➪ hwang hyunjin × fem! reader ( ah i tried to keep my fics gender neutral for as long as i could and my drabbles will be but as i venture into longer fics i will also use gender pronouns. )
➪ tropes: k-drama! au, side character! au ( or is it? ), based loosely off extraordinary you
➪ genres: fluff ( develops ), angst ( a lot of it tbh ), slow-burn, mystery
➪ plot: you know this. you're in a drama. the one you might watch after a breakup, dreaming to be the lead girl who has two guys loving her. but you are not the main girl. you are merely an extra watching from the background. you have no purpose but as a number count to make the set look more full. from the sidelines you watch as hwang hyunjin loses his childhood best friend/crush to lee minho, the school delinquent. how cliché.
According to Wikipedia, an extra is "a background actor or a performer in a film, television show, stage, musical, opera or ballet production, who appears in a nonspeaking or non-singing (silent) capacity, usually in the background (for example, in an audience or busy street scene)." They are unassuming and uninteresting, their only purpose is to essentially be a backdrop for the main characters.
In other words, me. I’m the extra. I’m the background performer who doesn’t speak (nor sing).
But on the bright side, I am amazing.
Amazingly average. Breathtakingly ordinary. Spectacularly mediocre. Exceptionally... unexceptional. To put it simply, I am nothing much. Nothing in contrast to the girl who was obviously the main lead.
Jang Hana was perfect really. She was kind to everyone she met and though she was a bit shy (the perfect quality for a budding female lead!), but was well-known and loved by most of the student body. Especially by her best friend since forever Hwang Hyunjin.
Hyunjin was known for being quite handsome. He could be model handsome really if you ask me but he had this air of your "friendly neighborhood boy" that just overpowered that potential he had. He had a role to play anyways, one that wasn’t a model at that. He and Hana complimented each other nicely not that she noticed really (oblivious! Another stereotypical quality for our star of the show.).
Hana. She was pretty. But not an in-your-face kind of pretty. Just... pretty. She didn't blind you with her beauty. Hana was a soft beauty, one that filled you with warmth and made you feel like home, far from show-stopping but far from plain. She was the kind of girl you had to stop and stare to appreciate. AKA the kind of girl I would never be.
I wasn't any type of beauty. I was just there. I had eyes to see, a nose to smell, a mouth to speak. I had everything I needed and that was enough.
From the background I see Hwang Hyunjin, this boy every girl would love to have even look at them, pining after this girl who doesn’t like him back. The childhood friends never get the girl, after all, that’s how it works. Frankly, I see Hwang Hyunjin and I pity him. He has no idea what’s coming for him.
( A/N: and here’s the end of the preview! i plan for this to be my first big fic so it’s going to be in development over time. i will still be writing smaller fics like drabbles though during my time writing this, so stay tuned for that. i was supposed to release this during skz comeback but i wasn’t feeling well. i hope your interested because i’m super excited. )
hey! no pressure or anything, but when are you planning on posting even a fool knows?
1.) woah hello! someone is still around! that's wildt, hi! it actually makes me smile to hear someone is still anticipating my story.
2.) hi! i keep writing and rewriting, and i've just finished watching extraordinary you (the show it's based off) as well as the manhwa that goes with it for a deeper understanding of how the original author and writers of the show dealed with the whole living in a manhwa thing to make my own version of that.
i've also found someone out of my friends who's seen the show so i can bounce ideas off them to make an outline!
once i graduate on the 11th, i'll be very free to do what i love, which is write here again! then i hope that suffocating feeling in my chest will go away.
i was thinking of posting when hyunjin came back... but who even knows when that will be... :'(
have a nice day anon! and if you or anyone else has anything else you want to say, please send me an ask!
✖︎ TAGS/WARNINGS: fem!reader, mild language, bullying themes, skz are all around the same age. mc is insecure and a bit of a valentine's day grinch. minho is whipped but too hardheaded to admit it. also, an embarrassing amount of classic literature/pablo neruda references.
Ah, Valentine’s Day.
Call it the most romantic day of the year if you will, but in the treacherous hallways of Levanter High, it meant a minefield of hormonal couples, crushed chocolate boxes, and supermarket rose bouquets. Clutching your backpack with a grimace, you narrowly dodged a pigtailed cheerleader as she leapt into her jock boyfriend’s waiting arms. Turning into another hallway, you plugged your ears to block out a senior boy’s cold rejection of a freshman’s nervous love confession.
You finally caught sight of your locker and breathed a sigh of relief. Levanter High’s lockers were split in half lengthwise—one top row, and one bottom row. You dropped to a crouch to wrench yours open—you’d lost your lock a couple of weeks ago—trying to block out the early morning commotion as you rummaged for your English books.
“Hey, watch ou—”
The locker above yours opened with a screech, and you looked up just in time to see a pink avalanche of cards and chocolates raining down on your head in a painful, deafening crash. The student who had called out the warning was frozen with a comical look of shock on her face. You swore the entire hallway fell silent, blood rushing to your cheeks as you slowly raised your gaze at the person who had opened the locker.
Lee Hana—head cheerleader of Levanter’s pep squad, and in your humble opinion, the spawn of Satan herself.
“Ohmigosh,” she exclaimed, raising one hand to her mouth in mock horror, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there.”
The crowd around you was beginning to snicker and point, and you felt your face growing redder by the minute. “What are you doing here?” You asked tersely, motioning towards the locker above yours. “That’s not even your locker.”
Hana smiled and held up a small, glittery package. Oh. You didn’t have to look closer to know that the envelope was a love letter, elaborately tied to a box of expensive chocolates—the kind your parents would probably have to work overtime to afford. “My Valentine—for your locker buddy,” Hana replied matter-of-factly, then added, “Not that you would understand, hm? Since you’ve never received one yourself, and all.”
A smattering of laughs erupted from the crowd that was building around you. Biting back a retort, you looked down at all the other Valentine’s trinkets that had spilled around you. Of course—you should have gotten used to it by now. After all, your locker was right underneath the one that belonged to the student librarian, school heartthrob, and the absolute bane of your existence, Lee—
“Minho!” Hana exclaimed, and you looked up to see him shuffling through the crowd, his eyes briefly falling on yours. You immediately turned away as the pretty cheerleader skipped up to him, and shoved your books into your bag. Slamming your locker shut—twice, because Levanter’s damned lockers always jammed before shutting properly—you snatched up as many of Minho’s fallen Valentine’s Day trinkets as you could before shoving them back into the now-emptied top locker. The metal door was still swinging wide open. You’d overheard Minho complaining to the boy who always did the announcements—Han Jihyun? Han Jisung?—about how he kept losing his own lock. Both of you seemed to have a habit of misplacing things (not that you liked to admit to that similarity).
Out of the corner of your eye, Minho was still watching you over Hana’s shoulder, his lips tilted in a half-smile. Your gut twisted unpleasantly. Four years and counting—that was how long you’d ended up with a locker right under Minho’s.
“You’re so lucky!” Lia—your best friend—had gushed, while you had scoffed in utter disbelief.
“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”
“Come on, y/n. Are you still hung up about that love letter from freshman year?”
Yes, you had thought sourly. “No way,” you had snapped, and Lia had giggled, unconvinced.
It wasn’t like you’d always had a personal vendetta against Minho. In fact, in ninth grade, you’d been head over heels for him, just like the rest of the student body—to the point where you’d even slipped a small love letter into his locker on Valentine’s Day, too. It had been one of those gaudy 99-cent corner-store cards, and you'd saved up your pocket money just to buy a matching pack of candy hearts. Then you’d spent the day with butterflies in your stomach, anxiously waiting nearby his locker to see his reaction.
But when he hadn’t shown up, you'd shrugged and begun heading home—and that was when you had caught sight of Minho, throwing all the love letters he’d received straight into the Dumpsters in the back parking lot.
Talk about a reality check.
