WHEN I WAS 15 :: seungjin ✔︎

17

When I was seventeen, we were still together.

Together, and planning out our futures, our universities, and our careers. Together, and planning out our futures to continue being together.

"Performing arts," Seungmin said, pointing at me while we sat on his bed. The smell of leftovers wafted through the apartment, courtesy of his mom spending the weekend at a friend's house.

And, essentially, leaving the whole apartment to her son and his boyfriend, who would use this weekend of freedom to do all the things that teenage lovers do in the absence of parents or guardians: writing high-level essays and avid Bible studies.

For the time being, at least, we were working on the former of those two activities.

"That's what you have to write about," Seungmin continued. His voice was a bit strained due to his posture. He was lying down, head in my lap, trying to help me figure out what to write for one of many stupid essays.

I sighed. "'Write about something in your life,'" I quoted my teacher, "'that you couldn't live without.' Couldn't I write about oxygen, hand the same paper in to my science teacher, and kill two birds with one stone?"

"I guess you could," Seungmin allowed. His eyes flashed with humor. "But unless oxygen is your passion, and you love it more than performing, I doubt your professor will be pleased. He means a passion. And I know you well. Write about dancing."

"Writing is hard. I'd rather cuddle with you."

Seungmin wasn't impressed. A brainiac himself, he almost found essays fun. One of his less fine qualities, along with being a good motivator. One eyebrow raise was enough to make me reluctantly agree.

"It's not so bad," Seungmin consoled me, and now his voice was more normal. I was still sitting with my legs crossed on his bed, but on my lap was a computer instead of his head. "Once you force yourself through the first sentence or two, writing about something you love is almost easier than talking about it."

"I sure hope so."

And he wasn't wrong. Of course not. He was Kim Seungmin, for crying out loud, and just his presence made my bad days a smidge better.

Half an hour passed, then an hour, and still some more time after that. Eventually, the time came to press the final period, the final punctuation of this stupid stupid essay.

"Would you like the honors?" I offered to Seungmin, who was brought out of his own essay-writing trance. His eyes slightly glazed, he realized what I meant a few seconds later.

Seungmin finished off my essay, adding a single dot to the document, and then his eyes lit up. "Oh, shoot," he said, which was just a preamble for some more vibrantly colored obscenities. "The leftovers," he groaned, once his dictionary of cusses had been emptied. "They're probably gross by now."

He wasn't wrong. Noodles usually last seven minutes before being disgusting, so two hours meant that we had soggy mush to add to brownish vegetables and stale-feeling bread.

Nonetheless, our laughter made it one of the best meals of my life. And after the strange dinner—satisfying in taste, if not texture—we had the night to ourselves, and the whole next day after that, and the night after that.

One year, and we were still together, with the hope of teenagers in love—hope that when the next year rolled around, we'd still be an 'us,' a 'you-and-me.'