Never Get Dragged Into The Closet

I am in the biggest shit known to man. 

Front page news level disaster. In the history of people landing themselves in the biggest shit, I have likely moved up in the ranks of that list of people. If there were a leaderboard for catastrophic screw ups, I would be up there for sure.

It has been twenty four hours and my sketchbook is still missing. I tore apart my entire bag, retraced every frantic footstep I made through the corridors, checked the classrooms I don't even sit in, turned the library upside down, and crawled through every hallway like I was playing detective. Nothing.

Out of sheer desperation, I even looped Taylor into the search party. 

Her reaction was stunned silence. The kind of shock reserved for celebrity breakups and cancelled television shows. To her, losing my sketchbook was the equivalent of misplacing something part of me like a kidney. Rightfully so because my sketchbook is not just paper; it contains my entire creative soul compressed into eighty unlined pages. From fashion designs all the way to a handful of very suspicious portraits of Edward.

I did not tell her about the latter.

During our search, Taylor immediately launched into full scolding mode.

"You have to be the most careless person alive," she snapped, shoving lockers open like my sketchbook was going to fall out of one in surprise. "Why do you treat your belongings like garbage?" 

I simply shrugged like a guilty puppy. 

Not because I agreed with her statement but because arguing with her is like yelling into a hurricane barrelling towards you. You get wet and nowhere. Besides, I did not want to waste time. That sketchbook could have been anywhere and I needed her help more than I needed to win a debate. So I swallowed my frustration, nodded stupidly and kept searching.

Eventually when she saw me practically shaking with panic, she softened. 

"Okay," she said, dragging me into a side corridor while awkwardly rubbing a hand on my back. "Sorry. I might have overreacted when I said you treat your belongings like garbage. Still there is no use crying over spilt milk."

Then she said our chances of finding my sketchbook were zero to none.

That's what she said.

Zero. To. None.

I stared at her like she had just sentenced me to death by hanging. 

But did that stop me from pleading with her all day? Absolutely not. I nagged her with the passion of a boy possessed by an unyielding demon while simultaneously interrogating classmates in between lessons. I would occasionally check lost property to see if someone had maybe taken it there after stumbling upon it.

I need to find that sketchbook.

If I don't find it soon, I will probably start disintegrating into loose particles of shame. Because inside those pages is not just fabric sketches or trendy coat ideas. No, hidden among all that innocent creativity are dangerous confessions. A series of heart-eyed doodles starring one very off limits boy.

And the problem is, I know exactly how off limits he is.

At first, Taylor was perplexed by my persistence. 

I asked her to help me find the sketchbook with a level of desperation usually reserved for people who have lost a puppy. 

Even she had to stop in the middle of our search and raise an eyebrow at me. "Why are you so freaked out? It's just your designs, right?"

And so I panicked.

Then I watered down the truth with a partial lie. I told her it had little poetic bits I scribbled down about past crushes. Nothing serious, just me being nostalgic. 

What I didn't mention was that one of those crushes currently has her name saved in his phone as 'baby' with a little heart next to it.

If that sketchbook ends up in the wrong hands, I am finished.

If Edward sees those gentle, detailed portraits with messy hearts and pathetic notes I wrote of him I will genuinely combust on the spot.

If Taylor finds it?

Friendship deleted. 

Maybe even life deleted.

I cannot imagine what she would do to me.

Where the hell could it be?

A gentle tap on my shoulder yanks me out of the swirling chaos in my head. I flinch slightly, and blink up to find an unfamiliar face peering down at me. His wide eyes seem unsure, as if wondering whether I'm about to bite or burst into tears.

I pop one earbud out and raise my eyebrows with a silent, borderline demanding, "What?" leaving my lips.

Without saying a word, he gestures out the bus window.

I turn to see that we have arrive at school, the building looming in the morning sun. Lost in a spiral of panic, I practically forgot the whole destination aspect of this bus ride.

"Thanks," I mutter, flashing the boy an apologetic smile before grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

Arriving at my locker, I let out a tired breath and unzip my bag with cautious hope. Maybe, just maybe, that cursed sketchbook will peek out from behind my textbooks and redeem my shattered peace of mind.

Of course, I'm immediately disappointed.

No sketchbook.

Just the usual school books, tablet for art, crushed receipts from the diner.

I slam the locker shut gently enough not to make a scene but firmly enough to let it know it's on my bad side.

