my last pages 》 nomin

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Jaemin always found Jeno a bit odd, ever since the day he had come home from school to find the black-haired boy lounging in his living room.

"Hey Jaem, how was school?" His mom called out to him from her signature chair in the living room. It was the same generic question, and she received the same generic answer.

"Good."

And the conversation ended, at least it usually did. Jaemin had taken one curious look at the boy sat in his favorite spot on his couch and needed to know more.

"Uh, Mom."

She hummed disinterestedly.

"Who is he?" He pointed at the boy on the couch who turned around to flash him a cute smile. His mom looked to where he was pointing and paused. Her eyebrows furrowed, a sign of deep thought before she responded.

"A new friend." She returned to whatever she had been doing before Jaemin came home and Jaemin sighed.

"Hi, I'm Jeno!" The black-haired boy introduced himself with a gentle handshake that left Jaemin feeling much more flushed than he should have been from a simple greeting.

"Jaemin." Unlike some people, Jeno didn't make him comfortable. In fact, Jaemin was quite awkward in his presence. He could already tell the teen was the complete opposite of him and his brain was already stereotyping. It was horrible, he knew it was, but it was how the world worked. Nearly everyone alive fit into a stereotype, and Jeno's body language, face, everything, screamed happy jock. Jaemin fell more into the emo and smart category, and those two didn't mix well.

He coughed into the back of his hand to dispell the awkwardness, "Well, this was fun. I'm gonna go to my room now." Jaemin slung his backpack over his shoulder and climbed the stairs with anxious steps. He could feel Jeno's stare on his back and wanted desperately to escape being watched. He slammed his door shut without a second thought and threw his bookbag onto his floor.

"Where did I put my..." Jaemin searched around his general vicinity for his diary, flipping over books and pencils, until he spotted the blue book on his bed. He sighed in relief and plopped down next to it, opening to the first blank page. It was worn down, torn at the edges and covered in anxious doodles. His "first" blank page was actually near the end of the 120-page book that was full of diary entries about his life, friends and other things he deemed special. Jeno felt like a special case, worthy of a diary entry written in his poetic style. He picked up the pencil that was sitting on the floor in front of him (an ugly, old, green mechanical pencil) and began to write.

He's strange in an almost exciting way,
like the sticky stuff under your desk at school.
Should you touch it, leave it be?
Can you leave it be when it has the prettiest eye smile you've ever seen?
Would you even want too?

He's strange in an almost scary way,
like the odd boy who sits next to you in the back of the class with his hood up.
Should you talk to him, leave him alone?
Can you when you have no choice but to get to know him?
Would you hate it if you decided his gorgeous words were worth every second of your time?

He's strange in an almost beautiful way,
like ink splotches on a white canvas.
Should you morph them, leave them as they are?
Can you when they're already permanent against the white surface?
Would you learn to love the flaws and treat them as perfections?

He's strange, but what about Lee Jeno wasn't.