Detention and Other Forms of Flirting

If there’s one universal law of high school, it’s this: if someone breathes too loudly in class, someone else gets detention.

And somehow, that someone was me.

It started with a harmless snort. Not even a real laugh. Just a small, nasal betrayal during chemistry.

Jian had whispered something about sodium sounding like a Pokemon name. I choked. The teacher, Ms. Lynxi with the observational skills of a hawk and the patience of a wet cat, spun around and pointed her marker at me like it was a weapon.

"Mr. Yuhan," she snapped, “you can test your comedic timing in detention.”

Jian coughed to hide a laugh.

I glared at him. “I hope your cereal is soggy forever.”

He grinned. "Worth it."

...****************...

That’s how I ended up sitting in the dusty back room behind the library, surrounded by people who probably set things on fire for fun. I was definitely the softest criminal in this lineup.

To make things worse, Jian was there too.

He had voluntarily asked to help “sort books” during detention.

Voluntarily.

The teacher on duty clearly thought he was some kind of golden retriever reincarnated, so she let him.

And now we were stuck together. Alone.

Surrounded by books and teenage angst.

"You really didn’t have to come," I muttered.

Jian shrugged. "Figured you’d do something dramatic without supervision."

"I do one tragic monologue in ninth grade and suddenly I’m unstable."

"You also wore black for a month because your fish died."

"She was my emotional support puppy."

He laughed. It echoed off the bookshelves.

Somewhere in the corner, a moth fluttered violently into a lightbulb.

Mood.

We were supposed to reorganize the “unused” shelf, which was just a fancy word for books no one touched since 2005.

Jian pulled one out and raised an eyebrow. “Advanced Tax Law for Government Officials?”

I took it and threw it gently into the reject pile.

“This book is responsible for at least seven midlife crises.”

We worked in silence for a while. Comfortable. Familiar.

And then, he said, “You know… I don’t think we’ve really talked. I mean really talked. Since school started.”

I froze. “We talk every day.”

“Yeah, but you’re always deflecting. Or making jokes. Or avoiding eye contact like it’s your side hustle.”

“I have intimacy issues,” I said lightly.

He looked at me.

Too deeply.

I dropped a book on my foot to break the tension.

Worked like a charm.

...****************...

Later, we found an old yearbook.

Jian flipped through it, pausing occasionally to laugh at horrible haircuts.

“You know, you looked different back then,” he said, showing me my awkward sophomore photo.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I had hope."

He smiled. “You still have that same look though.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“That one where you pretend like nothing bothers you, but you overthink cereal brands.”

“Excuse me, cereal defines your morning mood.”

“And that,” he said, pointing. “That right there.”

I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

Instead, I said, “You still have the same eyes.”

He blinked. “That’s usually how eyes work.”

“No, I mean... they still make me feel stupid.”

The silence between us stretched like a rubber band about to snap.

He looked down.

I looked away.

The moth hit the bulb again.

Same.

...****************...

By the end of detention, we’d reorganized exactly two shelves and emotionally destabilized ourselves.

“You hungry?” Jian asked as we walked out.

“I could eat the void.”

“There’s ramen in the dorm. We could—”

“—eat in silence and pretend none of this happened?”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Back at the dorm, he cooked ramen. I sat on the floor like an emotional raccoon.

He handed me a bowl and sat beside me.

I looked at him. “Thanks for coming today.”

“You’d do the same for me.”

I would. I had. I died doing it.

“Would you believe me,” I said, “if I told you I’ve been here before?”

He blinked. “Like this room?”

“No. This life.”

“You mean like reincarnation?”

I nodded slowly.

He stared.

Then laughed. “Okay, well, you better reincarnate yourself into someone who knows how to flirt, because your game is tragic.”

I smiled.

And something in me cracked open.

That night, I wrote in my notebook:

He doesn’t remember me. But I remember everything.

And I don’t know which of us is luckier.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

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