Photographs Are Worth More Than A Thousand Words If You Look At Them The Right Way Part 1

"How many times have I asked you not to leave the window open?" you shout at the now angry boyfriend in front of you. Not that he's the one who should be angry.
"What's the big deal?" Minho asks, arms crossed and eyes rolling, "too cold?"
"You know that's not why," you hiss back.
"Why did you even leave your paper there in the first place?" he asks, hands thrown up in exasperation.
His eyes are flat when he glares, the irises devoid of their usual warmth. You don't flinch away, instead returning it with one of your own.
You had left your research paper on the window ledge and he must have opened it, because now there is evidence of the drizzle outside sprinkled across the smeared ink.
"Now I have to reprint this!" you bemoan.
"Yes, because that's really strenuous when the printer is literally 20 steps away," he seethes, "your life must be so difficult."
"You are what makes make my life difficult!"
He looks startled for a moment, but then his expression turns stony again.
"I don't have time for this," he growls, "I have to go to work."
"Fine!"
He snaps around, striding across the room, and begins to wrap a scarf around his neck.
"Hey," you call, angry he isn't acknowledging you, "don't forget it's your turn to get dinner. That is, if you even can remember."
He turns on his heel, a sharp remark on his tongue, but his phone ringing cuts him off. He answers brusquely, having a short conversation with the person on the other line. He sighs, looking weary.
For a moment you feel a pang of remorse, sad that he was going to leave for work while you two were fighting. That goes away when he raises an eyebrow at you watching, like you're some sort of pest that he doesn't know why they're there. He hangs up.
"I'm leaving," he says through his teeth as he heads to the door, "I'll get the stupid dinner."
Without even so much as a glance back, he wrenches the door open and then closes it with equally as much force.
God, he was so frustrating sometimes.
You reprint your paper, pace around the living room, and take out the trash in the kitchen, kicking the garbage bin outside. Anything to keep your mind off the fight. Even the television does nothing to calm you down. You tried watching a few episodes of Storage Wars, but it didn't make you feel any better.
It's not like you and Minho don't fight. You fight all the time. It was just that they were little squabbles about things like how many bananas to get or what temperature to keep the thermostat. You don't usually escalate to yelling. The only serious exception was the time you broke up for two weeks, and you both try not to think about that. You don't even bring it up in arguments.
Sighing frustratedly, you push away from the wall you've taken perch on, and head to the bedroom to do some cleaning. Maybe you could throw one of Minho's shirts out the window or something.
You tidy up a little, but there's not a lot to be done. Minho had just cleaned this room a few days ago.

As your boredom increases, you find yourself looking under things. For gum, for bats, for a secret inter-dimensional wormhole. Anything that's more interesting than the soft patter of rain outside.
"Ouch!" you exclaim, something sharp colliding with your head.
Before you destroy the offending object due to the mood you're in, you realize what it is. A memory box.
You and Minho got it when you moved in, although the only thing you had to put in it was a few photographs, a penguin plushie, and some sports ribbons he got in school. Now it’s full of silly things. Badly woven homemade paracord bracelets, movie and concert ticket stubs, pins from places you'd traveled, and a foam finger so humongous you're not sure how it fits, proudly stating #1 status.
You smile as your sort through the various items, wondering how you forgot about the box.
You reach the photos. Vacation spots, photo booth strips, all the times your parents just had to take those Halloween photos where you always look like you're 12 no matter the actual age. 
Then you come across ones from high school. You had a friend, Tina, who was obsessed with photography. She would take photos of everyone and everything. It got to the point you're almost positive she nearly got suspended for sneaking into some invitation only event at the school and snapping photos. While it was kind of voyeuristic at times, she was so passionate and sincere with it you tried not to be bothered when she would capture you in a shot. 
At the end of the year, Tina distributed a stuffed envelope of photos she had taken to everyone. You're not sure where she got the money to develop so many photos, but your graduating class was only about 50 people.
There are some of you and your friends at the graduation ceremony, laughing at the comedic speech. Pictures of all kinds of kids you knew back then doing whatever you could think of. Near the end is one of you and Minho. 
He looks like he was helping you up where you had slipped on the confetti on the floor. The laughter on both your faces is evident. This had been your prom. You could tell by the background and outfits. Those stupid heels were the reason you fell. You don't think humans were really meant to wear heels.
Minho's dark, coffee colored hair was longer than it is now, curling at the nape of his neck. But despite it having been a few years, he still looks the same. He still has the same angular cheek bones, the straight and long frame that leads to the legs that make him great at outrunning you any time you have a race. Those warm chocolate eyes are still there, as well as the charming little boy smile. 