As if that hadn't been traumatizing enough, you’d been forced to face him nearly every morning for the following three years. To make matters worse, being Minho’s involuntary locker mate also meant that all the girls—and guys, for that matter—saw you as little more than a stepping stone to him, always asking you to relay party invitations or trying to curry favour with you to get to him.
“We’re not close,” you’d insist to his persistent admirers every time, but it didn’t help. Minho, on the other hand, you thought bitterly, seemed to think he was too good for anyone—he didn’t even respond much to Hana’s advances, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. There was no way he’d even look twice at you—you’d been firsthand witness to that. You finally gave up trying to clean up the fallen Valentines, and stood up with a sigh. Throwing him a death glare, you pushed past the crowd just as the bell rang and students began scurrying away.
What did it matter if Lee Hana was trying to get with Minho? If anything, they were a match made in heaven. Or hell. With a decided huff, you plopped yourself down at your desk just as your English teacher began class.
“We’re starting the poetry unit today! Remember, you’ll be writing a love poem of your own for the final project—so I suggest you all get started on reading!” You teacher had winked and clapped her hands excitedly while a collective groan had swept through your class. A few couples had nudged each other meaningfully, already promising to write their poems about each other, and you’d thrown up a little in your mouth.
Romance was a bit of a touchy subject for you— now, you didn’t hate the notion of love, per se, you’d just always been somewhat...wary of it. After watching your friends fall in and out of disastrous relationships and fleeting feelings from the sidelines too many times to count, your own defense mechanisms had skyrocketed, and now you found yourself trying not to roll your eyes at every piece of romantic writing you read. Still, this inexperience only made you more determined to get a head start on the topic— and so, once the last bell had rung, you made a beeline for the school library. You would tackle love the only way you knew how to—by hitting the books. Pushing open the door, you overheard Hana and her friends muttering in disappointment and immediately recoiled.
“You said he’d be in here!”
“Well, I thought I saw him! Let’s wait for a bit.”
You peeked over the librarian’s desk, and sure enough, it was vacant— save for a tray of half-shelved books and stamping cards. Maybe Minho left early today, you thought, shrugging. That’s a relief. Then you shook your head quickly. What’s it to me whether he’s here or not? You tried to ignore Hana’s disdainful glance at you, heading straight towards your favourite nook at the back of the library instead: a cozy alcove tucked behind the last row of shelves. With a deep sigh, you pulled out the first book of poetry your teacher had assigned—Shakespeare’s Complete Sonnets—and sank into the bean bag chair.
‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’
A couple lines in, and the Englishman’s words were already making your head spin. You grimaced, massaging your temples. ‘A summer’s day?’ Seriously? You could swear you’d seen something less cheesy on a dollar store card. After a couple of pages, you could already feel your treacherous eyelids beginning to droop, fighting to stay awake as you tried to make sense of Shakespeare’s verses. But thy eternal summer...shall not fade...nor lose...possession…
“The library’s closing.”
You jolted awake, hands fumbling blindly before you could even force your eyes open. The library came into focus first—the lights had been dimmed, the flickering EXIT sign from the empty hallway casting a warm glow through the panelled window across the room. A dull headache still throbbed in your temples.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes groggily. You had to practically peel your cheek away from the Shakespeare book, fingers gingerly feeling the dent the cover had left in your cheek. “I-I’m so sorry, I must have—lost track of time studying.”
A familiar chuckle sent your heart plummeting to your stomach. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
When your eyes finally adjusted, your expression automatically soured into a glare.
“Now that’s more like it.” Smirking, Minho crossed his arms, leaning back on a bookshelf. He glanced down at the book in your lap—the book that you clearly hadn’t been studying. “Didn’t know you were one for Shakespeare.”
“I—” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not. His writing gives me a headache. It’s like it’s all in another language or something.”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “Old English. Why are you reading it, then?”
“We’re doing poetry in class—and our final project is to write an actual love poem, based on the poets we’ll study. Shakespeare was just first on the reading list, so…” you felt yourself trailing off, flustered. Why were you even bothering to explain this to Minho, who probably couldn’t care less? “Nevermind.”
You felt his piercing gaze on you as you shoved your books into your bag, glancing outside at the nearly emptied parking lot. If you squinted, you could spot a couple—Seo Changbin, judging by the male’s iconic leather jacket, and his lover—making out under the bleachers. You shook your head incredulously. Valentine’s Day. Love poems. Hormonal couples galore. It was like the universe was playing a long, cruel joke on you: Ha-ha, look who’s spending Valentine’s Day studying in the library alone.
Well, alone except for a student librarian with whom you had a mortifying history. Not much better. Eager to leave, you got to your feet, only to see Minho flipping through a smaller book he’d pulled off the shelf next to him. “If you want some real inspiration,” he began slowly, pushing up his glasses, “I’d suggest you start closer to our time period.”
You looked down at the book he was holding up, brow furrowing as you read the title out loud. “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Pablo Neruda.”
“The best Chilean poet of the 20th century,” he nodded. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving but this.’”
It took you a second to realise Minho was quoting a poem, and you were suddenly grateful that the dimly lit library hid the flush of red that had betrayed your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you mumbled, “That actually sounds...kind of pretty.”
He didn’t look up, but you thought you saw the corners of his mouth shoot up ever so slightly. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on you? Flipping through the book, Minho fished out a pad of sticky notes from his back pocket and marked a few pages. “Here. ‘The Song of Despair’...‘Tonight I Can Write’...‘Here I Love You.’ Those are good.” Clamping the book shut, he held it out towards you.
You almost thanked him, but the words faltered on your tongue as you took it from him suspiciously. “What’s with the sudden helpful attitude?”
He shrugged. “It’s my job.” You raised an incredulous eyebrow, and he smirked. “Consider it my apology for this morning, then.”
That left you at a real loss for words, and for the first time, you struggled to find a retort. “That’s...considerate of you, apologising on behalf of your girlfriend and all.”
“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”
You breathed a small laugh. “Soon-to-be, then. Don’t break her heart.”
Minho scoffed, bringing the book to the front desk and scrawling your name on the sign-out card. He stamped the dates, then held it out at you before glancing out the window. Dusk had fallen, the empty football field lit only by rows of flickering lampposts. “You can get home safe?”
“Screw off, Lee Minho.” You eyed him warily, shoving the book into your bag before practically running to the double doors. The strange atmosphere that had suddenly built up in the library felt terrifyingly foreign to you, and your first instinct was to be rid of it as soon as possible. In the hallway, you spotted a janitor dumping a bin into a trash bag. A familiar avalanche of pink envelopes and gifts caught your eye, and you felt a wave of humiliation. Just the memory of Minho throwing yours out—after reading it and having a good laugh, no doubt—made you want to ram your head into the lockers all over again. You’ve got no chance with him, y/n, you thought blearily. Right when you’d thought you’d finally come to terms with Minho’s brutal (albeit unintentional) rejection, here he was again: crashing back into your life like some...cat-eyed, pointy-nosed meteor.
“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”
You’d already had one foot out the front door when Minho called your name again, making you jerk your head back in surprise. Minho had his bag slung over one shoulder, a pile of books in his arms as he waved to get your attention. His smile looked almost...genuine in the warm shadows, his round glasses softening his usually sharp gaze. Despite yourself, you felt your heart skip a beat.
Then Minho made a wiping motion over his face and grinned. “You’ve got drool on your chin.”
Your face reddened, and you slammed the library door shut, earning a glare from the janitor down the hall. Smacking the heel of your palm against your forehead repeatedly, you stormed out of the school muttering curses under your breath. Typical Lee Minho.
To your surprise, you practically devoured the poems in less than a week, taken aback at how much you genuinely enjoyed them. It was the first time you didn’t find yourself cringing at romance—and sure enough, in a couple days’ time, you found yourself reluctantly standing back in front of the double doors of the school library once again.
