Too Shy to Be True

-1-

The auditorium is empty.

You can't believe your luck— a completely quiet spot, all for you. And, even better, it's the type of place that nobody would ever imagine someone spending their lunch block at.

You carefully close the door and walk down the aisle. As you near the stage, you turn and walk backwards, taking it all in.

Sure, you're a performer, you practically live on stage, but you feel like an idiot for not considering trying to get into the auditorium when is isn't around show time.

Nevertheless, you soak it all in. The peace and quiet, the glow of the stage lights. From here, you do what you do every performance: you look at the flat tile of black glass that houses the lighting and sound booth. If you're not in there, then you're usually the leading lady (or, in some cases, man), and you always find time to do crew work.

You're proud of your acting abilities, and even prouder that, on top of doing drama, schoolwork, and having a job, you do swim and basketball in the winter, lacrosse, tennis and soccer in the spring, track, and field hockey in the fall.

You're a top student, captain of the debate team, president of the junior class student council, and you're the best member in the school's Model UN team.

Still, you never try to brag about it. But it's easy for you. You don't have a problem doing all of that. Some people joke that you're more machine than human, but that's alright. Who knows? You probably are.

You boost yourself up on to the edge of the stage, not bothering with the stairs. Standing up, you make your way over to the left wing, your favorite place to be when you're onstage or crew.

Enter stage left, you think to yourself. It just makes so much sense. We read from left to right. It's how it should be.

You smile ruefully, recalling everyone's awe at how detail oriented and punctual you are, how easily you're able to step into a leadership role.

The truth is, outside of the schedule that they all see, you're actually very loose and relaxed. Sure, you "dress up" all the time, but you like to look your best. It makes you feel good, like if you look the part, maybe you'll garner some respect.

You lean back on your hands, running your schedule through your head.

Presentation in DE History. Working on projects in Independent Science Research. Throwing on the wheel in ceramics. Tutoring session after school, then work.

A perfectly normal day.

You pull out your phone to check who you're tutoring today. You pause, not sure how to feel.

Well then. This should be... interesting.

***********************************************

The next day, you're walking down to the ceramics studio, preparing to spend your study hall working on your new piece before another quiet lunch in the auditorium, when you see him.

Pitch black hair, parted in an arc that brushes his forehead. Eyes as dark as the night. Skin so clear, it isn't fair.

Yang Jeongin.

Also known as the student you were supposed to tutor yesterday. The one that never showed up.

You increase your pace, fighting the urge to go up to him and set him straight. To ask him where he was, why he didn't answer any of your 49 texts. 50 would've been overkill.

But, for some odd reason, the bold and outspoken personality you're so known for always shrinks back in the presence of this boy with eyes that constantly smile, even when he isn't smiling.

As you get closer, Jeongin glances up, and catches sight of you. He seems to mumble something under his breath, as he always does when he sees you. It makes you feel flustered, and you hurry on.

What does he always say? Is he expressing disgust? Is he cursing me and envisioning telling me to go fuck myself? What did I do to him?

It keeps coming back to you as you work the wheel, shaping your vase. This is ridiculous, you think. Pottery and ceramics, which is normally an escape for you, is doing nothing to erase the butterflies that are still fluttering around in your stomach.

You can't help it, though. He's just... God, he's so attractive. The days you used to devote watching him play basketball, fixated on the way his lean biceps flexed when he stopped, boxed out, and searched for a teammate to pass to. The way he would push his sweaty hair out of his face. The way you'd feel whenever he smiled, pumping his arm and giving fist bumps to teammates.

It drives you crazy, those occasions that you see his dimples appear. Occasions that are becoming more and more rare.

You try to ignore the way your stomach jumped when you made eye contact. He's annoying. He's frustrating. Infuriating to the point that it's hot.

Which you find all the more infuriating.

You get so absorbed in your own thoughts that you forget to clean up at least ten minutes before the bell. Which means that you stay behind to put everything away. You're so ready to get to the auditorium that you don't bother cleaning yourself up. With your ripped black jeans, oversized flannel, fishtails and Timberland boots, you feel in your element. The clay dust on your hands completes the look, and you're pretty sure you have some on your face, too. Screw looking put together. You're taking a day for yourself.

You slip into the auditorium, finding it mercifully empty.

Letting out a breath, you walk to the fourth row, making your way to a seat near the middle.

You prop your feet up on the back of the seat in front of you and pull out your sketchbook, trying to relax. You don't even pay attention to what you're drawing, until you reach into your bag for your trail mix. That's when you notice.

Right as you open the ziploc bag, your eyes land on the page. You freeze.

"Oh, hell no," you mutter. You find yourself looking at sparkling eyes and shy dimples.

All of a sudden, the lighting changes dramatically, every single one going out. Then, a single, rosy spotlight gently falls on you, followed by the back lights coming on dimly.

"What the fuck?" Is there someone else here?

You get up and walk onto the stage , and the spotlight follows you. Yep. Definitely haunted. For some reason, you're still holding your sketch pad and trail mix.

Once you get on the stage, you squint at the dark glass opposite you, but you know it's no use. You won't ever be able to see who's in there unless you're in there with them.

The lights snap off again, then come back on how they originally were.

"Spooky," you say with an eye roll.

"Actually," someone says from behind you, "I was hoping it was more so dramatic and startling."

Your heart leaps into your throat as you realize who was in the booth.