My happiness was tangible.
Palpable on my tongue. Visible to my eyes. Going seen by those who rather not see. 
My happiness was tangible, not contagious.

There’s a comfort in sharing happiness.

When you find yourself getting an extra popsicle from the owner of the nearby convenience store. When you see something amazing, such as a cat riding atop a dog, the two being the best of friends. When you ace that test you had been worried about, the need to celebrate with someone, with anyone, hitting you all at once.

You may even confide in the classmate you never talked to, the two of you high fiving multiple times because of how lucky you feel. How thankful you feel. How grateful you feel that someone feels the same.

You may even confide in someone who can only empathize with your experience, the feeling slightly if not wholly there. And that's good enough. It's good enough for them to smile with you, to laugh with you, to be with you in that moment in which the taste of sweet candy is at the tip of your tongue. At the end of each word you say. A coating sticking to each crevice of your heart.

There’s a comfort in sharing happiness.

There were only a handful of people I could name that I would go to whenever I had a new, elaborate, awe-inspiring tale. Even today, those names are etched into the palm of my hands, deep creases amongst the rest. Always a part of me. Always there when I perchance a glance at my hands. Always there when I needed them. Even today.

Back then, the first were my family, as essential as the lines which sectioned off one knuckle to the next. My mother and father were always a bit too eccentric for their own good. You'd think that each time something wonderful happened, they'd celebrate as though the world was ending right then and there. My younger brother may be a bottle of sarcasm but that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to crack a smile when need be.

I've lost touch with most of my highschool friends. Though, we still see each other, the flame under us is only lit at the moment of eye contact. Getting together is still fun, but I've made new friends over the past two years. More immediate friends. Closer friends.

Sara is obviously there, like a birthmark, on my forefinger. I think, if she ever did meet my parents, that the three of them would hit it off immediately. Something I'm worried about, should the occasion ever arise in which they see the need to gang up on me.

Chanyeol is there, whether he knows it or not, his presence within the line that goes downwards, sectioning off my thumb from the rest. Smiling whenever I clasp down onto something. Baekhyun is one of the faded creases on either side, faint but still there, still carving deep. Sehun is there too, a depression that's short and sweet above Jongin.

Jongin, who is that line at the very top, cutting across from the outside, dancing across slightly pink skin. Making his mark, knowing full well he is, with crooked smiles and awkward fist bumps and a nickname I still can't wrap my head around.

And Taemin, well, perhaps I was biased, perhaps I’m still biased, to believe he's that middle one. That doesn't mean he's the most important or that he's the center of my world or anything silly like that. No, as much as I'd like to say it's not, it's much cheesier than that. Much more gag worthy. Because the feeling I get when his hand holds my own makes me feel as though happiness is blooming as red as roses right there, originating from the center of my palm.

They're who I go to. They're who I will always go to. Even if others joined them, they'd still be there. They still are there. With smiles and laughter and heartfelt words of congratulations.

There’s a comfort in sharing happiness.

Usually for both parties involved.

Usually.

Because the comfort is given to the happy one, isn’t it? To the one less so, the whole idea a selfish ploy for a chance to boast about achievements and awards.

There’s a sort of selfishness in sharing happiness.

“As good as always.” I clapped a total of three times, ending as he slouched over, collapsing onto the cold floor stomach down. He looked like a worm, flipped over like that. Wiggling as he moved across the floor until he was perpendicular in front of me where I sat near the wall. He remained unmoving then, his black tee clad back moving up and down slowly, harsh breathes leaving him. I poked him with my foot, pushing down onto his firm shoulder a few times, just because messing with him was fun. Just because he felt the same way too. “Has someone been slacking on their workout regimen?”

He groaned, his hand lifting to wave me away before slumping back onto the floor tiredly. Harmlessly, as it were.

I couldn’t see his facial expression, his head facing the other way. I tried to but, in the end, I decided it didn’t matter. The very fact that he was here with me, that we were here together in the end, was enough.

Kim Jongin and I.

Just like we used to be before Winter break. Before relationships. Before complications. Something that was mostly his fault in the first place, when I thought about it. Though, I wouldn’t hold it against him.

Not when we’ve been hanging out for the past two weeks every morning, dancing to greet each morning. Here, in the dance room our Ballet teacher still allows us to use, despite the second semester having long since ended. Despite our third year here having started over a month ago. Despite how tired Jongin’s been each morning, attempting to get back the stamina he lost during his restful vacation.

It’s April now. A mild April. Temperate at most times. Not as cold as it used to be but still requiring us to don jackets and thick pants before we greet the outside air each morning. Nothing was as it used to be. Yet everything had slipped into its natural pattern. The natural state of affairs had returned, bringing a new twist along with it.

Jongin and I in the morning. Chanyeol, Sehun, Baekhyun, Jongin and I at lunch. Taemin and I in the evening. Sara and I at night.

Thinking about it, it’s almost funny how much of my life Jongin and Sara had taken up before. It was Jongin morning, noon, and night – with Sara joining in at the latter. Each and every day. Each and every week.

Jongin. Jongin. Jongin. And Sara.