Carefully, you craned your head to peep into the panelled window, scanning the room for Minho. As per usual, a gaggle of girls were huddled on the other side, blocking your view.
“Looking for someone?”
Flinching, you nearly tripped on Hana’s long legs as she came up beside you. Before you could respond, she fixed you with a withering look. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Little Miss Perfect.”
“I—sorry?”
The cheerleader rolled her eyes, sneering. “Don’t act all innocent with me, you sneaky b—”
Sighing, you pushed open the doors before she could finish. Hana followed you into the library, still sputtering angrily. Her hand snatched your arm, French manicure digging painfully into your cardigan.
“The Valentines,” she hissed, and it finally clicked.
She’s talking about the love letters, you realized. The ones Minho throws out every year.
Gut twisting, you looked up to see all the other girls crossing their arms and looking back at you expectantly. “None of you...got a response?” You asked incredulously, already knowing the answer. This happened every year: Expectant admirers showered Minho’s locker with gifts, Minho wouldn’t even glance at them— and then, for some reason, you were left to take the blame. A twinge of annoyance shot through your chest.
“You stole them from his locker, didn’t you?” Hana continued accusingly, pupils shaking. “You sneaky, jealous bitch— of course you did.”
He threw them all out, you wanted to scream back at her, but the words wouldn’t budge from your tongue. Somehow, saying them out loud felt like tearing off the stitches of an old wound; a painful reminder of your personal humiliating memory. And—though you hated to admit it—a small part of you still didn’t have the heart to throw Minho under the bus just yet, even after all that he’d done.
Feeling defeated, you sighed and turned towards her. “Why would I want to do that?”
Hana scoffed, tossing her chocolate curls over one shoulder. “Oh, please. We all know you’ve had a massive one-sided crush on him since ninth grade.”
A rush of heat flooded your cheeks, the other girls’ snickers at your reaction drowning out any of your protests. “That’s not—”
“Not true? Then—is it mutual?” Hana sneered mockingly. “Don’t make me laugh. He wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of y—”
“Can I help you with anything?”
The small crowd fell silent as Minho appeared from one of the aisles, eyebrows raised slightly in his usual nonchalant manner. A chill of panic rushed down your spine, palms growing clammy with cold sweat. H-how much did he overhear? In your peripheral, Hana was practically batting her eyelashes at him, but Minho’s mild eyes were focused on yours expectantly.
“I—uh. Well,” you stammered eloquently, your entire body suddenly paralyzed. Hana’s cherry red lips were twisted in a smug smirk, clearly waiting for you to embarrass yourself. “The book,” you blurted, immediately rummaging for the poetry book in your bag and holding it out to him.
Minho took it from you, fingertips grazing yours slightly. They were surprisingly warm. “How’d you find it?”
“R-really good, actually.” Then, you hesitantly added, “I...like the way Neruda uses imagery—he’s precise without being plain, and artful without deviating too much into purple prose. I think I liked Tonight I Can Write the most— y’know, ‘Tonight I can write the saddest lines...’” You swallowed, then instantly began regretting having ever spoken. Great job, y/n, now you sound like a full-blown nerd.
But Minho nodded, his eyes gleaming. “‘I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me, too.’”
“That’s the second verse,” you muttered automatically, and his lips twitched.
“It’s one of my favourite lines.”
The other girls had begun to awkwardly shuffle out of the library, their absence easing your racing heart. With just a few mildly spoken words, you noted, Minho had managed to make you feel as though you had blocked out the rest of the world. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Hana glaring daggers at you, and the small smile dropped from your face.
“Do you need something?” Minho asked her blankly, his gaze trailing down to Hana’s hand, which was still painfully latched onto your arm. With a roll of her eyes, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the library.
As soon as she was gone, you breathed an audible sigh of relief. Minho was peeling the sticky notes off from the poetry book you’d returned, eyes still watching you intently. Giving him the side-eye, you deadpanned, “She’s pretty, you know. Maybe you should go talk to her sometime.”
There was a small smile on Minho’s lips. “Does she like Chilean poetry?”
You could only give a short—slightly too shaky for your liking—laugh in response, ruffling your own hair as you tried to calm your frazzled nerves. Don’t forget, y/n. One, that he’s out of your league. Two, how this was all his fault to begin with.
“Is that all you came here for?” Minho’s voice broke into your thoughts again, making you jump. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He finds this—me—amusing.
“Well…” you looked down at your feet, then grudgingly nodded at the poetry book you’d just returned. “Do you...have any other recommendations?”
Minho’s face broke into a shit-eating grin, and you bit back a groan. before your pride got the better of you and you changed your mind, he was already heading towards the back of the library, sliding books out as you struggled to keep with his pace. “First of all, Dickinson. Hit-or-miss, but you never know. Then there’s Sylvia Plath, some Emily Brontë…”
Before you knew it, you’d been whisked into a world of verse and metaphor, flying between numerous time periods and continents as you and Minho perused the shelves. Just like the time when you had accidentally fallen asleep in the library, the library seemed to grow cozier, quieter, more peaceful during moments like these, as if the entire world was holding still as you lost yourself in pages upon pages of books. Soon, you found yourself heading to the library nearly every day after school. Despite yourself, you found yourself looking forward to that sunset hour, the fleeting period where most students had left, and the entire library would glow warm as though it were blushing under the swathes of golden light. And in these same fleeting moments, you found your gaze lingering more and more on Minho—the way he would push his silver glasses on, furrowing his brow in concentration whenever he searched for a book, or run his long fingers over their worn spines whenever he was lost in thought—
“Like what you see?” With a flinch, you realised Minho had begun walking back towards you, a crooked smirk on his lips as he set a new pile of books down at the desk you were sat at.
“No!” You snapped, too quickly. “Just—spaced out for a bit. Too concentrated on the project.”
The smirk hadn’t budged from Minho’s face, and you resisted the urge to throw a copy of Emily Dickinson’s Selected Poems at his long, pointy nose. “Mm. You seem to be coming here a lot more often.”
“That’s because the due date is coming up.”
“No. I mean, you seem to be talking to me a lot more.”
You rolled your eyes, snatching a book from the top of his pile as you muttered, “Screw you, Lee Minho.”
His eyebrows shot up in wicked mischief. “You’re more than welcome to try.”
With a cry of exasperation—and surprise at having been heard—you hoisted your book bag onto the table, building a makeshift wall between the two of you.
You didn’t catch the way Minho’s laughter slowly faded as he rested his head on one hand thoughtfully, quietly watching you read. Your lips were pursed in concentration as you muttered your notes under your breath. Cute, he couldn’t help thinking.
Minho had always been good at memorizing things, but he couldn’t remember exactly when you’d begun disliking him so much. You had always intrigued him—what with the way your locker always seemed to be overflowing with books, or how you used to lend him your copy when he forgot his, back in ninth grade. That Valentine’s Day, four years ago, your name had been the only one he’d hoped to find as he rifled through the cards he’d received. But he’d come up empty, and so he’d thrown them all out. And for some reason, you’d been cold to him ever since.
Minho had assumed that you were probably annoyed with all the letters that would fall out of his locker and onto you, and so every year he tried his best to get rid of the Valentines as soon as possible. Nevertheless, you only seemed to be getting more and more annoyed with him.
And now here you were, right in front of him, four years later, and he still couldn’t bring himself to ask you why. Confrontation had never been his strong suit—his words always seemed to come out too blunt, too cold, too soon, and so he’d always avoided bringing it up with you again. Minho sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Written words—that is, books—had always been so much easier than people.
He did, however, remember when he’d started falling for you.
Tenth grade, literature studies. He’d begun arguing against your thesis during one of your presentations, and the two of you had ended up bickering the entire class—pulling out quotes from nearly every chapter of Pride and Prejudice before the class president had to intervene, and your teacher had sent you both to detention.
You had glared at him once, and he’d fallen head over heels.