Why did I ever think sketching my forbidden infatuation on paper was wise? I should have just listened to my sister when she warned me about paperback the first time I misplaced my sketchbook. 

"Get a drawing app on your tablet," she said, sipping bubble tea like the clairvoyant she is. "Digital art. Password protection. No drama."

But no, paranoid little me had to clutch onto my sketchbook like it was my personal vault of secrets. 

"What if I get hacked, Chu Hua?" I asked her with an unimpressed look on my face. "You ever think of that in your whole digital art password protected app?"

As if I'm even important enough of a target for someone to spend time and energy hacking me. This is just one of my delusions of grandeur.

The hallway hums with low chatter and the shriek of squeaky soles on polished tile.

"Hey!"

I jerk as if I have just been tasered by sound.

In turning so fast, I slam my back directly into the lockers. The entire row shudders violently, echoing through the corridor like metal groaning in agony. Heads swivel. Even conversations pause for a second. A few students blink at me as if I just publicly grew a second head.

Trying to salvage dignity, I prop one foot up against the locker and cradle my books to my chest like emotional support items. A pose I saw once in a magazine ad for bikers. My quivering hands betray me. 

Taylor stands a few feet away, her freshly braided hair gleaming from hair products. Her eyebrows are raised as though she is watching a fish attempt to climb stairs.

I offer her the most chill nod I can muster. "Sup?"

"Uh..." She glances around awkwardly before settling for shaking her head to dismiss my strange behaviour. "Nothing much."

"Cool," I reply, voice straining with unnatural nonchalance.

She narrows her eyes. "Okay look, I say this with love, but has anyone else pointed out that you look like you barely survived a zombie apocalypse or am I the first?"

I squint at her. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, did you sleep last night?"

I give a shoulder shrug and say, "Define sleep."

She squints harder. "No offense, but you look really... shitty."

"Gee thanks, Taylor." I blink slowly, lips pressing into a thin smile. "Really warming my soul with that unsolicited observation."

"Just saying." She smirks in amusement. "If you were trying to audition for flaky croissant, you nailed it. Five stars."

I shut my locker with a soft bang, trying to end our conversation with a touch of drama that feels earned. "Good to know I can always count on your vote of confidence when I look like a rotting croissant."

"A flaky one," she correct me, patting my arm proudly. "But yes." 

I adjust the strap of my bag, trying to ignore how sleep deprived I probably look. Taylor loops her arm around my shoulder as we start down the hallway toward homeroom, the usual flood of students swarming past us.

She throws me a sideways grin, eyes gleaming with mischievous curiosity. "So... why do you look so—"

"Terribly shitty?" I cut in before she can finish, parroting her earlier masterpiece of honesty.

She snorts. "Even with your awful wardrobe decisions you usually make it work with your hair and face. But today you are giving full trash bag energy. Like a bag of shit someone kicked to the curb."

"Wow." I blink offended. "Really reeling it in with the insults today, huh?"

She beams. "You know I only roast those I love."

"Mm, sweet of you," I murmur sarcastically. "I just had a rough night. Between the Maths test we have today and my sketchbook going missing, I—"

"Hold on, what test?" she interrupts me, her eyes widening in confusion and horror.

"The one Mr. Wright reminded us about yesterday during registration?" I reply slowly, already exhausted by this interaction.

Her blank stare is louder than words. 

A long sigh escapes me. "You forgot about it, didn't you?"

She winces. "When you say forgot, you mean...?"

"As in it never registered in your brain because you were too busy sketching eyeballs on your notebook and balancing a pencil on your upper lip."

She blinks stupidly.

The one thing Taylor has consistently gifted me is the unofficial title of personal reminder.

Thanks to her ADHD, my presence in Maths class doubles as a living, breathing planner. I swear, if I had a pound for every time she leaned over mid-period and whispered, "Wait, are we doing functions or fractions?" I would have enough to fund my quiet escape to Norway.

Meanwhile, her attention span in class? Nonexistent. 

She is always fixed on Edward. 

Across the room, hand gently supporting her chin as if posing for a Renaissance painting. Her eyes flutter with rapid intensity like a Disney princess, tossing nauseatingly gooey smiles his way. And no, I am not saying this with jealousy laced between my teeth. I am saying that with the dull ache of someone who has watched Romeo and Juliet unfold for the seventh time.

