The nature of love

The sun of winter is always like that. Indifferent. Gentle. Barely there. Comforting. There is a special quality about winter skies on a sunny day – they are not really sunny. They are clear and light, but it is far from enough to warm you up. You stand still in front of the coffee place, unfolded in the white clouds your warm breathing continually produces. You make sure to read the menu thoroughly before entering. It is like that now – you weigh down every possible encounter with people.

Inside the shop, Jaemin notices you standing before the glass door. As usual, you look slightly odd, like a comedian waiting for the play to begin in those over-dramatic adaption of those antique plays.  Even the way you dress seems a bit off. Always in dark monochromes – apparently today is a forest green. Jaemin never knows how to adress you – and you’ve been following the same class on russian literature for four years now. He has gotten more at ease with people he’s met at the beginning of the semester. But you’re there. In a very off way. He holds a sigh – you don’t do anything annoying as it is. He just dislikes it a lot when he doesn’t know where to stand. Even your orders are uncertain. One might think that after years of getting your drinks from the same place, you would have settled down for a few favorites. You haven’t. Even as you stand there, waiting for who knows what, he could get started on a drink he’d be sure you would enjoy – he can’t. When your eyes meet his you avoid his gaze immediately. He tries his customer style but you leave without entering. He grumbles something about everything damn time and goes get a new pack of sugar.

***

Jaemin regrets his diligence the moment he enters the lecture hall. The class on russian authors is never fully pack – who really cares about it anyway – but it doesn’t keep him from feeling uncomfortable at the idea of crossing the room all the way to the upper seats under the gaze of curious students. The professor doesn’t stop her lectures – a way as good as any to assure him she doesn’t really mind – and he wishes they would all focus back on her. Maybe if he holds his iced drink strong enough he will disappear. On the fifth row, close to the staircase, you move your bag from the seat next to you. Jaemin takes it as his cue. Biting the inside of his cheek, he makes his way up without looking at anyone until he reaches you and sits down. You keep taking notes at a furious and impressive pace, and he gets his stuff out on his table. You slide a sticky note his way.

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He mutters a thank you that sounds a bit too desperate for his liking. Your attention on the professor doesn’t falter. For a second Jaemin wants to throw everything on your joined tables just to see if he’ll get a reaction out of you. He remembers you’re the only one who offered him a way out of embarrassment. He starts to write.

When the lecture ends you shove everything in your bag under Jaemin’s wide eyes. He manages to hold back a what the fuck and cleans up his stuff before standing up to let you leave. You squeeze yourself past him and go down a few stairs before climbing back up, hand in your bag. He watches you expectantly as you hand him a few crumpled sheets. Your eyes flutter to his an instant before you look down again.

You missed a good chunk of the class, so take these. I’m good at taking notes so it should be exhaustive enough.

I noticed, his answer is quiet. Thank you. Is it ok if I give them back to you next lecture ? Or do you need them before.

You wait a second unsure. No, no, I’m good. Have a good day.