These violent delights have violent ends, he’d mused in his head back then—Romeo and Juliet—and with the murderous stare Minho sometimes caught you fixing him with, he was willing to bet that you were wishing a violent end on him, too.
He couldn’t pen a love letter to save his life, either— and so, he resorted to pettily glaring at any admirer that approached your locker like Gandalf—you shall not pass—until they backed off. Minho didn’t think you would appreciate him revealing that, either. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous his actions seemed—and like a poorly written plot twist, you had ended up stumbling back into his life again. Never in his life, however, did Minho think that Pablo Neruda would become his wingman. Glancing down at his portrait on the back cover of the book, Minho could almost imagine the Chilean poet pointing his pen threateningly: “Don’t screw this up.”
“Hey, Minho?” He snapped out of his thoughts to see you waving your hand at him from the other side of your book bag. “You were right. I don’t get any of Dickinson’s poems.”
Your words took a moment to register, Minho caught off-guard by the soft golden hour light illuminating your pretty features. You waved your hand in his face again, and he blinked, breath caught in his throat. Almost tripping over his tongue, he finally quipped, “How on earth are you passing AP English?”
You glowered and smacked his shoulder, the near-silent library ringing with Minho’s laughter once again.
With a week left to the deadline, you were planted at your desk in your room, the wastebasket littered with crumpled up half-sheets of notebook paper. To your dismay, none of the words seemed to be coming out the way you wanted them to. Gnawing the back of your pencil in frustration, you dumped the contents of your book bag onto the desk, and spotted your latest library book—100 Love Sonnets, by Pablo Neruda. Inexplicably, out of all the poets Minho had introduced to you, you always found yourself coming back to him.
Flipping through the well-thumbed pages, your fingers stopped at one titled Sonnet XVII. “I love you without knowing how,” your eyes scanned the verse curiously, “or when, or from where. I love you simply…”
It was the poem Minho had quoted that evening in the library, you realized, heart skipping a beat. “...without problems or pride / I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving / but this, in which there is no I or you / so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand / so intimate that when I fall asleep, your eyes close.”
With a sigh, you buried your head in your arms, lying face-down onto the desk. Maybe the reason why you instinctively disliked reading love poems so much was because of the sheer sincerity of them all. You envied their ability to put feelings into words—with unabashed, unapologetic ardour, and be celebrated for it, to boot. Eyes scanning the verses again, your mind wandered to the way Minho’s eyes had lit up as he’d explained the lines to you, his brow furrowed in focus.
At Levanter High, you had grown used to being pushed around and out of the spotlight. It was either the popular girls and their backhanded compliments, or the boys who spoke to you condescendingly just to a) get you to do their homework, or b) get in your pants. But Minho had always taken you seriously, albeit while driving you half-insane with his infuriating remarks. And as much as you hated to admit it, that same fiery look in his eyes whenever he got worked up—so different from his usual reserved facade in front of the teachers and swooning students—had always made your heart skip a beat. In tenth grade—back when he seemed to pick a fight with you nearly every English class until Bang Chan had to hold the two of you back from killing each other—you’d thought you’d successfully quashed your feelings for the mild-voiced, hazel-eyed librarian. Yet every time he spoke, he left you feeling vulnerable, disarmed, and you were back—though you refused to admit it—to square one.
“‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul,’” you whispered, fingers tracing the words on the paper. Feeling a sudden surge—of confidence, or simply exasperation, you weren’t sure—you seized the pen and began scribbling on a new piece of paper. For years, you’d been afraid to face your feelings, terrified of the humiliation if Hana—or anyone at school—found out. But if getting them all out in one cheesy, hot mess of a love letter could give you some closure, you thought tensely, you were more than happy to oblige. You would write it all out under the guise of a love poem, and then it would never have to see the light of day again.
Words began coming to your head like a floodgate had been thrown wide open, and you began scrawling onto the page. “‘I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,’” you quoted thoughtfully as you drafted your own poem. In a way, it felt cathartic—you could get all your feelings out, pass it off as an assignment, and never think about the forbidden fruit again. For all you knew, it was a win-win situation. The pen kept wobbling, ink spilling out haphazardly and skipping, but you relaxed slightly. Maybe this assignment wasn’t too bad, after all.
Head filled to the brim with poetry, you set the pen down and dozed off.
“You’re not coming to the football game?” Lia flashed puppy eyes at you, and you smacked her hand playfully, swiping a french fry from her plate.
“Lia, since when have I ever gone to one?” The two of you had dropped by the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe for a quick pick-me-up during lunch hour, but one smile from the cute waiter—Yang Jeongin, if you remembered his name correctly—had dazzled Lia into ordering an extra burger combo, complete with a plate of fries. “Sports and crowds—not my thing. And I have an English project due the next day.”
She pouted. “Oh, come on! Knowing you, you’ve probably already finished it by now.”
You grinned, thinking back to your love poem and fighting the urge to cringe. You’d read it the morning after, and it had taken every fibre in your being to hold yourself back from ripping it to shreds. Piercing, catlike eyes, you’d written in one line. Silver spectacles. Long fingers on dusty pages. Shuddering, you’d stuffed it into the Neruda book before banishing them both to your locker and going about your day. Love poems are supposed to be cheesy, y/n, suck it up. It’ll only be this one time. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone other than your teacher would ever read it.
When you dropped by the library after school, you spotted Hana’s familiar figure by one of the cubicles. As she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a laugh muted by the plexiglass windows, you saw that she was talking to a grinning Minho.
“Are you sure you’re not coming to the game on Thursday?” Hana was whining as you pushed open the doors to the library. She patted his arms playfully. “You could be on the football team if you wanted to, you know! Why don’t you try?”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not that quick on my feet.”
“Well, tell you what. They’re having a party at Hyunjin’s place right after—his parents are out of town. If you don’t feel like coming to the game, at least join us at the afterparty to loosen up a little—have a little fun.” She blew him a kiss and stood, throwing her purse over her shoulder and spotting you. You instinctively froze, bracing yourself for whatever slew of insults she had for you today, but all Hana did was beam and wave at you.
As she passed you by the door, she threw you a knowing wink. “Have fun on your little study date!”
Her words made your ears grow hot again, but to your surprise, there was no trace of venom in her voice — only a lighthearted teasing, as if she had been your friend all along. Hana really did look sweet when she smiled genuinely, and you could see why she had so many people easily wrapped around her finger. Maybe people do change. Or she’s just in a good mood. Before you could shrug and turn away, you sensed Minho’s presence behind you and yelped.
He held his hands up in mock surrender, and you could swear he was suppressing a laugh. “Here to work on your project again?”
Hana’s strange exchange with you on her way out had left your mind reeling, and you scrambled to form coherent sentences. “No, I, um—I actually finished it last night. I just…” Thought I’d just drop by to say hi. But your pride turned the words to mush before they had even formed, and you ended up trailing off awkwardly.
“Really?” There was a flash of disappointment in his face, then Minho’s gaze landed on the book-borrowing register on the front desk. “Right—your book is due today. Did you want to return it?”
Your eyes widened, silently cursing at your own forgetfulness. “Um—yes,” you lied, pretending to search in your bag before giving an awkward laugh. “Yep. I think it’s in my locker—let me go get it.”
After jogging to the other side of the school, you flung open the bottom locker, making another mental note to replace your missing lock. Still catching your breath, your hand sifted through the notes and textbooks before coming up empty. Where is it? You could swear you remembered putting it there, unless—
Breath catching in your throat, you shut the locker with a mortified bang. The English classroom. You practically sprinted down the hallways, earning another dirty look from the janitor as you raced past. Bang Chan looked up in alarm when you nearly crashed into the English classroom door. The entire room was empty, save for the class president, who looked like he was helping to file the teacher’s papers.
“Where’s the fire?” He asked jokingly as your eyes frantically raked the room.
“Have you—seen a book, by any chance? 100 Love Sonnets. Pablo Neruda.”
