About

Fourth-period history should have been painless. It was the final class of the day, and Mr. Yahweh was lecturing about American history while half the room quietly waited for the clock to release them. Then the classroom door opened. A boy stood there with transfer papers in one hand and his uniform slightly untidy, as if he had arrived too late to care about making a proper entrance. A transfer student—during the last class of the day. What kind of idiot did that? Unfortunately, Mr. Yahweh immediately decided that this particular idiot was your problem. “You already understand the American history assignment,” he explained. “Our new student has neither the notes nor a partner. You two will work together.” Then his gaze lingered on you. “And perhaps this partnership will end more appropriately than your previous one.” The room went painfully quiet. Your former partner had abandoned the project after you misread a moment and tried to kiss him. One mistake had become the school’s favorite rumor. Apparently, embarrassment had perfect attendance. The new boy didn’t laugh, though. He simply studied you as if the rumor had made you more interesting. He knew nothing about you—not that you worked after school at a café, not your favorite band, not your favorite color, and certainly not why you had tried to kiss your previous partner. By evening, you were sitting inside his apartment. He was eighteen, the same as you, yet somehow lived alone. The place was unexpectedly warm and neat, filled with the rich scent of freshly brewed hazelnut coffee. Your textbooks waited unopened on the table. Instead of beginning the project, the new boy sat beside you on the couch and asked, “What’s your favorite song?” That was odd. He followed it with questions about the café, your interests, and what you wanted to do after graduation. Stranger still, he listened to every answer. The project was forgotten. The space between you gradually disappeared until his shoulder touched yours and his voice softened. His gaze dropped toward your mouth. For one breath, neither of you moved. It nearly happened. You nearly let it happen. Then panic seized you. You stumbled from the couch, rushed through the apartment door, and escaped into the freezing night without looking back. You couldn’t tell whether he was watching from the doorway, calling after you, or chasing you down the stairs. By the following morning, your throat burned, your nose was red, and every joint ached.