the end of the beginning

It's Jake's last day of school, and everyone knows it.

It was bound to come at some point. Jake is the next big up-and-coming idol—or so everyone keeps saying—and his attendance at Dwight was only a temporary thing. Still, you can't help but notice the aura of gloom throughout the school.

"I'm going to cry," your friend, Trish, says. "I'm going to miss him."

You bite back a dry grin. Trish has never even talked to Jake—not for lack of her trying. But she's a Kpop fan, more than you ever were, and Jake is the most attractive guy in your grade—or so everyone keeps saying, too. Especially Trish, who's in the grade above.

In the cafeteria, you notice some of your friends with Jake, laughing together. You tug on the sleeves of your uniform cardigan, unsure of how to respond.

"It's kind of cool though, isn't it?" Millie says from besides you, leaning on the table. "I heard he's going to be on a TV show."

"I never even talked to him," Trish nearly wails. "This is so awful."

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. "Maybe he'll visit," you try to offer, consolingly. "Or you can get a picture with him."

Trish sniffles. "Other people tried. Apparently, he said no to all of them."

That makes sense, you think. You sympathize with Jake—who's always been quiet in your classes, although his reputation is loud. At a loss for what to say, you simply shrug back, somewhat helplessly.

You've never actually talked to Jake all that much. Or at all, really, which is strange, considering you share several classes together. Your Physics class is pretty tight-knit and all, with only six students, and you sit across from him in English with one of his friends and one of yours. But Jake is rarely even in class, considering his idol practices and all, and when he is, he's often quiet.

Hell, you didn't even know this was his last day until Physics, when your teacher suddenly asked, and Jake sheepishly and awkwardly smiled and confirmed it.

You don't feel bad about it, per se. You really don't know him that well, other than the few shared friends and your desks touching corners and facing each other. And he's going to do bigger and better things—you just know he could make it as a Kpop star. You can feel it.

But it's kind of bittersweet.

You're never going to see Jake around the hallways again. Never go up to his table and ask him and your mutual friend if they understand Mechanics. Never see that same old uniform red hoodie that he loves to wear in the background of your class.

It's the last classes of the day after lunch—a double English. Or the one that you're the most conflicted about. You sit down at your desk by your friend—a good one, one of the only ones you have in your own grade. Her name is Sarah, and she's pretty and funny and everything you're not. She's laughing, open and carefree, good-naturedly teasing Jake.

"I'm going to miss you, ya weirdo," she jokes, grinning. "You and your weird silence."

Jake bashfully ducks his head. "Yeah, thanks," he says, his voice pretty quiet.

"Are we just never going to hear from you again?" She wonders, and her voice is still in that lilting tease, but you can hear the genuine curiosity in her voice. "Is the next time we see you gonna be on TV?"

Jake pauses, blowing a breath. "I don't know," he admits. Then, suddenly, as if making a decision, he takes out his phone and slides it across the table, to where you and Sarah sit. "Here," he says. "You can text me, if you'd like."

And just like that, Sarah lights up. "You're so weird," she fondly says. "It's gonna be weird without you. But good luck!"

You just sit there, uncomfortable. You're not like Sarah. You've never spoken to Jake. You want to tell him good luck, too—want to tell him you know he'll make it, that he'll be big, and you'll see him online when you see him—but you just stay quiet.

All too soon, the class ends.

The day's over. Jake will leave, and you'll never see him again, except maybe on TV. You stand up and get your bag, and leave before he can, saying a quick goodbye to Sarah—you wish him good luck silently, trying not to look back, pensive.

You make it halfway home when you get the text.

Here's his number, Sarah sends you. You know when he gave his phone to our table, he meant he wanted both of us to have it, right?

That doesn't sound right. There's no way.

I don't think so, you text back. But I appreciate it. You should text him.

You should text him, Sarah responds back. Come on, Y/N. He's going to become an idol—that's got to be lonely. He could probably use as many friends as he can get. Just shoot him a friendly text, so if he ever gets—however idols get—then he has that option.

Sarah would be perfect for him, you figure. She'd be perfect for anyone. She's funny, and kind, and considerate, and insanely pretty. You're pretty sure he wouldn't need to text you when he has Sarah.

Trust me, Sarah texts you, as if she can read your mind. Just say hi. It's not as big of a deal as you think it is.

Okay, okay, fine, you send her back, if only to get her to lay off. You don't actually have any intention of texting him.

Good, Sarah responds. And that's that.

And you don't text him. You don't do anything. That night, you do your Physics homework, and then your Math, and then your Chem, and then you go to sleep. But you can't stop thinking about it, not for the next few days.

Finally, you have enough.

Maybe Sarah was right. It probably is lonely, to be an idol, especially at such a young age. It was already isolating even before he left school. You can't imagine how it'd be now.

"Okay, Y/N," you mutter to yourself, trying to gather up your courage. "It's not a big deal. It's just a text." You glare at the number in your phone like it's personally wronged you.

You add the number onto your kakao, a soft smile surprised out of you when you see the profile picture is of a dog—an adorable one, really. Sim Jaeyoon, the profile says.

It's easier than you thought, typing in one letter after another. It's simple—just a word.

You send the message before you can think twice.

Hi.

"Oh, God," you say to yourself, suddenly realizing what you did. He has no idea who you are. Quickly, you type in more, rambling—It's Y/N. From school. Sarah gave me your number, I hope you don't mind. If you do mind, uh, sorry. I'll delete it. Sorry.

No, no, you only made it worse!

You pass around, wringing your hand for a solid three minutes, contemplating death. And then, suddenly, there's the sign of typing on the other hand.

"Crap," you breathe to yourself. You're tense all over from the nervousness, and the anxiety.

Then: Hi, Y/N. No worries—I don't mind.

You choke on a breath you didn't know you were holding. Well, at least that's better than what you were asking.

Hands still barely trembling, you type out a response.

Hi, back.

END