Chan frowned. “We shelve all the books after class, and if it’s one we don’t recognize, we keep it until the students come back in the morning.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing anything.”
Your heart sank, and you saw the corners of Chan’s mouth lift bemusedly.
“What’s the hurry, anyway? I thought you hated love po—”
With a groan of frustration, you left the baffled class president staring after you as you turned on your heel and back into the hallway. Your mind was racing, panic making your ears buzz. The love letter’s in there. Where the hell did I put it? You sprinted to the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe next, but only got an apologetic shrug from Jeongin even after you’d scoured every nook and cranny of the diner. The sun was already beginning to set as you trudged, defeated, back to the school. Spotting the library’s dim windows in the distance, you wrestled with your options — if it weren’t for that cursed love letter, you could’ve probably just told Minho you’d misplaced it. But now the book—along with everything you’d never dared to tell anyone, crammed onto a sheet of notebook paper—could be anywhere, and there was no way in hell you were going to stop looking until you found it. Heart heavy with dread, you did a full 180 and began walking home.
It was no use. You’d practically pulled an all-nighter tearing your room apart searching for the book— and then, the better part of the following day running around town. But no matter where you looked—the record shop, Blockbuster’s, or even the laundromat—you came up empty.
It’s like it’s disappeared entirely, you thought as the lunch ladies piled your tray with a few sad-looking burritos. The cafeteria was buzzing with teenagers jittery with caffeine and sugar, and you had to duck as a boy chucked an apple at another across the room. You passed the cheerleaders’ table, trying to avoid eye contact, but their giggly conversation carried over the chaotic commotion.
“Did you see how cute Hyunjin looked today on the field?”
“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend? Maybe Hana can talk to him for us—if he doesn’t fall for her first.” The blonde cheerleader that had spoken nudged the older girl insistently.
“Me?” There was a smile in Hana’s voice. You could feel her eyes on you as she mused, “Oh, I don’t know, Hyunjin’s not my type. I much prefer boys with—how should I put it—catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long fingers perfect for turning dusty pages…” She clasped her hands together in mock adoration, and her friends erupted in giggles.
“What the hell was that? Sounds like a cheesy love poem.”
You had frozen stiff as soon as she had uttered the words, stunned eyes finding Hana’s only a couple feet away. She gave you a winning smile—the same one you’d deemed friendly just a couple days ago—and winked.
“Give me my book back.”
You pulled her aside after the last bell had rung, voice shaking. Hana only tilted her head innocently, eyes round as a puppy’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Before you could spit a biting retort back at her, the taller cheerleader tapped her chin thoughtfully with one bejewelled nail. “But I might think harder if...I got a little something in return.”
You grit your teeth. “What do you want?”
“Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party as my date,” Hana beamed, “and tell the office you want to change your locker.”
“You’re crazy,” you blurted, and her face immediately darkened. Dropping her voice, she leaned in closer, until her voice was right beside your ear.
“Oh, I can be even crazier. What would happen if I made copies of this little letter on Monday, hm? Or published it in the school paper for everyone to read? I’m sure Han Jisung would love that—”
Your eyes trailed down to the slip of paper she’d pulled out of her purse, the sight of your own familiar handwriting making panic surge through your veins like ice. Snatching it from her hand, you quickly began tearing it apart before noticing the calm smirk on Hana’s face.
“Photocopy, silly,” she giggled in a sing-song voice as you peered more closely at the shredded pieces, hands shaking. “Oh, all right, don’t cry. If you want the original so badly…” she leaned in again, cruel smile on her lips. “Then you might want to look in the library.”
Eyes widening, you immediately pushed her away and bolted for the stairs. “Don’t forget the deal! Thursday night,” Hana called after you, and you broke into a run.
Most of the classrooms were already empty, their dark windows reflecting your own face back at you as you hurtled past them. Your heart pounded in your chest as the library finally came into view at the end of the hallway, but you nearly came to a screeching halt when you saw that the lights had been turned off. Had Minho gone home early? Chewing your lip anxiously, you peered past the plexiglass. Aisles empty, books all shelved neatly, chairs stacked. The library was quiet as a tomb. Desperately, you tried the knob—and to your surprise, the door creaked open. Maybe he forgot to lock it. You had nothing to lose. Holding your breath, you slipped in.
Even the faint click of the door closing again sounded deafening. You rifled through the front desk first, dropping to a crouch as you inspected the carts and borrowing-bin. To your dismay, they were all empty—they must have all been re-shelved already. Heart sinking, you began tip-toeing through the shelves, fingers trembling as they ran over the laminated Dewey Decimal labels. Please, please, please…
You reached the poetry section at the back of the library, eyes squinting to try and read the spines of the books under shrouds of shadows. Poets— Nash. Naidu. Nemerov…
“Neruda,” you gasped, eyes falling on the book you had practically gone through hell searching for. 100 Love Sonnets. Almost sobbing in sheer relief, you reached out to grab it—just as another hand shot out from beside you. Your yelp of surprise broke the still, dim quiet, and you didn’t have to look up to know who the warm, pale fingers belonged to.
“Care to explain what you’re doing here?”
Spectacles glinting under the twilight, one hand in his pocket, nonchalant as ever, was the boy that had gotten you into this mess. Lee Minho.
As you stared back at him, mouth slightly agape, you felt as though your entire world was balancing precariously over a yawning abyss— as if one wrong move would send everything you’d spent the last two months—no, the last four years—repatching. You swallowed hard. His hand had landed a split-second later than yours, holding both you and the book in place, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his warm fingers on your chilled skin. Forcefully, you yanked the book from the shelves and out of his grasp. “The—book. I-I realised I still needed it for the project. It’s due this Friday, you know.”
He raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Today’s only Wednesday. Why not come back tomorrow morning?”
Shit. “I, um, promised Lia I’d go with her to the game tomorrow,” you fibbed, flipping through the book quickly, ready to grab any stray piece of paper that flew out. Nothing. “So I—need to finish the assignment today. Could you renew it for me?” Trying to plaster on an unbothered smile, you flipped through the book again. Still nothing. Had Hana lied to you?
In your peripheral, you saw Minho slowly shift his weight, crossing his arms as he mused, “Well, I’m not too sure about that. We’re getting...careful about letting students borrow books for too long. People tend to leave some...strange things in them.”
Your eyes snapped up, fingers freezing on the fluttering pages. “What—then did you—see anything? S-strange, I mean.”
A flicker of amusement passed through Minho’s eyes, and then it was gone. He cleared his throat, humming thoughtfully. “Why? Do you have something in mind?”
The strange intensity of his gaze seemed to corner you into the shadows, and you swore your heart was pounding so hard it seemed to echo through the room. “Nothing,” you stammered, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “I mean, I just—accidentally left—” Kill me now. You shook your head rapidly. “N-nevermind. I’m heading home.”
“Y/N—”
“Oh, one more thing.” You turned, remembering Hana’s sly words to you back in the stairwell. “You’re invited to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, after the game on Thursday.” Then, hoping you sounded more convincing than you felt, “Hana’s really counting on you to be her date.”
Minho chuckled. “You know I go to parties as often as you do.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no malice in his words, only that same, airy indifference Minho always carried himself with. “Please? Hana—I mean, it would make her really happy if you went.”
“Would you be happy?”
The strange question caught you off guard, making you look up again. Minho was no longer smiling. His hand was still resting lightly over the missing space the book had left on the shelf, and his expression looked strangely lost under the twilit sky.
“Would it make you happy if I went?” He repeated, and you felt your mouth go dry.
Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, and I won’t publish your little love letter for everyone to see on Monday. You nodded firmly, laughing in an attempt to ease the strange atmosphere that had settled over the two of you once again. “Y-yeah. Ecstatic.”
You turned on your heel, breath leaving your lips in a shaky sigh. If the poem wasn’t in the book, where on earth could it be? Option one: It had fallen out somewhere along the way, and hadn’t fallen into anyone’s hands. The best case scenario. Option two: Hana had been playing with you again, and she had had the original all along. Option three…
“By the way, Hana told me not to give this to you.”
