My Light, My Jimin

Chapter 22: Schedule

JIMIN

Ten hours on a video chat and three on my phone texting back and forth with Professor Min is not enough to get me through the weekend. My mind still feels alert like I've been shot in the heart, revived, then killed again.

My brain wars from one extreme emotion to the other, split between wanting more and reminding myself that he's the reason I have to keep my head low in class.

So far, no one has suspected anything and it surprises me how easy it is. I should be used to this by now, but it's surreal how he can talk about books and also about me, and they have no idea of the correlation. Things happen right in front of them and no one notices. Spare glances. Raised eyebrows. Smirks. All of them are directed at me.

It's an early morning at the library and I'm only halfway done shelving books when I hear someone enter. The library is small to begin with, and the walls are paper thin, so when I concentrate, I hear the low muffled sound of a man.

Curious, I peek through the ceiling high shelves. There at the desk standing with his slender legs crossed at the ankle is Professor Min. He sets two thick books on the desk and gives a short nod, then stalks to the door.

You can tell a lot about a person based on what they read, and Professor Min is no exception.

His gaze lands on the bookshelves, and for a second, I think I'm caught. He moves to the wall and follows down the aisle to the nonfiction- completely oblivious to my presence.

It's a good thing, really. If I were smart enough, I would avoid him like the plague. But that hasn't worked out, even when I try to picture him as just one man. Something draws me to him and then I end up in his office after hours.

When I circle around a shelf, I collide into a black shirt with rolled up sleeves. I look up and there he is. Professor Min reaches out, but stops himself, aware that this time we are in the open eye of the public.

He clears his throat. "My apologies."

Gazing up at him, I nod. The book I'm using as my crutch may be the only savior in keeping my rushing anxiety in check. I hadn't realized how much he had changed when it was just the two of us until he flipped the switch back. Now we're two strangers.

A swell of emotion surges in my chest, caught between wanting him to just look at me and being thankful for the brush off because if he stays for too long, I won't be able to hold up my end of our charade that I've had zero time to rehearse.

He doesn't say a word, but he does glance behind him and to me. I pause, uncertain what he is meaning to do and what is an act before watching him slip a folded note onto a shelf and leave around the corner.

I swivel my head around. There's only three people actually browsing books. The other half is on computers. I take the paper and unfold it.

Meet in class after work.

I look up, but he's gone. If he puts in the time to write a note and give it to me while both of us are at work, it must be something serious. He could have texted me, but maybe this was a part of his plan: intimidate and set the mood for something that I don't expect. Like what he did last night. His tactic makes my stomach ache and for the rest of the morning at the library, I work silently.

When I'm able to escape work, I head to the humanities building. I lift my feet to avoid making noise and find him standing there inside, waiting for me. There's something about the way he turns and retains a stoic expression that makes me want to run back.