She caught your name when you wrote it down on a piece of paper this afternoon.
She doesn’t even know why she had to bother to look at it. If she wanted to know your name she could have just asked her seatmate. Yeah, her seatmate knows you. Everyone in this college seems to know you.
Then again, maybe it’s because if she did ask her seatmate, that nosy boy might ask why she wanted to know your name.
And then she wouldn’t know what to say.
She caught a glimpse of you nibbling your fingers as you listened to the professor who kept rambling about some political shit.
In her mind she muttered a profanity because you reminded her of someone that she shouldn’t be thinking about. Yeah, he bit his nails that way too. So she turned her eyes back on the professor in an effort to shake the thoughts away.
The professor asked the class for their thoughts on the political shit she rambled so passionately about, and she waited for you to raise your hand and start blabbering an Iliad-long narration of your profound thoughts. Hey, you’re supposed to be this political brainiac, right?
But to her surprise, you sit still on your chair, hands on the armrest. A small smile playfully grew on your lips.
And you didn’t even say anything.
She read your blogs that night.
She had no freakin’ idea that you two were freakishly alike. In fact you even chose the same wordpress theme. You also wrote the same crazy stuff she did. The only difference is that you post your works in a blog that proudly screamed your name while she posts hers in a secluded corner of the internet under a pen name that does not have the least connection with her real name. Jin, that is. Her pen name is Jin.
She goes over all the things you wrote, and when she’s done she smiles to herself triumphantly because for all the giftedness that you seem to have, she has an awful lot more comments than you do. In your face.
But by the time she finally hits her browser’s exit button, she has no choice to retire that you are indeed brilliant.
You, with your gift for writing that easily overshadowed hers; you, with your carefree defiance of the prodigy stereotype; you, with your definitive glasses and nail-biting carefreeness.
She might actually like you, you know.
Too bad she hates people whose names are made of the two letters that yours is made exactly of.
To my Grandma who I’ve only met once
1 year ago