"I broke up with my girlfriend." I hear him lift his body from his bed as he walks toward me.
Despite it, I keep my back turned.
"And, if I'm honest, I think I'm in love with you."
in a world where you're shielded by your older brothers, who knows...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
chapter one: stranger with a gun
IT HAS BEEN a total of two weeks since I first noticed him and his equally strange presence at the café. He came every day except Sunday, which I'm honestly not necessarily sure of as I'm never there myself.
Overall, he's dressed the same every time I did see him: relatively refreshing and expensive. He wears slim fitted, black slacks so crisp they looked brand new (maybe they are), long-sleeved, white shirts with golden cuff links - sometimes accompanied by a waistcoat- and well-polished leather shoes.
While I've never actually seen his face since he's always there before me, I've since noted his thick, ink-black hair tactfully styled away from his face, exposing an undercut with tram lines.
He's quiet too, so it always made me wonder: Why be there in the shadows when you plan on standing out like a sore thumb?
It's the exact question I asked myself as I got ready for school. Truth be told, it starts, like always, in the shower. It runs a train by the time I'm styling my hair in the mirror.
Would he be there today?
How old is he?
Is he a foreigner?
So many questions yet so little to no answers.
I grab my navy blue school blazer, adjust my heeled Mary Jane's and nearly got to fly down the stairs if not for Johnny, who stops me midway, with both hands drying themselves on his 'Kiss The Cook' apron.
It's his natural way of coping, I think. Becoming the parental figure we no longer have since he happens to be the oldest.
"Where the heck do you think you're going without a balanced breakfast?"
"I'll pick some up at the café," I reassure him, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket situated at the centre of our wooden dining table.
"What about lunch?"
"Johnny, there's food at the school canteen."
"But I already made you a Bento Box." He says softly.
I mentally face-palm myself and take the still piping hot meal from him, muttering a quick 'thank you'.
He smiles contentedly. "Should I get Jeno to drop you off or-?"
"No, thanks. He's going straight to school."
I pick up the pace and leave the house, finally reaching the café on foot.
Ever since we (my four brothers and I) moved out, I've been coming here. I'd usually just study at school instead for convenience's sake, but this happens to be one of the rare and special places my mother loved to attend when she needed inspiration for her writing.
Like it was for most people, losing her wasn't particularly easy to assimilate and accept. Even now, four years later, I haven't fully accepted it. My brothers have it even worse as they knew her for much longer and were therefore much closer to her. I still find moving out to be one of the best decisions we've ever made. Life goes on with or without her. It's what she'd say, anyway.
Thankfully, they tend to serve traditional, herbal teas here from time to time. It's probably what sparked my interest in the first place.
However, instead of coming here for leisure purposes or even for a breather, I have an exam paper to study for.
I begin to walk slower so I can enjoy inhaling the scent at its door for much longer. It's a fresh scent different from the one indoors, the not-too-strong scent of coffee grounds.
Just as I made an advance for the counter to place my order, I notice a smudge of black from the corner of my eye.
Turning, I spot him again. But this time, I'm blessed with the chance to see his face. Probably because he's staring right at me, but still. A blessing's a blessing.
He has smooth, precise and preppy features, just like his hair and clothing. Piercing, almost black irises peer at me under hooded monolids and sit under a pair of trimmed, thick bushy eyebrows and eyelashes. I glance a little lower and find a slim nose also, with a small, round bulbous tip. Pink, plump and hydrated lips follow, naturally slightly downturned. Or is he frowning at me? It's really hard to tell.
His arms are folded across his chest as he leans back in his chair, long, slack-covered legs crossing over the other gracefully.
Thinking all is well, I look away and concentrate on receiving my order and getting to a table on time. Alas, how very wrong I was.
As I walk toward my table, he grabs my arm lightly, emitting a squeal and a helpless yelp from me.
"Sit." His voice isn't as deep and overly manly as I thought it would be. It obviously sounds mature, but, if anything, it's as deep as Jeno's or a little deeper, with a melodic tune to it. I wonder if he sings.
I oblige, slowly setting my hot chocolate on the table and staring him down. I once read on Google that it intimidates people.
Funnily enough, I'm the one being intimidated, and he hasn't done anything except uncross his legs, cross his feet at his ankles, check his phone briefly, clear his throat, look at me again and breathe.
All happen to be quite intimidating things.
"Could I ask a question?" I squeak out, hoping I didn't embarrass myself too much.
"I didn't ask you to sit here just to make small talk with you." He clarifies harshly. "I'll just need you to answer a few questions and we'll hopefully never have to speak to each other again."
Ouch. "O-okay?"
"Good. Are you 'Areum Lee'?"
"Why so specific? Are you stalking me or something?"
"Just answer the question." He complains, but with no change in his facial expression, only a slight tone expressing annoyance in his voice.
"What if I say no?"
"Answer the question."
"No."
"Answer it." His voice commands it with malice between clenched teeth and a form of utter disdain at this point, scaring me a little.
"N-no?"
It doesn't scare me as much as the cold metal of the gun that's pressed up against my bare, inner thigh as he looks me in the eyes.
But still, my stubborn trait keeps my lips sealed.
Don't get me wrong, I don't want to get shot or anything, but there's no way I'd be telling him my name just like that. Not without getting paid or something first.
Besides that, he's been coming here every day for two weeks at most so far, obviously intending to find me. If he wanted to hurt me he would have.
Before I can even recollect the situation, I'm already being dragged outdoors and taken round back where the parking lot was, the gun still on my thigh, just the outer part of it where my school skirt covered it up.
He shoves me up against the wall with him, running the gun up my thigh and to my neck instead, holding my arm with his free hand.
