Stop it, Reader. I just took a seat to take a breath, okay? What? I know I didn't just run a marathon, I'm not stupid. It's just. It feels like I did. Why? I don't know, Reader. I'm supposed to be the one asking you questions. You're supposed to be providing the answers. It's not the other way around.

Okay. Sorry for taking it out on you. I didn't mean to. I really didn't. Don't walk out on me. Please?

I'll buy you a cup of coffee. I know you want one. Heh. Sorry, alright?

I'm just really nervous. Really, really nervous.

Oh. No no no no no. She's standing up. What do I do? Sorry for putting you through this. I'm a wimp.

Wait, wait. No, don't push me to her. I. Am. Not. Ready. Where'd you go?

I stumble my way to her, thinking desperately how to proceed next. I look at the selection in front of me. New Releases, it says in big red letters. And I wish I can be this bold and loud and clear when I show people that this is me, Yixing, newly released, hot and available. But I'm not hot. Just, me. I see covers with authors I've read before. There's Albom, and Hosseini, and Tan. Then there are authors I haven't ever come across, the ones with promising careers, the ones you know you'll eventually see up there with the New York Times Bestsellers. And I wonder if I would ever get there. Not the NY Times; just where I’m recognizable and visible.

Then I feel pathetic for comparing myself to books, because how unfortunate that they're infinitely more interesting than I am? Because she'd probably sooner bury herself in them than talk to boring ole me.

I should stop being depressing. It's just the nerves talking. Sorry about that.

I take a glance to my left using my peripheral vision. (Amazing how that works, doesn't it?) And just as quickly, I avert my eyes to the book I somehow have in my hand, about a family torn apart by circumstance, about betrayal and unending faithfulness, and shame, and all sorts of abstract nouns they like putting together. Because she's heading my way, and I have no idea how to react. I feel my hands start to sweat under the book's jacket, and for a moment, I think about you, Reader, wondering why you pushed me here.

So I flip to the first page, because that's what you do with books. You read the first page to get to the next page and the next chapter, and the end of the book. I'm not sure what's going on, but the first page is actually interesting. And then I feel, not so much see, her standing next to me, doing what she does with books, touching them lightly, gracefully, by the spine. I force my eyes back down to the book about a place called Shadbagh, about a brother who loves his sister so much he exchanges his only pair of shoes for a feather she loves.

Then, I realize that my life is its own book. I have to start somewhere too, and right here, between the fiction bookshelves, is my first page with this unknown woman. I just have to make sure the introduction is interesting enough so she’ll stay to read the next few pages, the next few chapters with me.

Now I’m just buying time, wondering what the next step is. Because of course I know what I know now, but that doesn’t make the nervousness go away. I decide to buy the book, and I think I’ll play with chance. If I come back here after buying this book, and she’s still here, I’ll strike a conversation, because it’s only right. If she’s not, well that just means—

“What do you think of the book so far?”

“Huh, what?” Is she talking to me?

“Hosseini’s new book,” she nods her head towards the book I’m holding. I didn’t know what I expected her voice to be like, but it wasn’t what her voice was. It’s a bit raspy and a lot y, like Adele’s voice when she sings “Skyfall.” It sounds like adventure with each word she speaks, or maybe I’m just thinking of 007.

“I think,” I pause. My voice is a lot more stable than I thought it would be. “I think it’s sad.”

She looks disappointed. I rush to continue. “It definitely has Hosseini’s unique knack for telling people the story as it is, and that makes it so much sadder. It’s like, like.” I try to find the words.

“Like?” There’s a teasing glint in her eyes, and I feel my stomach lurch, because even if she’s just wearing an oversized sweatshirt and black leggings, to me, she looks like a million bucks.

“Like hopelessness, wrapped into normalcy. It’s a state of being at a dead end, and you just accept that. It’s sad.”

“I don’t think so. That tin box of feathers meant something more hopeful than dead ends, I think. It’s a sign of never forgetting—it’s a sign of resilience because you don’t just give up even if the situation is bleak.” She smiles, as if the characters’ hope is her own triumph, and I feel my knees go weak, because her smile is just something else. And there's nothing ier than a woman who knows how to speak her very intelligent mind.

“I—I actually haven’t read the whole thing. You see, I just, um. Yeah, I just picked it up.” I hold up the book I have in my hands to show her.

“Oh, right,” she fidgets with her hands, which are holding the same book that mine are holding.

“How far along are you in the book?” I ask, because I don’t want the conversation to be over.

“I actually just read half of it. I’m planning to come back tomorrow to finish.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I wonder if it’s an invitation for me to see her again.

“Do you want to talk about the book after?” I don’t know what’s come over me, but this is not the Yixing sitting on a coffee table. I don’t know this Yixing, but I like him already.

“Yeah, sure. Um, we can grab coffee, and uh, talk about the book,” she gives me a crooked smile, and I feel more of my insides melting, because she’s just as uncertain as I am about this.

“How does two days from now sound? I can’t read as quickly as you do.” I scrunch my eyebrows, because I’ve seen her go through books like changes of clothes.

“How do you know how quickly I read?” There’s genuine surprise in her eyes.

Busted. “Uh. I, uh, don’t know. It’s a guess, based on how passionately you talk about the book. And," I scramble to find a reason. "AND, passionate readers are usually fast readers.” I bite back a sigh of relief.

She nods, convinced. “Two days. Sounds good.” She nods again. And then she laughs at herself for nodding. Oh, God, the sound of her laugh is beautiful, like a promise of more book meetings in between fiction aisles.

“I don’t even know your name,” she says. “My name’s Chaeyeon. What’s yours?”

I’m not sure if you’re going to pat me on the head or strangle me, but here’s what I say: “You’ll just have to wait two days from now. If you’re curious enough, you’re going to show up for sure.”

I, for one, want to crawl under a rock and hide every particle of my being into a vacuum, where everything will disappear. Because there’s this double standard we all live by: if the guy who says something that silly and ridiculous is cute and charms your pants off, then it’s y and flirty. BUT. If the guy is awkward and just looks like he needs to get laid ASAP, then it comes off as creepy and wrong. I’m suspecting I fall on the latter half, and I’m afraid of the consequences. But what to do. Cat’s already out of the proverbial bag.

So I wait, for what seems like forever, for her to answer.

“I guess you’ll know two days from now, too,” she smirks, and the teasing glint is back.

“Know what?” I keep up the cool exterior even when I’m dying on the inside.

“If I was curious enough.” Then she walks away, holding a copy of Hosseini’s And the Mountains Echoed.

--

Don't take my characterization of Lay as a reflection on how I view him as a real person. I know he seems like he needs mental help for always berating himself and putting himself down, but I thought it's a healthy dose of realism on how real people think. Personally, I think he's one hot guy, and if he ever pulls this stunt on me, I'm not sure I'll be able to breathe properly ever again. So. There's my piece of mind. Lol Hope you enjoyed the read, and as usual, comment down below. :)