and his eyes droop low. His brows hide beneath crimped fringe, effectively sheathing the frown that forms above his anxious gaze as he takes in his pitiful seating arrangement.

He lingers by the entrance; feet hesitant, lips pursed, fists clenched, and I can’t help wondering what wild imaginations must churn in his head to make him appear like he’s about to enter a bewildering labyrinth rather than a boring classroom.

He looks at me then, shock registering in his eyes when he realizes I’ve been watching him. And in that same instant, he averts.

I grin. What an egotistic loser.

Too bad you’re stuck being my seatmate, I tell him in my thoughts. He seems to have caught on my musings though, as his frown lifts and he sighs in defeat.

The reason for his agitation can only be crystal clear to me. He’s pissed, and he’s channeled that belligerence to the entirety of my existence. Of course he can’t say it but I know he’s unable to swallow the fact that I’ve aced him in two of the most challenging subjects in our year. And then it irks him further that it was I, a mere transfer, who beat him.

I prop my chin on the heel of my hand as he settles slowly in the armchair beside mine. We occupy the hindmost seats, so nobody notices as his hand grapples the edge of his desk, very tightly that his knuckles turn ashen. Nobody but me.

The way he fidgets in his seat mirrors the effort he puts into avoiding my gaze; and while I’m not trying to be particularly rude, I’m tempted to stare him down even more, if only so I can entertain myself with his unease.

Seriously though; how comical can he get as a seatmate? Or is he really that offended of my accomplishment?

I bite back another grin. I can’t blame him if he seems to believe he’s indispensable; he is the top student after all, and I’m willing to bet he’s lorded that rank for years. Then yet again, I don’t think he’s aware of my scholastic history either – minus all the schemed anomalies of course – so his deeming it impossible that I’ve beaten him somehow becomes excusable.

Ah, but to be perfectl