Because in college, you don’t need a lot of friends. Having two close ones is enough. Two you could talk to. Could eat with. Could study with. Could simply be with. For me at least, it was enough. Just Sara and Jongin. Just them. Not just them anymore. Not just Jongin anymore.

And it’s, without a doubt, laugh worthy, looking at him now.

“How’d it go?” I asked, resting my sock clad feet on his bare arm that began at the end of his short sleeve, rocking myself back and forth absentmindedly. I knew what I was insinuating. I’m sure he knew as well. That didn’t stop him from teasing me back, his nose sniffling before he grumbled beneath his breath.

“Your feet smell bad.”

I rolled my eyes, unmoving from my position, “Is that the pot calling the kettle black?”

“Is that something you learned from all those British shows you’ve been watching lately?” He quipped lazily.

“You know me so well.” I laughed, resting my head on my knees, still rocking back and forth and back and forth. We’d continue like that as well, back and forth and back and forth, if I didn’t put a stop to it. If I didn’t remind him of the question I asked. The one he, for whatever reason, didn’t want to answer. “How’d it go?”

How’d it go for him over Winter break? He went home with a purpose for those few months. That purpose being the act of convincing his parents to allow him to change his major to Dance. Well, not allow. Rather, support. He was going to do it, one way or the other – that much was obvious. He just wanted to know they’d stand behind him and his choice.

He hadn’t told me, even now.

And I hadn’t asked, prepared to wait for him to tell me.

But I’ve been thinking more and more about it lately. Us, lately. Jongin and I, we’re friends, aren’t we? Sooner or later, he would have told me. One way or the other, he should have told me. But Sara’s words to me that day before this spring semester started, left me wondering.

Would he ever tell me?

If I didn’t ask, wouldn’t we just be strangers who’d have to introduce ourselves for the second time?

Jongin and I, we’re friends, aren’t we?

He’s here, in the palm of my hand. Dancing away. Always moving this way and that. Figuring him out isn’t hard, it’s simply difficult to keep track of him. And I don’t want to have to. I don’t want to bind him to me. I want him to keep dancing. I want us to stay like this for as long as possible. I want to know things he should tell me, that he would tell me, if it weren’t for all the complications that were my fault.

Mine and his.

Jongin and I.

“Tell me.” I begged, the word “please” subtext that could be interpreted from my tone, from the way my voice shook against the walls of my throat on its way out, from how I curled my toes, latching onto him briefly, feeling that he was there, that he wouldn’t disappear, that we’d still be friends, wouldn’t we?

Don’t leave me.

The underlying message hidden beneath my subtext. The words that couldn’t be comprehended so easily. A statement that had me clearing my throat, drawing my feet towards me again, pulling them away from him. Crossing them as close to myself as I could. Making our distance as comfortable as I could.

Because we had a comfortable friendship.

A close, comfortable friendship.

Didn’t we?

“Don’t leave me hanging,” I forced a smile, even if he couldn’t see it up close, even if he only saw it through his eyes hidden beneath his fringe, the mirror in front of me revealing me to him whether I wanted it or not. “I’m curious.” I sang out, watching with a hidden cringe at the way I looked, so downtrodden, so not like the words I was saying, the shadows casting down onto his face hiding how he looked in turn.

He sat up then, suddenly, surprising me. With steady eyes, he stared at me for a moment. With an unsteady palpitation of my chest, I mentally counted the inches that separated his crossed legs and my own. An inch. Maybe two.

He had gotten closer.

His tufts of hair were knotted with sweat. His pink lips parted, soft breathes leaving him, so much softer than before. His V-neck tee’s rim rode up his stomach, revealing a large patch of tanned skin to me. With black harem pants stretched to the brink of ripping, his lips did the same.

He smiled, his hands coming to rest on his knees, his fingertips brushing at my toes, tickling me. Tickling against my throat, causing me to laugh. A laugh that came out as he finally said, through that large grin of his, “Say hello to Kim Jongin, now officially a Dance major.”

He looked so happy.

He must have felt so happy.

I was so happy for him.

I felt so happy for him.

Too happy.

And I don’t know exactly how I looked. And I didn’t need to check anymore. Because our closeness was comfortable again. Because his smile was contagious, there was no doubt in my mind how I must have looked.

“Well come on, man,” I leaned forward, our eye contact then sending me over the hill, making me feel as though I could conquer an entire mountain with secondhand happiness alone, “Give me details.”

He threw his head back, his own laughter rushing from him like a cool breeze, refreshing and lighthearted, before recounting to me how it happened. How he went home with Taemin, sat his parents down on Christmas, declared he had a present for them and simply broke the news just like that. After letting them watch his Winter Spectacular performance – recorded to be “ten times” more beautiful than he thought it was, according to him since you can’t expect the possessor of beauty to know he’s holding it, all thanks to Chanyeol – he told him he wanted to change his major to Dance. That he didn’t want to be a Nurse. That he had dreams and hopes and they were all so within his reach, so close to his current reality, that he couldn’t give it up.

