To My Future Self (And The Boy I Used To Love)

1 - 28 - 2020

 January 28th, 2020

Dear future me,

Today, while I sat on my bed doing homework and Minho sat on the floor drawing on his ballet shoes,

I noticed something.

    Despite how much I'm with him, me and Minho really don't talk all that often. Sure, we share a temporary bedroom and have been living in the same house for about a week already, but somehow we both manage to say so little (well maybe not Minho, but he's quiet enough to the point that his version of conversation isn't that grand either). Even when we ate dinner together the other day, the only words that either of us had said were "Thanks," and "I can wash that if you're done."

     Don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly fine not being talkative with Minho. Yes, we both have the manners to make polite gestures and small nods of friendliness, but it's really just that. Manners. of course Minho can be a little annoying (what with how he popped out of nowhere and took over my space with nail polish and anime themed pajama pants), but I really can't help but be curious.

I can't believe I'm even documenting this, but, I'm so extremely curious.

     I mean, there Minho is, stupidly masculine for a boy who's only been a teenager for like two years, a boy who has the maturity and looks to be mistaken for a sixteen year old, a boy who obviously got the good end of the puberty bone (that sounded less gross before I wrote it down), and yet he still manages to be . . . the way that he is.

I'm not saying the way he is is bad, I've just, never met anyone--any boy like him before.

Take me, for example.

     I'm a thirteen year old boy with circular glasses, I have an average boy-my-age bowl cut, I have the fashion since of a tween isle clothing rack, I have round cheeks and a square jaw, shoulders that are defiantly less broad than I'd like them to be, stupidly feminine legs, noodle arms (with the exception of a pitchers elbow), not to mention my obsession with baseball, and many other things that I'm gonna spare myself from having to put on paper.

     My point is, though, I'm a perfectly average middle class teenage boy. The kind of average boy who wishes they had bigger muscles, paler skin, better hair, a sharper jaw, or even just the simple ability to attract girls. They're things teenage boys want, they're things I want. Things I find myself constantly wishing--praying, that I had.

But whats really so aggravating about Minho is that, he has those things. Well, some of them.

And it almost seems like he doesn't even want them.

     Minho's fourteen, he also has glasses (but his are rectangular, more handsome-- mature), his hair is rather outgrown, with little curls under his jaw and around his neck, his cheeks aren't round- just full, his jaw is triangular, his shoulders are wide, he has stupidly masculine legs, and his arms are definitely not noodles.

     And usually a guy like this would be the kind of guy who takes advantage of his masculinity. Constantly flexes his muscles, always swaying his hair left to right (because he's too cool to use his hands), always finding reasons to point out his jaw and back and calves and biceps and whatever else he could brag about to a poor girl who just wants to eat her food and go.

But Minho's not like that.

     Minho is so tragically masculine, so perfectly structured, so extremely handsome, and somehow, he acts like he doesn't even know it. He acts, like a girl.

     Okay, that sounds bad. I don't mean that the way girls act is weird, or acting as such is weird, I just mean, I find it hard to understand how he's so fortunate and still decides to do whatever he wants.

     If I were him, I would be the imbecile cutting the line at the food truck to get that poor girls number. I would be taking annoying gym photos of my fit body and fitted neck line. I would be the most manly man (and probably the happiest man) out there.

     But Minho . . . Minho's just quiet. He's collected and well mannered, he's polite and caring, he's. . . he's pretty. And he's handsome. And he's stupidly nice.

     He doesn't wear sleeveless muscle shirts, he wears light pink tang-tops and yellow sweaters. He doesn't brag or yell, he giggles and whispers to himself (mostly when he's cleaning or writing in his workbook). He doesn't put on pounds of sunscreen to keep porcelain skin, he basks in the sun, lets himself darken, and likes it. He doesn't franticly whip his dumb hair, he tucks it, messes with it like he were messing with someone else. He doesn't stress about being skinny, he lets the muscle of his round thighs and arms soften . . . smiles when his cheeks plump.

Everything that he does is . . . different.

     And at first, I totally thought he was weird. I thought that no soon-to-be man in there right mind could ever waste their time painting there nails blue or drawing little faces at the bottom of their ballet slippers "because it's cute".

     But now, somehow . . . I find myself envying him. Wishing that I didn't spend my time praying on silly things like the shape of my skull or the curve of my legs.

     And I can't help but wonder how he does it. How he ignores every part of society that tells hims to stop being the way he is, to stop being like a girl. And even now that I've seen myself write those exact words three times now, I've begun to wonder weather it's even me saying it or the voice in my head. The voice that mocks the tones of every other person in my life that has told me the same things I find myself saying about Minho.

     Maybe being the way he is isn't so weird. Maybe being like a girl is better. Maybe being a man sucks balls. I don't know. But whatever it is . . . I guess I just hope I'll find out before I'm old and its too late. But you'd probably know if that happens or not. Hopefully.

Please don't prove me wrong,

     - Kim Seungmin.