We didn’t talk. He didn’t even greet me. He just gave me a passing look and continued on, as though he were in a hurry. As though he didn’t even have the time of day to show me even a shred of common courtesy. As though it was November again, he was the boy who ran and I was the girl who watched on in longing envy.

Minus the proceeding adjective. 

I watched him walk away, dressed up in a suit, going somewhere. And I no longer had an excuse to stop him with. We had skipped past the step between acquaintances and lovers. We had never been friends, so I understand that there was no reason to pretend we ever were. 

I understand why he didn’t greet me. 

I get it. 

Logically, he had no reason to. 

I get it.

Illogically, I said as he went disappearing from my more immediate range of sight, “Be safe.”

I don’t get it. 

Out of all the things I could have said to Lee Taemin as he opened the door to Kim Jongin’s home and found us there, hand in hand with my boyfriend of almost one month in front of my ex-boyfriend of almost six, I chose that. I could not and would continue to not understand almost all of my actions and words in his presence. It was just out there before I could realize it, heard by everyone before I could recall it, and Taemin was gone before I could rethink it. 

Jongin said something about escaping the heat of the sun then. I agreed with him, making a mindless joke that caused him to laugh, as I glanced down the hall of the apartment complex, catching sight of the staircase door closing behind a black-clothed blur. 

He hadn’t taken the elevator. 

I can’t understand it, but I can make a guess. 

I was warding Lee Taemin away from me with that phrase: “Be safe.”

I was informing him of my newfound descriptor of “dangerous.” 

Not to gain a rise from him. Not to rally him to pursuing me further. Rather, to reinforce his black and white way of thinking. To appeal to him with common sense. To make the claim that since he was no longer my boyfriend, since he was never my friend, since I had changed when it came to my impulsivity, he’d be better off without me. All with the hopes that he wouldn’t change the way he looked at me just then, as his eyes crossed paths with my own, as he stumbled onto my road before sprinting out into and across the grass once more, as he became that distant boy who ran — unreachable and unattainable.

I can only make guesses with the knowledge of the future I have while looking back on it all — no matter how much my insight has twisted my interpretation of the past.

I can only make guesses, because I still don’t know what I was thinking about as Jongin pulled me inside after him. 

I simply don’t get it. 

I had dinner with Jongin’s family that night. His older sister was so similar to him the two could have been twins — the only difference between the two being that he shrunk into a puddle of embarrassment and shame at her teasing words. His father asked me things about my own family such as: what does my father do?; what does my mother do?; do I have any siblings?; what do I want to do after I graduate university? The answers to which were as follows: a highschool math teacher, a nurse, no, and dance. More specifically, I wanted to teach dance.

I can’t even begin to describe the look in Jongin’s eyes as he stared on at me then. Or rather, I don’t know where to start. There was the gaping mouth, the widened eyes, the raised eyebrows, and then a hand on my knee. And he was smiling. There are words such as “surprise” and “happy” I could give to his expressions, but it was more than that. I didn’t want to define it so simply: his reaction to my dream he had never heard before now. 

Because, in truth, he knew the basic facts about me. My family, my favorite color, how I liked my pizza, and my most hated stretch. But he didn’t know my dreams, my aspirations, and the vision I had for my future. So then, “surprise” or “happy” are not the words I would use to describe the look on his face and in those familiar eyes. 

Rather, “grateful.” 

Grateful for me being with him; for us being together.

And I couldn’t help but wonder something for the umpteenth time.

Or rather, I couldn’t help but fathom what country I saved in a past life to have him by my side now. 

His hand on my knee squeezed tightly when his mother asked if we could dance for them. In particular the dance they had seen him do in the Winter Spectacular video shot by Chanyeol from last year. Jongin had told his family the routine was originally meant for him and I — though I didn’t want to do it at the time. Thinking about it, I don’t know why I didn’t. I had no reason to refuse. I simply did, for no reason at all.

Now, I said yes. 

Even after his sister and I helped to clear the living room, we ended up tripping over the carpet, Jongin’s three small dogs that walked in curious circles around us, and each other. We laughed so much, we fell over each other so much, that I couldn’t imagine our performance to be anything but comical and embarrassing. Still, his parents clapped for us. His sister teased us until his face turned red — he insisted mine had as well. His dogs were more than impressed as he sat on the floor, tired, and they attacked him for belly rubs and back scratches. And as his family receded into the kitchen to begin cleaning up after dinner, the after-dinner show now completed, his dogs scampering off to greener pastures and better massages, he held his arms out to me. 

“What is it?” I asked, scooting closer to him on the wooden floor. He shook his head, making a noise in protest of my questions, against anything but actions. I pursed my lips, “Does Kim Jongin not care about acting cheesy and romantic in front of his family?”

He shook his head again, clarifying my words with the low whisper of, “They’re not looking right now, so hurry up and get over here.” He waved his hands up and down, and I gave into the look in his eyes and the warmth between his arms. 

He snuck a kiss in before I pulled away, so fleeting and softly it felt like a butterfly had done so instead. He smiled as I promptly hit him, not missing a beat, for tricking me into his embrace. Though, I wasn’t mad at him. As I’ve said before, I don’t think I could ever be mad at him. 