“I told them I was going to do it without them, but I’d really rather do it with them.” He bit down onto his bottom lip, wetting it, before smiling again, “And they said they’d go along with it. And they asked me to dance for them. And I just—” He stopped then, overwhelmed by it all. And I could feel it. I felt just as overwhelmed.

Wow.

That’s all I could think of.

Amazing.

Jongin is amazing to me.

He’s dazzling, looking like he’s on the brink of tears. He’s stunning, that smile that curves so high, that feels so real. He’s amazing, tackling it all so bravely. He makes me say, “Wow.”

Wow.

“Well then,” I cleared my throat, coughing afterwards just to be sure my next words would come out strong, just as strong as he was, as though an ode to how spectacular he is in my eyes, “Hello, Kim Jongin,” I bit my lip, mimicking his action from earlier, mimicking the smile he had on his face as I reached out to take his hand in mine, carbonated bubbles seeming to float to the very brim of me, airy and light, simply amazing, simply spectacular, simply Jongin, “Dance Major.”

He grasped onto my hand, dragging me closer, crossing his legs through mine as he laughed. As though he hadn’t said it out loud until now. And now that he did, he couldn’t contain his own bottle of happiness from filling the neck of his emotions, flowing over the edge, flowing over me, washing me gently into its Jetstream.

And even though we were meeting again for the second time, I had no qualms about it.

None at all.

None in the face of his tangible happiness.

“Nice to meet you.” He said back, holding my hand between both of his own. Knocking his temple against my own. Smiling coyly as he turned his head, the peripheral of his big, brown, vast eyes smiling at me as well.

I relished in it, in being so close to him. In not feeling the need to back away. In feeling as though every day was encompassed of what it used to be.

Jongin.

Jongin.

Jongin.

Thank you for telling me. Thank you for not pushing me away. Thank you for not leaving me. Really and truly, thank you for being here for me. At times, I don’t think I deserve you. You’re too much for me. Too, well, all the adjectives I could use aren’t enough. Just too. Too Jongin. Too you.

Too much skin.

Your shirt is revealing too much skin, you know?

“Nice to meet you, too.”

I recoiled back, taking in sight of his entire frame, his shoulders which seemed so much broader than they were moments before. His arms which seemed so much sturdier than they were before. And, again, that carved patch of stomach that was greeting me all on its own. With my free hand, I reached out, past his, and pulled the hem of his shirt down, casting him another teasing glance as I finished tidying him up, “I still think you’d make a cute nurse.”

He backed up as well, eyeing me suspiciously, a good-natured scoff leaving him right after, “I still don’t know how to take that.”

“Take it however you want to.” I shrugged, taken in by that curve his lips took to, caught in the way the light caused it to shine even more than it was already, when our closely drawn shadows casted down upon it, and I made note, I made a passing comment, regarding it. I thought nothing of it. Right then and there, I didn’t think anything of it. Because this morning was Jongin.

Just Jongin.

“You have something red on your lips.”

He dropped my hands like an anvil, concerned.

Overly concerned.

Looking a bit too stunned as he wiped his lips with his hand. Looking a bit too shocked as he stared down at the red mar it left across his fingertips. He looked up at me, as though he were caught. Caught red-handed. Quite literally, in fact.

The texture of it, the placing of it, the very fact that the origin wasn’t my own lips for numerous reasons, told me exactly what it was. It told both of us exactly what it was.

Lipstick.

A twist I had forgotten about. Though, maybe “forgotten” isn’t the right word to use in this case. Though, it shouldn’t have been a twist at all. It truly wasn’t a twist at all.

“Sara told me you’re dating someone now.” I commented, just as fleeting as the first one I had made, just writing that statement down along with the one before it on the list of the worst things I’ve ever said, “Just stating a fact.”

‘You know I—” He began, only to stop, for a second time. And this time, the feelings that rose to the surface were different. The emotions he conveyed to me then contrasted so much with those from just moments before. Too much. “You know I was against it at first. You and Taemin, I mean." He drew his palm closed, denying me access, my own laying open and defenseless in my lap, abandoned by him, "But you're both changing each other. And that's good. It's good for the both of you. And while I can't say I'm happy, I want to support the two of you."

His eyes that had stayed on mine this entire time got closer for a moment.

And yet they never seemed so far away.

He never seemed so far away.

"I want you to support me, too." He unhooked his legs from my own, harem panted legs closing and stretching out to the left, no longer threatening to break at the seams. He had backed away, allowing me to see us in the mirror again, an image that seemed too surreal to be reality. My expression so blank I was thrown into a state of confusion. And he threw me glances all the while, that uncomfortable feeling from before causing my toes to clench inwards for the second time, “So don't look at me like that, alright?”

"Okay."

I agreed.

Even though I had no idea what I was agreeing to. Even though he had just told me he wasn't happy in the least. Even though I knew that agreeing would push us farther apart – as though it were necessary.

There's a sort of selfishness in sharing happiness.

There's a sort of selfishness in stealing physical contact, eye contact, and emotional contact openly.

There’s a sort of selfishness in the smile I saw staring back at me in that mirror then.

Ignorant. Innocent. Like a dream without all its complications.

There’s a sort of selfishness in sharing happiness.