Cigarettes & Glasses

Delinquents have their own way to deal with delinquents. They’re not that bright, at least.

They bark loud with a posture bigger than they are, and also (hilariously) flinch when you look them in the eye for a second or two. Sure, the term “delinquent” means a young person tending to commit crime, but it means nothing when they themselves understand when to back off, when to lower their voices, and when to stop pushing because of the bigger force in front of them. Ok, bigger force sounds excessive, but you don’t need to fight (maybe a few sucker punches here and there). Mainly, you just stand there with back straight, flat expression, and the will of an iron fortress, then they slowly start to fold.

Your school is full of fuckwits like that — infested with rusted lockers, cracked windows, and teachers who are too afraid to speak out. You could’ve picked any other school applicable with your entrance exam results, but wasting time commuting is not ideal when that wasted 30 mins can be used to finish a math exercise. The boys thought you’re an easy target, especially when you join in the middle of the year, but now all you get are whispers and a respectable distance behind you.

(Something along the lines with “Don’t fuck with him.”, “He’s weird”, and “How to fuck he doesn’t trip while solving that damn chemistry book?” But hey, it sounds like a compliment if it means you don’t get mogged — gotta be the bigger dog in the dog-eat-dog world, right?)

After school, you walk home alone, passing by the prestigious school that is a few blocks down from yours, with clean buildings, open fields, and students in their fancy vests and bags. And as always, you despise the fact that you belong to the former just because you are a few points short in the entrance exam.

Whatever, living with Minji is the consolation prize.

Her place is calm and comfortable in a way that it aligns well with your neat freak. Shoes lined up properly at the entrance, Dishes washed the moment after being used. Coffee smells waffling through the morning air. You like it.

She has been like this since she first found you sitting alone in the library as your upperclassman all the way to being a college student, which apparently grants her the authority to sigh at nothing and still be taken seriously. And you have been living with her long enough that she doesn’t even bother knocking your door.

The bedroom is small and modest. The desk pushed against the window for maximum sunlight and vitamin D for morning studies. The lamp positioned just right to not glaring to your eyes for night. You sit there every time, proper posture, and doing mock exams until formulas and exam key notes are ingrained. It’s quiet. Orderly. Easy to concentrate. Your future feels achievable here.

Well, maybe not 100%.

Because as usual, your studying comes with the screech of metal on metal. The window across from yours slides open. And here comes the menace that is worse than those delinquents.

It’s Yujin.

You don’t even need to see that she’s home — you just know when the smoke drifts in (which smells horrible). And the music comes afterwards — loud, bass-heavy, and absolutely disruptive. It rattles the pen on your desk, vibrates through the wood like she’s mocking your effort.

And then her damn brazen voice. “Ya, four eyes.”

And every damn fucking time, the sigh through your nose is heavy. Worst of all, she takes another drag and exhales deliberately in your direction.

“Sit properly, bookworm. Your back is going to hurt.”

“I don’t need your words, chainsmoker.”

She taps ash out the window. It falls somewhere between your building, most likely on the bushes.

“Do you ever do anything fun?” she asks. “Or is it just study, sleep, and die from stress?”

“Just be quiet already.”

By now, the delinquent boys would’ve listened and wagged their tails already. But not Yujin — she’s beyond a menace. Instead, she turns up the volume to another notch, and makes the bass punctures through the wall. Of course, she hums along, off-key, like the whole world is her oyster.

You throw your rubber to her window. “Turn it down. It’s past ten.”

This girl has the audacity to gasp out loud, acting like an idiot. “Oh my gosh. Did you hear that? He knows how to read a clock!”

“An Yujin.”

She perks up at that. “And remember my name too? Good job!”

“Unfortunately, we lived here for far too long.”

“Aw. You hurt me.”

She flicks her cigarette away and folds her arms on the sill, resting her chin on top. And, fucking hell, she smells like smoke and citrus (the worst combo of smell imaginable). Who would actually believe that this same girl with lack of basic decency is on the news — something about 1st place in Women’s sprint in High School Competitions. Not once, twice, but three times, a trait she still gets from middle school. Literally kickstart the sports department at her new sparkly pretentious school (or whatever she puffed to your face). No wonder she’s still miraculously attending there, because you definitely would’ve expelled her ass if you’re the principal.

Anyway, the grown ups there are a bunch of dumbasses, wagging their tail to a disobedient pup— what are you saying? Ew. What you should say instead is:

“You look ugly when you smoke.”

“Weak insult, four eyes.”

“Just verbalising my observation, chainsmoker.”

“Sheesh, a blizzard over there. No wonder the mutts are scared of you.”

“Nah, they just know to leave me alone.”

She tilts her head. “You talk quite big for a boy studying at a dead-end school.”

“You’re talking like an obnoxious rich brat.”

“I’m not rich, you know?”

“You don’t even deny that you’re obnoxious.” You flip another page to write. “Anyway, don’t smoke when I open the window to study.”

“I didn’t know you’re my teacher now.”

“So childish.”

“And your so boring.”

“It’s you’re. R E. Now shut up.”

You…really should’ve paid attention to the creaking on the stairs until you feel a hard smack to your head. Your hand flies to the back of your head, looking up to see Minji standing there with her arm crossed. She’s in an oversized hoodie, loosely tied ponytail, and a calm expression that you know is anything but calm. (And damn, your heart keeps beating irrationally seeing her like this.)

“Did you just tell a girl to shut up?” she asks.

“She’s provoking me,” you say immediately. “Intentionally!”

“And?” “And that makes it justified.”

She smacks your head again. A tad lighter, but still rude.

“You don’t tell girls to shut up.”

“She’s not—” you stop yourself. “She’s Yujin.”

As if summoned, both of you can hear the wheezing across from you. “That’s right, listen to Minji-unnie, four eyes! Bleh~”