She gets so consumed by Edward like she genuinely believes he will vanish if she blinks. And right when her elbow starts to indent the desk, I give it a tug. The faceplant that follows is the only highlight reel moment I look forward to everyday. 

The fact that she does this every day knowing what will come from it is entertaining.

Then she will throw me her infamous scathing stare.

"Focus," I always tell her, nodding toward Mr. Wright as he drones about quadratic equations. "This stuff is really important."

And she does briefly. Before Edward shifts in his seat and her attention flutters back like a homing pigeon to its owner.

Same cycle.

"Why didn't you remind me?" Taylor demands accusingly, eyes narrowed as if I betrayed her. "You know I can't concentrate on anything when Eddie's around."

"I did remind you," I reply, every syllable steeped in exasperation. "At the end of class, I pulled you aside and told you not to forgot about the test we would be writing tomorrow which is today."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I remember because I didn't want you to blame me like you did last time when you absolutely bombed the test."

"No way." Her eyebrows knit together, disbelief blooming across her face. "What did I say?"

I mimic her voice with shameless flair, "Sure, whatever. Wouldn't dream of it."

"Wow," she mutters. "Yeah... no that definitely sounds like something I would say when my brain is in a romantic daze."

I raise my hands in theatrical surrender. "God, you are so hopeless. Honestly, we should start blindfolding you in class. Wrap a scarf around your head and cut off visual access to Edward."

She bursts out, loud and panicky, "Shit."

Heads swivel down the hallway as she scans the crowd searchingly. 

"Have you seen Eddie?"

My whole body locks up. "Hmm? W-What? No. Why would you ask me that?"

My throat dries like a desert. 

Did she find the sketchbook? Did she read everything? Has she pieced together the horrifying truth that her best friend has feelings for her boyfriend? Does she think I have been sneaking around with Edward behind her back? She should know better because he would never do that to her. He's too loyal for something like that.

And I would never betray her. Not my childhood best friend. Even if my heart dances in joy every time he smiles at me.

"What? It was just a question." She tilts her head, confusion flickering across her face. "Are you... okay? You've been acting weird since yesterday. "

I blink with a stiff smile. "Oh. No—I mean yes. I'm just really tired and... stressed."

Her eyes narrow further. "Stressed about what?"

"T-The test," I stammer, clutching at straws. "And... the sketchbook I lost yesterday."

Her expression shifts, something concerned simmering beneath suspicion. "Right, of course."

The tension in my shoulders escapes when she dismisses my strange behaviour.

"Well, I better go and look for Eddie so he can quickly prep me on everything because I know next to zilch about what we have been doing in Maths."

"I mean, I could help you—"

"No, I prefer him."

"Oh," I echo in shock, glancing away with a fake look of insult on my face. "Nice to know it's still hoes before bros."

Taylor pauses and lays a hand dramatically on my shoulder, leaning in like she's about to deliver a heartfelt speech.

"Seong Jin, if I ever had to choose between you and Edward, I assure you..." Her voice softens and her gaze intensifies; I almost brace for something profound. "I will always choose Edward."

I shove her lightly, grinning despite myself.

She cackles like the gremlin she truly is, delighting in my expression of betrayal.

I remember our childhood pact back in primary school. Me, Taylor and Jodie were sitting under the big tree behind the school. Our pinkies locked as we bumped foreheads like some sacred ritual. Then we all solemnly swore to never let a boy come between our friendship. We somehow did not include a girl coming between our friendship as if they both already knew I was gay.

"God, you're so evil," I mutter, trying to hide the rising smile. "What happened to our sacred pact? No zit-bearing boy will ever come first in our friendship?"

"Technically, Edward doesn't bear zits so..." She tosses her braids and smirks. "Immaculate skin routine."

I narrow my eyes.

"Just kidding, Seong Jin." Her lips curve into a softer smile, the red lipstick making them pop. "You know you'll always be my day one, babe. No pimple reducing skin care will ever change that."

"Better not," I say, bumping her shoulder. "You are stuck with me for all your days."

"Anyway I gotta dash, see you later!" Taylor throws casually over her shoulder. She spins around to disappear down the hallway when suddenly she gasps as if she just recalled something. "Oh wait! Did you end up finding your sketchbook?"

"No?" I blink, deadpan. "I literally just said I'm stressed out because it's lost. Lost, Tay. Did that word not register?"

She shrugs with zero shame. "Honestly? I barely absorb half the stuff that comes out of your mouth."

