𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮

𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

There he was. Sitting at the back of the class like always. Mind somewhere I will never know. Pretty eyes gazing over the exam I had given the glass about English Literature. Pen in between his lips as he bit it.

I remember when I first saw him, in the back of the class the last week of August. Wide eyes glanced around the room in pure innocence as he admired everything. Giving the impression that he had never really been in a classroom so colossal before.

He was beautiful. Maybe a little too much. But it wasn't his beauty that had drawn me in if I am honest. It has never been, I find myself to be more attracted to those who are unique in a sort of way, whether it'd be with their interest or the way they think.

Like Lauren, I had met her when my college class had taken a trip around Europe. Where we had studied in many different countries where some of the best writers had come from. She was one of the freshmen in my class, it was only until three years later when she had gotten her literature degree that she decided that it wasn't what she had wanted, she just wanted to become a doctor. What a waste of money. I remember telling her when she had told me. I remember that day when she scoffed and she crossed her arms over her perky and naked breast.

She was naked. I was naked. Both of us were standing a few feet apart.

You do not tell me what I do. She told me and it was then when I had stared at her in the eyes and I scoffed. Of course! She was from a rich family after all. At times it was almost annoying how immature she would be. I was 26 at the time, almost finishing my Ph.D., and she was 22. Still confused about what she had wanted in life, she was beautiful and smart. But immature and indecisive. At times I would get annoyed when we'd be in class and I'd find her wanting to do another one because she never found that one as interesting as she thought it would be.

With English, it had been the same. She never understood how beautiful it was. How complex. The beauty of each word and its meaning even if it is so simple. English was one of the most difficult languages to learn because of the homophones, homonyms, how it was spoken. The accents, how every state had its accent, words, dictionary. It was, of course, nothing like the languages spoken all around Asia. The many dialects, wonderful way they would speak. The languages themselves were something so unique. Every language is unique and how the human brain can understand them is just phenomenal.

Lauren never understood this, it almost vexed me when she would whine about how annoying English was. It made my blood boil, how she was not so open-minded. Yet, I could never leave her. Something inside of me screamed that I needed to stay with her, let her be my salvation. Maybe she wasn't, maybe my head was playing with me. God damn it, what if it was?

"I finished." He whispers, I look at the paper. His artistic handwriting is on it and he doesn't bother to look at me. Even when I try to meet his eyes. He doesn't let it.

"We need to talk," I whisper to him and it is when he finally meets my gaze.

"There is nothing that needs to be spoken." He says softly, sternly as he turns around to walk away. I look back down at the sheet of paper and I almost burst out laughing when I see the lines over the questions. How there are more words on top of it to make him understand what is being said to him.

Based on what you read when the script of Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet, what is something that you learned? What was a message that stuck out to you on the first read?

And then I read his paper, the smile on my face falters. When I see what he had answered. There was something in his essay that would make it so unique, the way he'd never truly use the correct format. Yet, his writing, his essays would always stand out.

Love does not translate into self-destruction. Juliet and Romeo should've braced themselves. They should've faced reality. Their ending was bitter, saddening. It makes you sometimes wonder, was this worth it? Was loving him worth it? They both lost their lives because they couldn't face reality. The bitter truth was that the world was just cruel and to keep others happy, they had to give up on their happiness. It was heartbreaking, but eye-opening, their ending. Not all love stories end with a happy ending. Not everyone has a happy ending. We all die eventually, we will all lose the one we love and it is heartbreaking, but it is the way that life plays with you.

Was loving him worth it? Do I even love him? What had made the love between us not work? What was that one thing that caused us to never collide?

I don't finish reading it, not when there is this feeling in the pit of my stomach. Eating me alive. Him. Him. Him.

Who could he possibly be?

What did he do to make him love him so much? Who was that asshole who made him fall so helplessly in love? Made him so vulnerable? Was it him? Taehyung? The one he had spoken about in his paper, the one who had used him. Abused him, did that to him? Was it him? Was he in love with him?

It made me angry in some way that I couldn't understand. Why was I so angry? Why didn't I like the feeling of him liking someone else?

It made my head hurt, so many thoughts inside of my head. Wondering who was that lucky man, who had been that bastard that didn't love him back.

It is later in the day. When I sit in my car. Looking out the window that I find him walking down the streets of Newport. Breathing the autumn breeze of Vermont as he struts down the sidewalk, the expensive leather bag he always carries around over his shoulder as he looks around. It is when I notice how much of the fool that man must've been, let him go away.

Jungkook was a phenomenon, he was the meaning of something that would occur every once in a blue moon. He had the talent of doing everything, letting him be successful in life. Yet, he believed that he was nothing special. It was almost annoying how he didn't believe me when I'd say it to him. How he'd always refused to believe how special he was, how much he amazed me.

It made me recount the memories of when I first saw him in the back of the classroom. Black leather bag beside him. Pen in between his teeth, eyes looking around, curiosity painting over his features. It was not his beauty that attracted me, I wouldn't care about someone's beauty.

It was his words. His wisdom and intelligence how he could create metaphors out of something so simple.

It made me wonder, what metaphor would he give to the kiss we had shared last weekend. I understand if he was uncomfortable around me, I wouldn't blame him. I could never blame him for something thing that I had started-no. I couldn't. He wasn't the one who had jumped into my arms, the one who had forced me to kiss him back (though he wouldn't have to, I'd willingly do it back). I was that fool.

I was the one who had made him turn around and kissed him. Touched him. He never asked me to touch him, but I had done it.

Was it bad? Was it bad that I enjoyed it? That I enjoyed watching him wither, how he would bite his lips trying to not let out the moans. Both of us knew the outcomes if the door did open if Lauren or Olivia did hear us.

I could even get fired if I was reported by someone that I was touching my student alone, it wasn't the first time something like this happened. I remember it still, the day that Mr. Peterson, a Harvard graduate, had been fired from the college because he had slept and impregnated one of his students. Madison, the student, was allowed into the school, she graduated a year ago and she was happily married to Mr. Peterson along with twins.

But I couldn't do it, my career would be on the line. I just couldn't do it. So now, here I was. Stuck in my car, watching him from afar as he walked down the street, eyes closing every once in a while.

Admiring him from afar.

I knew.

What had happened this weekend, would most likely never happen again.

But I wished it did.