This is a short, written by Lysa Shimkus, circa 2007, in Fiction Writing class.

Hyung shifted in his seat, and the wood of the antique creaked beneath him. His heart beat fast. All must be watching him.

But all was silent.

Hyung discreetly looked up and peered past the rims of his glasses to view the others in his presence. There were a few other students, their heads hung over their books. No one noticed him. However, one there caught his eye. 

The girl. 

She sat across from him, the table’s lamp illuminating her form. Her auburn curls draped upon her shoulders like clouds adrift in the sky. Her temple held a slight wrinkle, but her brows did not touch. Her eyes, though peering down, were green, Hyung knew. The bridge of her nose was sleek and pale. Her lips were pink and small and pursed. Her chin was neither too long nor too short and just as fair as the rest of her face. 

Hyung has seen her here many times before. 

This was her favorite place to study, as was his. 

Through time he has inched closer and closer to her, trying to close the gap between them. He started from the other room, to the opposite side of their current space, to just a table away. The closer he drew to her, the stronger her scent became–that of lilac.

The girl sat in the same spot every time.

Hyung spotted her the first day after class. They shared the majority of their classes, studying through the same program. 

Hyung’s mouth gaped as he watched a small lock fall across the girl’s forehead, and his hand itched to run it behind her delicate, perfect ear. 

The wrinkle between her brows suddenly disappeared, and she looked up. 

Hyung quickly returned his gaze to his notes, his face burning from ear to ear.

Did she see him? Did she notice him? 

Could they ever be?

No, Hyung told himself. They were too different.

Her curls were long and fair; his thick and shabby. Her skin was fair and soft; his olive-toned and tough. Her eyes were round and green; his almond-shaped and brown. 

He presumed she was the type to enjoy singing and reading by the window, while he enjoyed shooting hoops and running laps around the lake. 

He imagined her laboring away effortlessly and independently, while he thrived under pressure and enjoyed company. 

She would prefer a platter of steak and potatoes, while his mouth watered for mother’s kalbi and kimchi soup. 

She would want to shop and be with friends, while he would want to see family.

She would stop by the nearest Bruegger’s during the lunch hour, while he unpacked a homemade meal. 

She would be out till late, while he kept a nightly routine. And soon she would be gone, and he would be alone. 

Hyung shook his head. Yes, they were too different.

He peered up once more and met her eyes. Yes, they were green. For what felt like an eternity, Hyung could not look away.

The girl smiled and parted her lips, as if to greet him, but Hyung’s gaze quickly returned to his notes. 

His face heated from temple to chin, and his heart raced a mile a minute. He had been admiring the girl. She probably thought him a fool. There was no use returning to this spot, spoiling her studies.

Defeated, Hyung flipped his book shut and shoved it inside his backpack. 

He rose from his seat and tossed the bag over his shoulders, his attention on the exit. 

Then he stopped before turning on his heels, and proceeded to walk, his steps barely making a sound. Hyung inched closer and closer toward the scent of lilac and pulled out yet another aging chair. Its legs screeched across the wooden floor, making him wince, but only one other noticed–that being the girl now seated next to him. 

She gave him a smile, and Hyung returned with a grin. 

Inhaling deeply, he mustered the courage to ask about her studies, to which she replied she had been struggling. He suggested they pair up and study, perhaps, over some coffee.

Her lips curled. The girl didn’t object. 

Together they exited the space, and Hyung’s heart couldn’t be bigger. 

The library, he concluded, was a great place to study.