I met him on the steps of the grand stand at 6am in the morning on a frigid day in winter. He was sleeping, and I was looking for a quiet place, and something to draw. His lack of movement was deathlike, and his frame – almost fragile – was perfect. Like a little boy.

The little boy imprinted his angles and coloured the textures of his hair and his clothes on my sketchbook. He made his way into the rough, graphite of my pencil, but would not remain, so I left him behind, for himself to find.

That was the first Han Sanghyuk I met.

I met him on the basketball court during gym period on a breezy day in summer. His hair was disheveled, and his creased shirt was tucked out, drenched partly with perspiration. He was terrible at the sport, but the gleam in his eyes was so familiar, like a mischievous kid.

The mischievous kid was glued onto the best player on the court, wildly flailing his arms and cackling like a madman in attempts to distract him. He made his way into the open-mouthed laughter of the boys on court, and the demure giggles of the girls watching him. Somehow, he made his way into my silent amusement as well.

That was the second Han Sanghyuk I met.

I met him at Dr Park's office at 12 noon on a colourless day in November. He appeared as I was leaving, and I was looking for anonymity. His vacant eyes were piercing, and his tousled hair looked as if he had ran here. He looked exactly the same, but the hollow expression on his face disconcerted me. He was a shadow of the Han Sanghyuk I thought I knew.

The shadow examined my face, and wordlessly stepped around me. He made his way into the room.

That was the third Han Sanghyuk I met.

*           *           *

White flakes of snow fluttered in the wind outside, sprinkling themselves on the windowpane beside me. I could hardly pay attention to the man in the centre of the room, our model for today. His sharp, angular features paled in comparison to the delicate stems of crystallised ice; his lean figure to the intricate patterns weaved by vaporised water droplets.

Yet I was required to study him. The sunlight that reflected off his flawless skin, every strand of strangely fallen hair, every crease on his navy and white plaid shirt. He was perfect in an uncomfortable way – an uncaring, bored, kind of perfect.

I immortalised him in that moment, onto a sheet of canvas. I immortalised his lights and his shades, his curves and his edges, his expression and his mood. Drab colours painted him, yet he looked nothing less than faultless. Shrill ringing announced the end of his restraint, and he moved to address the teacher.

“Ms Lee, I have a class to attend now.”

“Alright, Hongbin. Class, can you thank your senior for taking time and doing such an excellent job as our model?”

Declining politely, he departed hastily. Like flowers in a field – for no king in all his splendor is dressed like one of those – the best models live without praise. My attention returned to the fluttering snowflakes outside, but my eyes were inadvertently drawn to a boy playing in the snow. His expertly-made snowballs coated the red brick walls of the school buildings in an answer to those that were flung towards him.

Hello, Han Sanghyuk number two.

His lean frame turned in my direction, eye meeting mine for a fraction of a second. I averted my eyes – there was something in his expression I could not comprehend; it was strong and piercing and uncomfortable.

*           *           *

I spoke to him for the first time in a desolate stairwell. My right wrist stung from his strong grip and my short legs ached from matching his long strides. Uneasiness permeated my body as his eyes drilled into me.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”, his hoarse voice interrogated.

“Uh... Firstly, I'm Seo Kaeun, and I'm an art student in your grade. You've probably never seen me around since you're always at the music block, and this is probably the first time you've ever spoken to me, and please don't do that because the other girls will misunderstand if they see us and I just want to live life at this school really quietly.”, words spilled out of my mouth unwittingly.

A perplexed look emerged on his face as I rambled. Scratching his head, he eyed me cautiously, finally pointing at me and saying,

“You were at the psychiatrist.”

“I thought we promised not to talk about it.”

“I made no such promise. What were you doing there?”

“What were you doing there?”

Features shifted, on both mine and his faces – the blank looks a relentless stronghold guarding the secrets we were determined to keep.

Author's Note:

This story is still quite open-ended as in, I have a rough idea of how it'll end but I'm not quite sure yet. So I apologize in advance if there are any inconsistencies >.<