Dance to This [kth]

f o u r

I swallow hard to gain courage— and to try not to vomit in the hallway— and I am cringing to myself when I turn the door handle. The door swings open silently and I'm thankful. Professor Kim is occupied with some sort of backdrop when I press the door closed very gently.

I'm holding my hand to my mouth in a subconscious effort to stop my nausea. Why am I here?

My eyes are to the floor to ignore all the students who are looking at me. I am almost successful in my silent endeavors when his voice pierces my spine; I physically shiver. I don't know if it's the hangover or he who causes my symptoms, but they're unwanted.

"Eunha."

I turn around and set my eyes on him. Oh my God. My eyes widen in recollection of last night. I'm angry at myself because it's true— Professor Kim says my name so smoothly. Why did my drunk thoughts have to expose this? I could've gone my whole life pushing the thought deep down into the back of my head, but alcohol knows no boundaries.

Today Professor Kim is adorned in a black button-up and dark grey slacks. His eyes are trained on me as if wondering why I'm even attempting to sneak in. I blink my attention away from his attire and swallow hard.

"Y-Yes?" I reply. My voice cracks.

"Perfect of you to join us. Will you care to help me with a demonstration?"

No.

"Okay," I reply instead. I'm careful not to anger him in fear of becoming like the students on his ratings page.

The overbearing theme of silence in this class is affecting my nerves a little more than I'd like. I'm nervous enough as it is because I arrived late, but now I am walking towards the devil himself with a hidden expression to suppress my hangover. I stop at the colored backdrop on the chalkboard and turn to the class; Jungkook is staring blankly at what's going on just like every other student.

"Now," Professor Kim projects to the class, "your midterm will be a portfolio of 12 pieces that tell somewhat of a story, correct?"

The class is silent. I don't blame them— it's Friday morning. What I don't appreciate is that their silence encourages Professor Kim to look at me.

"Right, Eunha?" He cocks an eyebrow.

I'm biting the inside of my cheek. It's swollen when I release it from my teeth. He is staring at me.

I'm speaking with my fingers nervously at my mouth. "Yes, Professor."

He does it again. Professor's tongue swipes over his bottom lip in some look of contempt at me, and it's almost as if he forces himself to look away after my response. Do I look that disgusting? Surely my lazily brushed hair isn't enough to repulse him from looking at me. I find myself awkwardly shifting my own gaze away from him as I move uncomfortably in my stance.

"You will use certain strategies to make a photograph look more interesting. If you bore me with your portfolio, your grade will reflect it."

I hate the mention of what this class is actually about. I wouldn't say my knowledge of taking photos on my phone constitutes as qualifications for this class. Professor is intimidating with his confident speeches about the art of photography, and even the camera itself intimidates me.