SCENE 7. The First Fan

I liked the most popular boy in school. His eyes were as blue as the sky, his handwriting on the blackboard was beautiful, and everyone turned to look at him even when he didn’t speak—a boy my age.

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If someone had asked me when I started liking him, I would have been quite troubled. No one asked me such a thing, but still.

I occasionally pondered the answer to a question I would never hear in my life. The single room I acquired upon becoming an upperclassman was suitable for falling into contemplation.

Sometimes I counted on my fingers, organizing the reasons why I liked him. How he always smelled of clean soap, how his nails were neatly trimmed, how impressive his profile was when he gazed outside.

It was a trivial crush.

Though I had no close friends, sitting in the cafeteria made me realize how common and cliché these feelings were.

The cafeteria bustled with students from freshmen to graduates, many suffering from the fever of love. Starting relationships with new people then breaking up, falling for friends of friends, catching the eye of a friend’s ex, cooling off the day after a successful confession.

Liza, Saru, Yale, Aileen… Among the countless names that rose and fell in conversation, there were always those that appeared unusually often.

“Don’t you think Yuan is really cool? He’s nothing like the other boys…”

A voice close to a sigh. The heated commotion would subside as if by magic whenever he passed by. Shyness that couldn’t even be disguised as a joke. Pure affection that made you close your mouth and hold your breath. Like many girls who admired him, I followed that broad, sturdy back. Even though I couldn’t make out his figure once he was a few steps away.

When I stared blankly in the direction where I thought he might be, the top of my head would grow hot.

I never had the courage to approach him. I had even less intention of confessing. In fact, I was certain I didn’t like him… that much. Yes, definitely not.

Just a seasonal affection, a curiosity that wouldn’t last beyond the year, a trivial feeling that might keep me up at night but wouldn’t appear in my dreams—

That’s what I believed.

“Do you need help?”

That’s what I believed, but…

A boy I’d never exchanged words with naturally struck up a conversation. As if he had foreseen this situation long ago, as if we had already conversed several times, kindly and elegantly.

Yes, I found myself thinking of the word “elegant” when looking at a boy my age. His gently upturned lips were as perfect as lines completed by a genius painter. The hand lightly resting on the corner of the desk was long and straight, and his eyes looking down at me—

A blue I dared not describe.

Oh, you. My wave, my sky, my wind, God’s tears, ice crystals, and intoxicating poison.

I pondered on the exaggerated metaphors from an old script until I bit the inside of my mouth. The grandiose modifiers were only outdated. How could text from two hundred years ago possibly capture that deep, distant blue, my heart swept away by that blue, my undisguisable agitation?

A very long time passed.

No, in fact, not even five seconds had gone by.

But he had definitely seen me. That fact alone was important to me.

“I’ll help you.”

“You? I mean…”

How? The glass marble that had fallen from the desk seemed impossible to restore, even with a sidelong glance. I looked once at the broken magnifying glass, once at the script stopped at Act 1, Scene 3, and once at the boy I liked.

He must have misunderstood my gaze, as he added a brief self-introduction.

“Jin, Yuan Jin.”

I know. I know not just your name but that you chose tennis as your elective sport, that you stay in the library until 9 PM on Tuesdays and Fridays. And that today is Friday, and that until a few minutes ago you were—presumably—solving chemistry problems in the seat diagonally across from me.

It wasn’t difficult to swallow the words caught in my throat. Nor was it difficult to nod naturally as if I were curious about his name, just as he assumed.

“Yes. Jin. I’m Perry Humble.”

“I know.”

That response surprised me even more. The boy I liked knew me. How did he come to know me? Did someone tell him about me? But there’s no one who would do that? Swallowing the boiling questions wasn’t difficult… either.

“By helping, you mean…”

“You want me to read the script for you, right?”

“That’s right. Would that be okay?”

“I haven’t really read aloud much before, so I’m not sure if it’ll be satisfactory… If you’re uncomfortable—”

“No, no. I just thought it might be troublesome for you.”

It wasn’t mere courtesy. I hoped his goodwill in helping a classmate in distress wouldn’t turn sour. Because “script reading” wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Though it was just reciting a fixed script, it was quite lengthy, and it could easily strain the voice.

The boy I liked rarely opened his mouth except when called on by teachers. Even when other students spoke to him, his responses were brief at best. Yet, strangely enough, he never gave the impression of being pretentious.

The broken glass pieces clinked together in my palm. I hadn’t yet read through the script I’d received the previous day. The magnifying glasses for the visually impaired that could be borrowed from the library were all reserved, so I could only use one next Wednesday.

It would be much better to receive someone’s assistance than to struggle alone, but…

“It’s not troublesome.”

“Huh? Oh?”

“It’s not troublesome. …Meaning it’s fine.”

A soft whisper, lemon-colored sunlight wetting white elbows, a steady gaze. That sequence of scenes was so absurdly enchanting that I had to wonder if I was dreaming.

“If I was being intrusive—”

“No! I need it! …Thank you.”

Though we couldn’t stay in the library any longer, I knew many empty classrooms. As I led the way to a place where other students wouldn’t be, I bit the inside of my mouth over and over. I didn’t know why he was showing me such kindness, but I didn’t have the courage to ask.

My courage extended only as far as not running away when he approached me.

Just that far.

“I just need to read?”

“Yes. Just do it comfortably, comfortably. Ah—”

I might look like I’m just sitting still, but I’m not spacing out—I’m memorizing. I’m not unable to concentrate or anything, so…

“Got it. Should I start reading from here?”

He opened the script where I had been scribbling notes just an hour before. He took out an old bookmark and cleared his throat. After glancing at me briefly, he slowly began to speak.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Clear pronunciation, a speech habit of hard enunciation on certain final consonants, the thumb and index finger that held the next page in advance before slowly turning it.

He truly seemed to have no connection with acting. All the lines flowed with consistent breath, with no variation in pitch for different characters. It seemed like he would read a bloody crime of passion, Diam’s cooking method, or a chemical equation problem in exactly the same way.

Suddenly imagining this made me laugh, and the steadily continuing reading paused briefly. As I quickly composed my expression, the reading resumed. There was no conversation during that pause. And so we sat facing each other in an empty classroom for a long time.

His reading continued to the last page.

Until the crimson sunset rippled across his neat profile, until other students finished their club activities and left in groups of three or five. Without even clearing his throat once, steadily.

“Thank you for helping. You must be very busy too.”

“It’s fine.”

I couldn’t tell whether he meant it was fine because he wasn’t busy, or it was fine despite being busy. The boy who had approached me saying “I’ll help you” left the classroom lightly after completing his mission. Without looking back even once, with long strides.

A boy with such a long stride that he disappeared in just five steps,

And yet he walked beside me on the way from the library to the classroom.

A boy who read exclamation marks and question marks all like periods,

And yet he read my script for me even though we weren’t close.

A diligent boy who did his homework in the library at set times every week,

And yet he approached me as soon as my magnifying glass broke and volunteered to help.

“I really hate this…”

Ah, trivial crush.

My crush should fade away unremarkably. I should be able to brush it off thinking, “He was kind of nice.” I shouldn’t be devastated by the fact that he doesn’t look at me.

I thought I could like him just that much.

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