I gape. "Okay, rude."

She waves off my indignation. "Anyway, don't worry. I told Eddie to ask everyone to keep an eye out for an orange sketchbook that belongs to one Seong Jin Lee. So basically, if anyone finds it, they give it to Edward, then Edward gives it to me and then I give it to you. By the end of today, you'll leave school with both your dignity and your sketchbook."

Fantastic.

So what I'm hearing is my incriminating sketchbook is now part of a weird hand-me-down pipeline involving the two people who should never see it. Great. Maybe by the end of today, I might get my sketchbook back... but I'll probably lose my one and only friend too.

How am I supposed to survive the rest of my classes?

When Mrs. Kennedy starts droning about how power is the energy used to operate devices how will I focus on the equations? I'll be panicking about some random person passing my doodles and portraits to Edward, who will then kindly deliver the evidence of my betrayal directly to Taylor.

As if sensing my internal spiral, Taylor gives me a reassuring grin. 

"Hey, don't worry," she says way too cheerily, punching my shoulder. "If I find your sketchbook first, I'll totally read through and make sure all your dirty little secrets are still safe in there."

I don't laugh.

Not even a polite chuckle.

"Awesome," I mutter, lips curled into the stiffest smile I can manage without snapping in half.

By the time the final period rolls around, I am basically walking on autopilot. This day has been dragging forever. For a moment, I wondered if time had stopped out of spite.

Maths was a total bust. I could barely focus on the lesson after writing the test. Mr. Wright's voice floated around me like background static, only cutting through whenever he barked my name with frustration.

Even Taylor, who was usually the queen of tunnel vision, spared a concerned glance in my direction at one point. That lasted about five seconds before Edward glanced her way and she immediately abandoned me in favor of dreamy stares and subtle lip biting. I swear their mutual gazes have a gravitational pull. It's like watching two sunflowers flirt across a meadow.

And if Maths was a dumpster fire, Physics was a slow motion train wreck.

Late to class because I forgot my textbook and did the world's most dramatic hallway sprint to fetch it. When I returned, all the seats were taken so I was forced to sit next to my childhood best friend who I have not spoken to over the past year. Talk about suffocating awkwardness. Then there was Dominic who stared at me the entire class like he was trying to disassemble me with telekinesis. I caught him several times, and each time he didn't even flinch.

He was probably mentally stabbing me in the chest area multiple times for almost murdering him when I ran him over.

Could this day get any worse?

Oh wait, it could.

Taylor still hasn't shown up with my sketchbook yet.

It might have something to do with the fact that she's still reading all those dirty, little secrets like she promised she would when she gets her hands on the sketchbook. But who am I to assume? Maybe it has not been found by her yet. Maybe Edward is the one who has it and is currently deciphering all the lovely portraits I drew of him.

My fingers are borderline bleeding from all the nervous chewing I have subjected them to.

I run a hand through my hair for what feels like the umpteenth time today. Each pass drags strands into a tangled mess of stress. My back aches, my fingers are sore and my dignity is dangling by a thread. 

Losing that sketchbook is bad enough. The idea of someone flipping through the mess of my secrets inside it is way worse. 

I huff out a frustrated breath and head toward my locker, ready to drop off the useless pile of books I won't need. 

At least my spine can suffer a little less today.

And then everything stops.

A hand clamps over my mouth.

An arm snakes around my waist.

I'm yanked backward like a ragdoll.

My eyes go wide, panic launching through me like a lightning strike. I try to scream but the sound gets muffled by his palm. My brain instantly spirals—What is happening? Who is this? Am I about to become a cautionary tale the school tells to future students?

I thrash violently with everything I have, elbow driving into his gut with enough force to earn a grunt. But his hold does not let up. Not even a little. Darkness swallows us as he drags me into the janitor's closet. The door slams behind us. My heart is thumping in my chest.

Is this real? At school? What kind of sick world—

I twist harder, trying to pry myself loose but he is way stronger than me. 

My brain scrambles for any kind of backup plan.

Biting is the next best thing.

I sink my teeth into his hand without hesitation. 

He curses sharply and finally rips his palm away from my mouth.

I suck in air like it's pure gold. "Help, someone is trying to—"

His hand smothers me again amidst my yell, voice whispering harshly behind my ear. "Stop, I'm not gonna hurt you, I swear. I just need to talk!"

Talk? Talk? 