And while still no one was watching us, as we were metaphorically trapped inside our own little box, I put my hands on either side of his face and pressed down, stretching his cheeks. He stopped laughing, questioning my actions with a frown and smiling eyes, “I wore makeup today, you know?”

“I know,” I let go, patting his cheeks to fix the damage he had thought I had done, “I just like the way your face gets flatter when you smile.”

He smiled again, like it was the best compliment he could ever receive.

I can recall one thing his mother said as I helped her wash the dishes, just before I left with my own mother’s car keys in hand. It was then that she brought up the person not mentioned even once throughout the entirety of the evening. She softly began, brushing back a piece of short black, hair behind her ear, “Lee Taemin, do you know him?” 

She paused and waited, only for a moment. A moment not long enough for me to affirm that I did. A moment so short it was obvious she didn’t know about Taemin and I. Which meant Jongin hadn’t told his family about the situation I was in before we got together. It’s understandable why it wouldn’t come up anyway. Taemin and I rarely took photos together and we most certainly didn’t brag to others about our relationship. I can understand why Jongin found no need to bring up something that didn’t need to be immediately explained. I can try to understand, even though I wish he had.

Because even though I understand, the guilt I felt at the sound of her next words was indescribable.

“He’s the one who convinced my husband and I to let Jongin pursue dance. I’m glad he did.” She turned to me, giving me a motherly smile, mixed feelings of weariness and happiness woven throughout each small wrinkle that gathered at the ends of her eyes and above her brows, “And I’m glad you’re there by Jongin’s side as he does it.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled back; like it was the best compliment I could ever receive.

He was there. When the doors opened up, achingly slow, he was standing there. I don’t believe in coincidences. At least, in that moment, I didn’t. I didn’t because I had caught a glimpse of the text message Jongin received right before he bid me goodnight. The one he attempted to hide. The one he pretended was nothing before he typed a quick reply and stored it in his back pocket. 

The one that read, “Is she gone yet?”

Which means that he was purposely avoiding me earlier this afternoon. 

He was late then when leaving Jongin’s house. 

He was early now using the elevator, abandoning the safety of the stairs, he must have thought I had used already.

There was only one problem with my theory: the Lee Taemin I met last fall didn’t avoid people. Let the entire idea sink in for a moment and you’ll come to the same conclusion. You’ll imagine him saying how troublesome, nonsensical, and gray it is to even fathom the idea of taking time out of his day, of making his life harder, in order to side-step past the possibility of, at the very least, direct eye-contact. The Lee Taemin I knew, that you know as well through me, would never do this.

Which meant he wasn’t the same Lee Taemin I met over half a year ago.

And if he wasn’t, then who was he?

Who was the boy who stared at me blankly within the confines of that small box?

Did he still run? Did he still break rules when he wanted? Did he still like me? Did he ever like me in the first place?

I got on the elevator, feigning ignorance, playing innocent, and pressed the button for the ground floor. 

He didn’t get off. 

The doors closed, trapping us in that small space together.

I wasn’t happy being left alone with him.

I wasn’t happy in the least.

I was angry at myself and at him both. This hot ball of words I didn’t want to say and feelings I didn’t want to feel swirled at the pit of my stomach like warm milk. It lingered there as I could feel him staring at me with those big pools of brown that I could fall into so easily I was tempted to look back. It began to hurt as he turned his body towards me, moving closer, opening his mouth to say something.

My eyes stung from how long I had focused them on the task of glancing at him through my peripheral. 

I was already looking at him. 

I was caught, completely and utterly, with his next words of, “How are you?”

How am I? I’m lost. I’m not lost without you, though it is certainly you who made me this way. I don’t know what I want. No. That’s a lie. I know what I want. And it’s not you, Lee Taemin.

I want to like myself. I want to like myself because I hate myself so much right now. I’m becoming impulsive. I’m not satisfied if there’s no one hugging me close. If there’s no one to say they like me, because I don’t see a reason to like me at all. Because I don’t want to reflect on myself, who I am, who I was, who I’m becoming, I want someone to tell me, “I like you. I like you. I love you.” Because if I’m loved, it doesn’t matter who I am, who I was, or who I’m becoming. 

Jongin does that for me. 

He likes me even when I can’t like myself. He makes it easy for me like that. You’re making it hard for me like this, Lee Taemin. You made me unsatisfied with who I was, Lee Taemin. You broke me, Lee Taemin. 

I’m sorry, Lee Taemin.

I’m sorry for putting you on the spot by asking, “If I’m not good, what would you do to fix me?” 

Are you sorry, too?

Are you sorry you kissed me then, in that place that belonged to Jongin and I? 

I simply don’t get it.

I simply don’t want to get it.

A/N: Our main character's future is quite the mystery at this point, isn't it (though I won't be surprised if you know exactly where this is all going)? We have 10 more chapters to unravel this story's singular knot. I hope you'll be with me then as well. Much love to all my readers. I'll see you next time.