You’re walking through the hallway with your black pocket folder cradled and held by the left arm with the right hand holding it steady in case you bumped into anyone or accidentally trip on air. The papers in that folder are much more important than your safety as you say to yourself, because they’re remnants of your childhood. Papers containing early stories crafted by your young self with ambitions and dreams that now seem fictitious with your pessimistic outlook. You won’t become a writer and even more true is that you won’t become a successful writer. You agree with that statement. You decide to let your mind wander from scene to scene, examining bits of plots that sporadically occur between your characters or the world itself. When your friend walks past by you and waves, you wave back with an effortless smile because smiling is too much work in your book and you don’t like your smile, too.

Once you make a turn in the direction toward the orchestra room, you sigh at the thought of the upcoming pops concert this June. A month or two left before it begins and you’re absolutely sure that you are not prepared, but now is not the time to worry about it. Worry about it tomorrow, then move that worry to the day after and the day after and the day after. The same thinking goes for your regents exams and finals in June.

You lay down your folder on the ground before you slap your backpack on top. You walk to your instrument locker and bend down because you had to choose the one at the bottom when there were available ones closer to the top and middle, but out of anxiety of wasting the teacher’s time, since he was watching, you chose the very bottom one. So, you just twist the knob on the lock and input your combination then reach into its cage and pull out the violin case.

After you take out your violin, you strum the strings to test how out of tune they are. Doesn’t sound out of tune to you, you think to yourself. Shoving the violin case back into the cage, you glance around until you find your stand, number eight. Your stand partner isn’t here yet it seems. You sit down with the violin propped up on your knee and the bow held steady vertically.

That’s when you see him. Your crush sitting down far across the orchestra room in the cello section. His tanned skin tone and buff physique makes you flip out internally. Just looking at him makes your brain and heart melt then fuse together to become a nonsensical organ that only operates on the feelings and thoughts of love. An organ that feeds off of imagination like a wood chipper only accepting books. Your eyes take careful admiration over his appearance; black hair, glasses, Asian physical features, and short stature makes him look so cute, you think to yourself. And the added fact that he plays the guitar and cello makes him more romantic and sexy to you. If only you could hug him, you sigh. You fight against your urges to stare at him any longer since you don’t want him or anyone else to notice.

Then you hear the chair next to you creak so you turn your head not to your stand partner, but to your friend. A friend that is an inverted reflection of you. A friend that is unlike any other. A friend that is not bound to reality. His brown hair compliments his earthly eyes as his lips curve into a smile and he says, eyeing on your prize again heh? You smack his head with the bow and glance to the side, but he only chuckles. You say to him that he isn’t a prize when it’s impossible to even obtain. You know that you have no connection to him whatsoever so approaching him is going in blind. Besides, he probably isn’t gay and he probably won’t even try to be your friend when he already has plenty of friends all around him.

You raise your violin and tuck it between your chin and shoulder. You press your bow against the D string then start playing Brothers from the anime “Fullmetal Alchemist”. Melancholic in nature as notes slurred across each other, just the way you like it and just the way you remember it. He tilts his head and leans in to your peripheral vision and says that you have to be a little more optimistic if you want to nurture love. He rubs his chin and resumes saying to try to take risks and try to be less of a social outcast like a coconut in a nut party. You say to him that it’s easier to say that than act upon that because you know that you’re too socially awkward to try any ounce of normal social interaction. He stands up and flicks your forehead with a grin then says to drop the attitude the downer that you are.

You sigh and stop playing to say that he’s probably straight so what’s the point? He laughs and sits back down to wrap his left arm around your neck. He says that you only assume that. You reply back, it’s the truth isn’t it? Only way you can find out is taking the risk, he says. You shift your eyes back to your crush who smiled to his friends and it made your stomach churn a concoction of poisoned joy and weeping delight. You envy his friends for having a clear connection with him and wish that you were one of his friends at the very least. But, seeing him smile and laugh enchants your brain-heart fused organ so perhaps this is the best for him. Maybe he doesn’t need any more people in his life.

He looks at your crush and asks if you’re really going to give up. You simply reply that the best you can do right now is just admire him as a bystander. He sighs and says that your fantasy about him has already become a thirty chapters love story. You tell him to shut up and he laughs. You ask if he could stop invading into your personal mind palace. He responds with tu casa es mi casa with a playful smirk.