You whirled around in surprise, and your eyes landed on a horribly familiar piece of notebook paper dangling from Minho’s fingers. Option three, damn it all. Mortified, you snatched it from his hand, crumpling it into your fist as he laughed lightly.
“It’s a very good poem.”
“Shut up, Lee Minho,” you wailed, wishing the ground would just swallow you up and bury you six feet under for all of eternity. “It’s a cheesy, cliché wreck.”
He hummed in amusement. “What were you writing about?”
Paralyzed, your eyes flickered towards the window before sputtering, “The—sunset. Figurative approach, you know? Emily Dickinson-inspired—”
“Mm. Then what was that quote about—” He tilted his head in thought, fingers snapping. “Catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long—” He stopped when you plugged your ears instinctively, eyes glowering at him in disbelief. If looks could kill, Minho was sure he’d now have died more times than the characters in a Shakespearean tragedy. “—was that about the sunset, too?”
“Of course,” you snapped, your voice a tad too pitchy for your liking. Damn Lee Minho and his knack for memorizing things. “Haven’t you ever heard of extended metaphors? Rest assured, Lee Minho—I will never, ever, ever—have feelings for you.” You crumpled the sheet of poetry into a ball as you spoke with a note of finality, jamming it into your back pocket for good riddance.
Minho looked unfazed, the light curve of a knowing smile playing on his lips. After a moment, he took a step towards you, making you stumble back in alarm. “‘You can cut all the flowers,” he mused, glancing down at the crumpled love letter, “‘but you cannot stop spring from coming.’”
“Wh-wha—”
“Neruda quote. Tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, and I’ll stop,” he murmured, eyes growing serious for a moment before his lips twitched with mirth, “but something tells me I deserve to hear more about that sunset from your poem.”
Gulping, you felt hot tears brimming in your eyes, and suddenly wished you were anywhere but here. This confrontation had been your worst nightmare, what you had always wanted to avoid. Your pride’ll be the end of you, y/n, you remembered Lia remarking when you’d sworn up and down that your feelings for Lee Minho were a thing of the past. And it was true—your pride had always gotten the better of you. You were a hypocrite, and a terrible one at that—always telling yourself you had gotten over that stupid, ninth-grade heartbreak, before unravelling into a nervous mess whenever Minho so much as threw a glance at you. And now, you could feel everything you’d feebly repressed for the last four years caving in. Crashing down on you like an avalanche of cheap supermarket chocolates.
“It was about you. You, alright?” You hissed, voice coming out more wounded, rather than venomous like you’d intended. “There. Are you happy now?” You were glad the shadows hid the humiliated tears beginning to roll down your cheeks, and wiped at your eyes furiously. Damn it all. So much for not crying.
“Then why didn’t you—”
“Say anything?” You breathed a short laugh. “Because I didn’t want to see you just throw it out again, okay?”
The silence that met your words was deafening, and when you finally mustered the courage to lift your gaze you saw that Minho’s look of disbelief mirrored your own.
“'Again?'”
Damn Lee Minho and his two-faced ass. Had he already forgotten? “In ninth grade. I left you a—stupid love letter in your locker, with all your other Valentines. Then I s-saw you throwing them all out, behind the school.”
“But I read every name on the cards,” Minho insisted, running a hand through his tousled hair. I left you—a stupid love letter in your locker. Your words sent his head spinning, and he felt his flustered cheeks heat up as he mumbled, “I’ve never—seen yours on any of them.”
Now it was your turn to blink in confusion. Minho’s brow furrowed in vague recollection. “But I did see Hana pulling an envelope out from my locker that day. She said that—she’d heard someone had been sending chain mail on Valentine’s Day, so she was helping the principal clean them up from people’s lockers.”
Hana? Your mind flashed to the missing locks, and the cheerleader that always seemed to be hanging around your locker, and suddenly everything dawned on you. “What did the envelope look like?”
“A corner store card. With—”
“Candy hearts. Right.” You muttered, watching Minho nod slowly. Your anger faltered slightly, feeling a slight shame wash over you, but you weren’t willing to give up just yet. “That still doesn’t explain why you dump out all the gifts you get every year.”
He sighed. “Look. Why would I keep love letters from people I don’t like? That’s just...narcissistic. And I don’t...like chocolate, either,” he added as an afterthought, and you couldn’t help exhaling a short laugh at his ridiculously blunt sentence. Another silence fell between the two of you, the angry tension in the air replaced with an almost childish awkwardness.
“I really did like the poem,” Minho spoke tentatively after what felt like an eternity, and you buried your head in your hands.
“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”
“And I wouldn’t have thrown it out.” The soft edge to his voice made you stop, peeking out of your fingers to look at him questioningly.
“Why not?” You asked, swallowing hard. “You said keeping letters from someone you don’t like would be narcissistic.”
He was barely a foot away, and the sheer proximity of his face from yours made your stomach flop—with irritation or butterflies, you weren’t sure you wanted to find out. Nonetheless, a tiny voice at the back of your head told you that you were heading towards the latter.
“You know, for someone who reads so many books, you sure are dense,” Minho murmured, shaking his head.
“Wh—”
“I throw out all my Valentines every year because I never see your name on them, alright?” His expression was as careless as ever—that cool, calm facade he wore like a suit of armour—but you didn’t miss the slight tremor in his voice, the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Lee Minho, you realized with a jolt, was nervous. “I...only ever wanted to receive one from you.”
Your eyes widened, hands lowering from your face in shock. The book tumbled from under your arm to the ground. “But—Hana always told me about how much you hated me.”
“Hmm.” He dropped down to pick it up before fixing his piercing eyes on yours. “Funny. She’s been telling me the same about you. How you’re a two-faced, back-stabbing...such-and-such,” he smiled at the indignant look on your face before his face grew serious. “You’ve always let people walk all over you, and you never retaliate. It’s both admirable and frustrating to watch.”
“I’m not good at confrontation,” you mumbled, still shifting your weight from one leg to the other nervously. “Every time I think I’ve finally got the guts to try and say something back, I...I get all terrified that the words’ll jumble up and I-I’ll start to cry like an idiot again—”
“You’re not an idiot,” he interrupted sternly, “You’re probably more clever—and genuine—than everyone in our grade combined. Your thesis was brilliant.”
You snorted incredulously. “Then why did you keep attacking it every class?”
“It was the only time I could get you to talk to me.”
“Weirdo,” you muttered, but you couldn’t find it in you to make the word sound insulting anymore. Minho chuckled, hand grazing yours as he handed the book back to you. You didn’t move your hand away, and neither did he.
“It is weird. I must be out of my mind. Whenever you look at me, it’s like the whole world stops, and suddenly every cheesy line of poetry I’ve ever read just seems to make sense.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you were more than certain Minho could hear it. The way he was looking at you was nearly overwhelming, stomach fluttering with a feeling so strange and foreign it terrified you. Never in your wildest dreams had you thought that you would be here, in this delicate, unreal moment, and you felt all your insecurities threatening to swallow you up again. Out of everyone in the school, he likes you? A voice snickered at the back of your mind. Don’t kid yourself.
Shrinking away, you mumbled, “Y-you—don’t have to say stuff like that, you know. I mean, i-if you feel bad because of the letter and everything, you don’t have to pretend you lik—”
There was a flash of an exasperated smile on Minho’s lips. Before you could finish, his hand reached to pull your chin towards him again, and suddenly his mouth was pressed flush to yours. You froze, lips parting in surprise, but the kiss was light—barely even a brush of soft skin, and bringing with it the faint scent of vanilla and old books. Minho pulled away almost as quickly as he’d pulled you in, stammering, “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
That seemed to send what was left of your hesitation crumbling into dust. You grabbed the collar of his dress shirt to pull him back in, and the library fell silent again.
