YOONGI
Usually, I'm not easily distracted. I've spent the last several years on my life with such precision on my goals, staying persistent and desperate to stay on top.
I've built myself from the ground up and still go out of my way to impress others. It's my reputation of being quiet but helpful that got me where I am today, and for the longest time, I had no interest in changing my ways.
But for the first time in my life, my mind wanders, and no matter how hard I try, I can't drag it back to what I should be focusing on.
I'm sitting at my desk looking over a mass email sent to every staff on campus asking for help setting up a Trivia Night on Friday. It's a last-minute request, and as always, everyone suddenly loses interest to check their emails. I've been debating myself if I should ignore it and toss it in the spam folder, but my eyes linger above the computer screen where Jimin sits at his desk working on homework.
He arrived early this morning, and as he wanted, changed the date. When the board was deemed with a new day, he asked if I had to be somewhere. I answered honestly no, and he politely asked if he could work until class started, promising to me that he'd be quiet.
He could have conducted an entire parade and I'd still let him inside.
And here he is now, hovering over his desk in a black t-shirt and dark jeans. It's a wonder how he's survived the cooler winds of mid September. The small scratches of his pencil hitting the paper and the faint sound of voices outside the classroom is all there is between him and I.
As if suspecting I'm thinking of him, he looks over to me. "Are you sure you don't know geometry?"
I lift my brows. "Even if I did, I couldn't do your work for you."
"Worth a shot," he smirks.
Shutting down my computer screen, I turn to him instead, shifting in my seat. "Are your other classes giving you trouble?"
"It's been fine so far." He pauses and then says, "I honestly thought this class would be the hardest."
I incline my head, suddenly curious. "Why is that?"
Jimin shrugs. "You have a reputation of being cold. Some people say you're hard to talk to."
I go still. I'm not sure what to do in response. I'm not an idiot; I know there are students of mine who think less of me, but hearing those words from Jimin hurts more than I care to admit. Still, he looks me up and down, doing some sort of assessment.
I nod, watching his gaze.
"Do you think that?"
This time, his eyes flash, and his shoulders rise just the slightest. I wonder if he realizes just how much he gives away by how his body responds to my questions.
"I have you as my teacher," he says, "so I have the advantage of seeing you differently."
"'Differently'?"
"When you're worried about a student, whether it be about school or home life, you listen and give advice like a psychologist." He looks down at his papers. "Most teachers wouldn't think anything of it. Another student whining about life? Join the party. But not you. It's never felt like that with you."
I freeze. As always, his words speak right to the core of me, but these do not feel like a mere compliment and instead feel like they're chosen specifically for me, lighting me up from the inside with warmth. "No one would ever call me a psychologist."
"The fact that you cared enough to keep quiet about me and Taehyung says otherwise." He pauses. "The way you didn't make me feel like an idiot for crying in front of you."
"You shouldn't be ashamed of that," I say, and I mean it.
He chuckles softly. "You've probably had other students talk to you about stuff like this."
I step around my desk, resting at the edge. "On the contrary, I don't normally busy myself with student affairs."
He licks his bottom lip. It's subtle, but not enough for me to catch what brought it forth. Affairs. Like the word is tainted, sinful. I swallow hard, my stomach twisting into knots as I hold his stare, this weird tension spreading thin like a string about to snap.
Mentally, I go over every single reason why I should stop this and walk away.
He's too young.
He's a student.
He's my student.
But there's something stronger pulling me forward, testing my self-restraint. It's taking me every ounce to stay at my desk, using it like a barrier. He must figure something is wrong because his eyes flick to my hands behind my back.
"Were you working on something before?"
He's changing the subject. Did I make him uncomfortable? "Yes. It was for an event the university will be hosting soon."
Jimin leans in his seat, bringing his chest forward. "What kind of event?"
"Trivia Night." I'm not sure why I tell him this, even if I'm supposed to say anything. It's not like it would have been much of a surprise anyway.
"Can I see?"
"The plans?" I say, surprised.
"Maybe I can help you set up the questions. They have to be challenging, but not rigged. That's how all good Trivia Nights work."
I wasn't even aware there were sleezy Trivia Nights. He's good at this- charming in his own way that makes me question if he's flirting or actually being nice. This is temptation at its finest, and I allow it.
Once I nod, he stands from his desk and walks behind my own, watching over my shoulder as I open up my emails. The document reads a long bulleted list of questions ranging from pop culture to classic novels, the few questions only my students would be capable of answering. Jimin was right: it is rigged.
I'm not sure it matters. All I know is that we're half a foot apart. I pretend to reread the list, but my eyes go blurry, and instead, I focus my attention at the corner of the screen.
"Wow." he says. "Did you come up with these?"
"Some of them."
"I like it," Jimin smiles. "They're perfect."
He reads the list again, and I step back so he can see, now realizing just how short he is next to me. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through his hair, how soft would it be?
"You wanna know something?" he asks, a playful gleam in his eye.
I put on a neutral expression although I'm anything but. "What's that?"
"In the library, there's a database with all the faculty listed on it. With everyone's names and addresses and phone numbers." He snaps his fingers. "That's how quick it is to find someone. It's super scary how it's so convenient."
"Is that how you found me?" I ask, remembering how he knew I played the piano.
He laughs. "That picture of you is outdated." He turns to me and reads my reaction. His grin fades. "Is it wrong of me to want to get to know you?"
Is it wrong? I've been asking myself the same question. And for every hour I have to show for it, of every night I've lost sleep trying to figure out this tangle of knots, I still have no solid answer.
My silence speaks for me, and he deflates. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make things awkward."
I turn to Jimin before my thoughts can run off. "It's okay."
He gives me a pointed look, his eyes scanning for truth; for something he can latch onto as reliability. It would be very easy for me to say a lie and turn to the administration to have him expelled for cornering me; but the coin could be tossed in his favor and leave me with nothing more than a pen from my past job as an English professor.
The air conditioner kicks on again, and Jimin instinctively raises his hands over his arms.
"Are you cold?"
The question surprises both of us. I expect him to draw back at any moment, but he doesn't. "I forgot to pack my hoodie this morning," he says.
We have not yet moved, but conversation with me has distracted him. I step forward, grabbing my black cardigan from the back of my chair. His eyes widen as I hold it out for him.
"No. No, I couldn't," he says. "Then you'd be without a jacket."
I shake my head. "I'll be inside for most of the day. Just remember to return it later."
He nods, and slips on the cardigan. The sleeves end right at his fingertips and he has to bunch them up at the wrist to see his tiny hands again. Even with our size difference, it looks better on him than it did me.
"See?" I say. "It compliments your shirt. Like Yin and Yang."
Somewhere down the hallway, a door slams.
The interruption sends me back into reality; the realization that I have a class starting in less than ten minutes.
"I should probably go now," he says. "Thank you for the sweater."
"It's not a problem." And it isn't. It never will be.
He moves to grab his belongings and leaves out the door. I'm not sure precisely what has changed between us, whether it's trust or respect or simply attraction. All I know is that I don't want him to go, I want him to stay and talk to me for hours, to tell me everything and nothing. I want to hold his hand again.
I cannot remember the last time I've felt this longing.
In truth, I'm not sure if I ever have.