He drags me into a closet like some budget horror villain and thinks talking is a reasonable explanation? How naïve does this guy think I am?

I muffle something unintelligible, a mix of profanity and threats, and continue struggling. I am fully prepared to kick his knee if needed.

"Listen," he mutters through clenched teeth.

But I'm panicking too hard to care. I thrash and kick and scream through the hand crushing my mouth. My heart is in full sprint mode. 

Is this how I die? In this closet?

"Listen," he growls again. "I'm not gonna do anything to you. Just stop trashing around!"

His voice is both agitated and urgent, slicing through my hysteria just enough for me to freeze. My breath comes in short, rapid bursts and my chest heaves against his arm. He sounds annoyed, not threatening which is... confusing.

"I'm gonna let go of your mouth," he says calmly. "Don't scream."

I hesitantly nod.

"Okay, I'm letting go now." He cautiously removes his hand.

And naturally I do the opposite.

I scream.

As loud as I can.

So loud that I'm sure that all one hundred and ninety five countries heard me. So loud that my vocal cords hurt. So loud that someone in this damned school should have at least heard me by now. If sound could shatter bricks...

At my actions, he kisses his teeth in irritation and turns me around to see him. 

My screaming dies down slowly when I immediately recognise him even in the darkness. "Dominic?"

"Yeah."

Watching him in bemusement, my mouth gapes and I muse in my shock, "What the f—what the hell was that all about?"

"I was trying to—"

"You scared the absolute shit out of me." I slap his chest, cutting him off.

He doesn't even flinch.

"I thought I was gonna get... molested, you prick."

Dominic pulls back slightly, his features twisting with sheer offense, mouth curled into a grimace that could rival sour milk.

"Do I look like I want to have sex," he spits out, scrunching his face so tight it's practically folding in on itself, "with you of all people?"

The emphasis stings. 

Of all people? 

What's that supposed to mean? 

My lungs forget how to breathe and I swallow the gasp of indignation before it escapes. Like he had just slapped me with a handful of words I was not expecting.

I glare at him, trying to gather what dignity hasn't already crumbled in the wake of this scene. "Maybe instead of insulting me you should apologise for the psychological trauma you just inflicted on me."

Dominic sighs, running a hand down his face like he regrets everything that just happened—but not enough to apologise. "I wasn't trying to scare you. I just—I needed a private moment and every hallway in this school is like a public zoo."

"Well congratulations," I snap, voice tight. "You dragged me into a broom closet and insulted me all in the span of five minutes. Really nailing the whole private moment thing."

He opens his mouth to respond.

But I raise a finger, cutting him off. "And FYI. I don't feel the desire to sleep with you either, Dominic. The thought alone makes me nauseous. You're not exactly hot commodity, you know."

"Try telling that to the eighth grader who would constantly hit on me every day."

"It wasn't every day," I stammer out with a slight blush.

"Pretty sure it was."

"No, it wasn't."

Dominic scoffs, flicking the lights on.

The harsh yellow glow floods the tiny space, chasing away his silhouette and allowing me take in every visible inch of him now. And wow... eighth-grade me really did have a great eye for attractive guys.

Black hoodie? Check. Black tracksuit trousers? Check. Black branded trainers that look like they were stolen from a fashion forward secret agent? Triple check. He is monochrome personified. As if angst walked into a store and said, "Mystify me."

His black hair is a whole other situation. Messy. Hanging over his forehead like a mop that obscures his aureate eyes. Somehow, it looks annoyingly perfect—like he woke up and still landed on magazine worthy bedhead. And he always wears the hood up... except now. It has fallen down, exposing the full dramatic mop in all its rebellious glory.

Did I knock it off during the scuffle? 

My thoughts spiral and stall when a knock rattles against the closet door.

We freeze.

My stare snaps from his hair to his face, catching the briefest flicker of panic in his eyes. But, true to himself, Dominic quickly slams it down back to neutrality. 

He raises one finger to his lips. The international sign for "Shut up or else..."

I roll my eyes, but silently nod.

Because let's be real, I am not trying to get labelled as the guy who does weird things in the closet with Dominic Lachowski. The school gossip machine would implode and my life would become a trending hashtag in the group chats by lunch tomorrow.

"Hey, is everything okay in there?" the person on the other end of the door asks. "I heard screaming."

My entire body tenses at the familiarity of his voice.

"Shit," I whisper inaudibly. "Edward."