Minho kissed the way he talked—soft but firm, and always leaving you struggling to catch your breath. Each touch had the growing intensity of something long overdue, starting out careful—as though you were treading over the newly shattered, four-year-old misunderstandings of one another—before your hands instinctively tangled in his hair and Minho pulled you in impossibly closer. You could feel his heartbeat pressed against yours, the crumpled poem and Neruda’s sonnets long forgotten on the carpeted ground.
The click of the library door opening sent the two of you flying apart, Minho hitting his head on the shelf with a comical thud. The kiss left you dazed and out of breath, and Minho’s face was flushed as both of you whipped around to see a livid Hana at the front of the library. Mouth opening and closing in silent fury, she shot you a death glare before storming out the door, leaving both you and Minho blinking after her.
Several moments passed, the whiplash of the unexpected interruption having sent both of your heads reeling. Then, the two of you broke into stunned laughter, slowly sliding down to the carpet as you doubled over in giggles.
When you finally stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, Minho’s gaze was fixed fondly on your face. You poked his cheek. “You’re blushing, asshole.”
He didn’t respond, eyes falling to your lips again, and you felt your own face flush. “W-what?”
Minho grinned. “And you have drool on your chin again.”
“Hey, Minho! Minho, you won’t believe this!”
That enthusiastic voice belonged to none other than Han Jisung—voice of Levanter High’s morning announcements, and notorious school gossip. He hurtled down the bustling hall towards you and Minho, hunching over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”
The dark-haired boy shook his head rapidly. “Did you see the school newspaper?”
Your mouth went dry, Hana’s lingering threats still ringing clear in your ears. Jisung continued excitedly, “Two people submitted anonymous love poems over the weekend—at the same time! Can you believe it? I’m supposed to cover it on the announcements in a bit!”
Two? You peered at Minho, who hadn’t looked at you, and glimpsed a knowing glint in his eyes. “W-who submitted them?”
“Well, Lee Hana was handing out copies of the first one to everyone first thing this morning. But when I showed her the other one, she refused to tell me who the first belonged to.” He pouted.
Minho looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Do you have a copy of the paper, ‘sung?”
The dark-haired boy grinned. “Yeah, ‘course! You guys can have mine. See ya!”
As Jisung disappeared into the crowd of students, you turned back to Minho. He had been in the middle of putting a new lock on your locker, and was now setting the combination on his own. “They’re matching,” he’d pointed out when you’d gone into town together to buy them, and you’d groaned.
“Gro-oss.” The old, PDA-hating you would have probably thrown them away on the spot, but now the sight made you smile like a dork. If you can’t beat em, join ‘em.
You looked down to read the papers Jisung had deposited into your hands. Sure enough, on the left column, you spotted a photocopy of your own love letter. But on the right, there was a completely new one—and you had a sneaking suspicion you knew who the anonymous writer was.
“You know, Minho,” you deadpanned, “I don’t think either of us are cut out to be poets.”
“I stayed up all night writing that love letter, you know!” Minho exclaimed indignantly, and you just shook your head laughing. “But you’re right. I could feel Neruda turning in his grave.”
“You’re going to be the end of me, Lee Minho.”
His face broke into a mischievous grin at that, pinning you playfully to the lockers and stealing another kiss as you yelped in surprise.
[ 17:54 ] Perhaps the purest form of love and affection is the first kiss. Awkward and inexperienced, unprepared for the act which has so been revered. "Who was your first kiss?" they ask. "Where was it?" they question almost instantly after. Who, what, where, when, why... How would they react if you told them your first kiss was with Felix Lee at a crowded airport, 5 minutes before boarding? And how would they react if you said you would never see him again? Blasphemous. Yet, in a way, unattainably romantic.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
When your friend (you wouldn't exactly say best friend, you were friends and nothing more) Felix Lee told you he auditioned to be a "K-pop star," you laughed right at his face. Little Lix? The shy, bubbly boy you've always known who could barely speak Korean? A K-pop star? Please. You thought nothing of it. Sure, he was good at dancing, but you never imagined- it never even crossed your mind- that Felix would be lighting up a stage with his soft smile.
So you jokingly shoved his shoulder and stole one of his chips, asking if he did his math homework and if he would be so kind to let you copy.
(No, he didn't. You were both screwed. But together, at least.)
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
When your friend (you wouldn't exactly say best friend, you were friends and nothing more) Felix Lee told you he auditioned to be a "K-pop star," you laughed right at his face. Never did you imagine you would be here in this position. You both stared at each other, not sure what to say. Well, you stared down at him. At the ripe age of 16, you were taller than Felix Lee, and yet you felt so small at this moment.
"So... you're leaving. Now." Your voice was steady, as it had always been ever since he told you he passed the online audition against all odds. Maybe you were in a state of shock that your friend Felix Lee would be leaving Australia, leaving his family, leaving you.
"Yeah," his gruff voice spoke, not saying a word after as he looked down at his shoes. He did that a lot; what was so interesting about worn-out white Converse anyways, Felix Lee?
He was so young- Wouldn't he be missing out on so many things? You knew the boy never even had a significant other before. Would that option even be available to him now that he would be training all day and night? Now that he was bound by a signature on a piece of paper?
"Oy, Felix," You said quietly.
"Yeah?" he replied, almost as quiet as you. The rest of his friends had said goodbye to him already, so it was just you and him (and his family who were totally watching from afar).
"Have you ever had your first kiss?" you asked, though the answer was obvious to you. Felix Lee was a panic around any person he liked- boy, girl, or otherwise. Felix Lee having his first kiss sounded as absurd as... you, having your first kiss.
Felix shook his head, affirming what you already knew. You have no idea what came over you then, but before you knew it, you were leaning down and kissing Felix Lee.
Like all first kisses were, it was nothing much to brag about. It was static and awkward. A million thoughts ran through both your heads, so much so that it was hard to focus on what was actually happening. 'A first kiss isn't as special as people made it out to be,' you thought.
When you pulled away, you were met with the announcement of 2 minutes left to board the flight from Sydney, Australia to Seoul, South Korea. With one last wave and one last smile, your first kiss walked away from you, a memory to gossip about to anyone who asks in the future.
Maybe Felix Lee and you having your first kiss wasn't as absurd as you thought.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Ever since that day, you never saw Felix Lee again. You never found out what happened to him and his K-Pop star journey. Perhaps it was rude of you as a friend, but as friends who move away do, you forgot about him. You moved on.
It was during your daily moving on when somebody tapped your shoulder suddenly. You turned, and then you saw... your first kiss.
hello readers waiting for even a fool knows, just know that i am still writing it! i had a storyline but scrapped it because i was unhappy with it. i apologize for the long wait, i also have schoolwork and another hobby that requires some time commitment. but i plan for eafk to come out before i go back to school in august. thank you for supporting me, it makes me so happy when i see people liking my writing. 💖
➪ hwang hyunjin × fem! reader ( ah i tried to keep my fics gender neutral for as long as i could and my drabbles will be but as i venture into longer fics i will also use gender pronouns. )
➪ tropes: k-drama! au, side character! au ( or is it? ), based loosely off extraordinary you
➪ genres: fluff ( develops ), angst ( a lot of it tbh ), slow-burn, mystery
➪ plot: you know this. you’re in a drama. the one you might watch after a breakup, dreaming to be the lead girl who has two guys loving her. but you are not the main girl. you are merely an extra watching from the background. you have no purpose but as a number count to make the set look more full. from the sidelines you watch as hwang hyunjin loses his childhood best friend/crush to lee minho, the school delinquent. how cliché.
According to Wikipedia, an extra is “a background actor or a performer in a film, television show, stage, musical, opera or ballet production, who appears in a nonspeaking or non-singing (silent) capacity, usually in the background (for example, in an audience or busy street scene).” They are unassuming and uninteresting, their only purpose is to essentially be a backdrop for the main characters.
In other words, me. I’m the extra. I’m the background performer who doesn’t speak (nor sing).
If you do tags could I be tagged in even a fool knows?
hmm i don't have a tag list bc i didn't know if anyone would like to be in it but maybe i should have one? since you requested so, i will definitely tag you in the finished product! 💖 thank you for expressing interest in my writing uwu
your scenarios are so cute!! i really love them! but i’m very excited for ‘even a fool knows’ and i can’t wait to read it!! it sounds really good so far and the preview got me so excited 🥺
fvjdbsoabsks thank you for your kind words! it makes me happy to see my writing makes people (other than myself) happy. i'm glad you're excited for 'even a fool knows'! i am too and i've already started writing it today 😆 thank you for your support! 💖
height :: 5'5" or for those who don't live in america, 165cm
hogwarts house :: ugh yes i love harry potter. so im a ravenclaw but i think slytherin and hufflepuff creep up. it's just gryffindor that i'm not lmao.
favorite animal :: uh it's between owls and cats. it used to be owls because of harry potter but a little bit before i started ulting minho i started really wanting a cat (maybe that's why i like him so much, i stan him for his cats XD). so between those two.
number of blankets :: 2 ! i sleep with a light blue blanket for it's coolness and a dark purple one for it's warmth and fluffiness 🐱
when i started this account :: uhm february 16, 2020. i checked 😃 well i probably had it a bit longer than that trying to write but one day i was up in my seungmin feels and just wrote and published the same day
why i started this account :: i really wanted to write. idk i've always tried but gave up half way. but i am determined to not give up this time. if i'm going to be a writer, i have to actually, you know, write. so yeah i'm just writing here now but i also write in other places too, just not imagines :) also i read on tumblr every day so why not write right?
tags :: 😬 okay so i really am not buddy buddy with a lot of people bc im so new but here are my tags ! a lot of people are writers that i love to read ☺💖
@ccoccae @maatryoshkaa @sweetpxsin @starry-kfics @maaaaaatryoshka0325 uhh that's all i got XD but if you wanna do this, then i tag YOU!
you followed my writing account and i messaged my best friend and fangirled to her because we both really like your fics. and the fact you read one of my fluff fics is like 😱😱😱💕💘💕💕💖💙💚💓💌💓💗💓💖 to me, so thank you. 😘 - @M00NMINS
Hello you~ Yeah I loved your fluffs, you've got a real talent for it and I was in soft hours last night so I just 👉👈
Fangirling please I'm dying so hard 😟 You're the CUTEST thank you for reading my stuff, say hi to your bestie for me 👋 Wuv yous ❤
hahahahaha...wait what? 100 people like my writing?! this is really crazy to me. and it really means a lot as well. i love to write, i've just been in a writer's block for years now, one that is slowly starting to alleviate because of stray kids (my loves 💖). but thank you for reading. my heart swells with every note, follower, and comment.
as requested by: @starryseung :: ❝ can i request a fluffy chan roommate au? love your works bub 🤧❤️ ❞
[ 11:34pm ] bang chan was a dick of a roommate. he always left the dishes unwashed in the sink and you could always find more of his hair clogging up the shower than yours which was saying something. (how can you tell? oh just by the sheer dryness of his curly bleached strands, of course. you swore this boy shed worse than a dog-) he brought home another person every other night (at least that’s what it felt like) which left you sleeping in the room farthest from his own, the living room. and the couch was hard like his- well then.
but he had his moments.
“what are you doing?” asks chan, kicking off his sneakers walking to your spot on the floor. great, you’ll have to fix that later. you had a project due tomorrow and god were you not up for his bullshit tonight. this is why you hated working in partners; you were more than often left to do most of the work yourself which lead to you staying up late the night before because you always had too much trust thinking ‘no it wouldn’t happen again’ and-
“OW! WHAT WAS THAT FOR!“ you yelled at the pain of chan’s finger flick. you looked at him scandalized rubbing the now-red spot on your forehead.
“i asked you a question dummy,” chan smirked. he was a freaking sadist, you swore. you take a deep breath in, closing your eyes and leaning back on the couch’s base. when was the last time you took a break today? you didn’t know but this moment of talking with chan was the first break you’ve gotten since you’ve gotten home.
“just...just a project chan. nothing for you to be worried about,” you sighed. nothing for him to be worried about but everything for you to be. you’ll be damned if you get anything less than an ‘a‘ in this class and if you don’t do well on this project because of one lazy partner.
“damn did jeon back out again?” chan asked exasperated (wait why was he exasperated? it was your project!), “why didn’t you ask professor kim to switch your partner? anyone would want to work with you.” oh. that was nice. was the bang chan actually complimenting you? are his ears a bit red? yeah, they’re definitely red. wait uh-
“why are you sitting down?” a confused look grows on your tired face. you really can’t deal with him right now. “i’m not in the mood chan, i’m sorry i really just can’t talk-” chan holds a finger to your previously moving lips.
“i’m not here to talk. i’m here to help,” he asserts as he pulls his own laptop from his bag. you blink fast dramatically as if what he just said was unheard of. well here’s the thing, it kinda was. bang chan didn’t always help you with your homework when it was almost 12am at night after all.
it was like he sensed your confusion as he quickly adds, “i’ve worked with jeon before in a calc class. they’re hell to work with precisely because they don’t do shit.” you nod in agreement. he doesn’t have to tell you that twice.
you realize chan is actually ready to help you right now as he grabs for one of your many papers. you grab his wrist as he brings the paper to you. “you- you really don’t need to. this isn’t the first time doing a project by myself. plus do you even know anything about the anatomy of the brain?” you attempt to make chan back out of something he’ll regret doing. something you’ll regret doing.
all chan does is grin at you prying your fingers from his wrist. sighing you give up. maybe he can help you. or maybe not. but you suppose another person near you will make working until late a little more bearable.
you and chan work for only about 20 minutes before your stomach lets out a loud growl. cue chan’s hearty laugh and your red face. “hungry?” chan teases. you just got redder. what did he think? “it’s okay, i think we have some leftover pizza from the other night. i’ll get you a slice,” chan finishes with a smile. as he stands, you start to protest but before you know it, he’s left to your small shared kitchen.
you can’t stop the boy, can you? you continued working in silence but you couldn’t help but miss the presence of another person beside you even when you weren’t talking. ‘another person or specifically chan?’ the little voice inside your head questioned. your eyebrows furrowed at the thought, pushing it to the back of your mind. that’s a thought for future you to worry about now.
out of the corner of your eye, you see chan walking towards you holding two paper plates with a slice of pizza on each. as he sets the plate in front of you you make a beeline for the food muttering a quick thanks. as you chew you realize something. there were no sausages on them.
this was usually how you preferred your pizza usually, but you distinctly remember there only being chan’s sausage pizza left in the fridge. you look at chan’s plate and lo and behold, there is your pizza’s sausages. he knew you didn’t like anything but cheese pizza?
a finger snaps in front of your eyes. “daydreaming? i thought we were working on this together. now don’t leave me to do all the work,” chan chuckled. your head snaps back to your computer and you resume your research, every once and awhile copying down a quick note that would be useful for your project.
by 2am, you and chan have finished your project, exhausted and ready to collapse and get five hours of sleep before your stupid 8am classes. you more obviously as after you submit the written portion of the project you fall asleep leaning against the couch.
you wake as you feel your computer being taken from you lap. in your groggy state, you feel a blanket being draped over you and a slight pressure on the top of your head, a far-away “good night” ringing in your ears. did chan just kiss you? well the top of your head but still you. you could hear your heart beating in your chest but kept your eyes shut. even opening them seemed like a chore.
the last few events of today replayed in your mind. chan helped you with your project and kept you company, and you didn’t hate it. he remembered how you liked your pizza and gave you a blanket and good night kiss. and he made your heart beat like a drum.
okay, maybe chan was a little less of a dick of a roommate. but he was still a dick for making your heart beat like that.