You were jealous he never had to go through that awkward scrawny teenager phase. 
Not that you were too bad yourself in this photo. Your dress was flattering, the deep blue hue meshing nicely against your pale skin. It's more that you didn't look like you'd stepped out of a fashion magazine as he did.
The picture brings back a lot of memories. While you're not an overly emotional, sentimental person, you find yourself thinking back to the first time you two met. Or rather, the first time you spoke to each other. 
You lose yourself in the memory, thinking back to the days of your senior year in high school. It wasn't hard to recreate the moment. 
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This was not happening to you. It just wasn't.
Because there was no way that your film teacher was scolding you for missing those last pages, perhaps one of the only kids to ever do the reading in the first place.
"I am highly disappointed," he drones, "I don't ask for much in this class and I expect my students to read what I assign to them."
"Look," you say placating, "I'm really sorry. You know I usually do the reading. I was just so tired-"
"I don't want any excuses!" he retorts, "there is no reason you shouldn't be prepared today!"
You were going to lose it.
You've had no sleep this week, or the last one for that matter. Other classes were piling on the homework because midterms were coming. You had four study guides, two essays due by Monday, and a group project that you were thinking everyone else who was signed up for was dead. Or they better be, because you were going to kill them if they were alive and not helping you with the stupid diorama of an ocean trench ecosystem. To add to this was about 40 pages of film reading.
You weren't a bad student. You worked hard, put in the hours, and tried to participate in class.
But last night, after reading 35 pages of the film book, you fell asleep on it.
You didn't even know what had happened until you woke up with an aching back and drool covering your cheek as your alarm blared in your ear. 
You didn't think it could hurt much. What was 5 pages?
Apparently a lot. Because the instructor had to ask you a question from the last pages and none from the previous ones. Of course. Isn't that how life works?
So when you couldn't BS what chiaroscuro (what even?) was, you had to explain to him that you didn't read the last few pages.
A headache is beginning to form at your temples, and you close your eyes as you try to will it out of existence.
"Look at me when I am speaking!" your teacher shrieks.
You're not sure what's going on with him. Generally, he's a pretty cool guy. You guess it was a combination of the fact that midterms stressed out teachers too and that he was sick of everyone not reading. You get it. But you don't deserve the brunt of his frustration right now. And as your own sense of frustration builds, you can't stop the words that spew from your mouth like vomit. You wish you could.
"Okay!" you shout, and a few students jump in their seats.
"Now I said I was sorry," you seethe, "but after all I go through each day, I don't deserve this."
You take advantage of the surprise still on the man's face.
You want to stop. You want to stop speaking the things on your mind but it's like the floodgates have opened and you don't have an ark to save yourself. You were not going to be one of the animals saved from drowning because you'll already be dead, murdered by someone for what you just said. The words come anyway.
"I have five classes," you continue, "all of which have just as much homework as this one. And after I wake up early in the morning, go to said classes, try and find something to eat, and walk a gazillion miles to my house because my car is broken, I use whatever energy I physically have left to climb onto a surface and do the unfair amounts of homework I'm assigned. I haven't slept in two weeks just so I can keep up and judging by the way everyone else looks like a zombie, they haven't either. So I apologize I missed the reading. But please stop yelling at me. I think that the ONE time I miss a few pages of reading because I literally fell asleep on them, you can let it go."
You sit down when you realize you're standing, the heat of the moment causing an automatic reaction. But as the adrenaline fades and you start shaking due to what you've done, you want to take it all back. He could yell at you for an hour for all you cared. That would be better than what you are scared is going to happen.
The class is deadly silent, and you're not sure you've ever been able to hear breathing so clearly. Even over your own still erratic breaths, the silence is palpable.
Your teacher looks murderous. Maybe you won't have to wait for your parents to kill you when you get suspended. You're hoping the number of witnesses present can at least testify against him. At this point though, you're not so sure he couldn't buy off the class with good grades in return for their silence. You would take that deal.
Before the livid educator can think of some way to eviscerate you with the pencil in his hand in a slow, agonizing death, another voice speaks up.
"She's right, professor," you hear. 
Both you and the teacher whip around to see a boy standing up, leaning casually on his desk.
Wait. That's the cute boy. The cute boy that transferred into the class maybe a week ago, saying his family moved to get a new way of life.
At the time, all you could think was how silly it was to move so close to the end of the first semester. Why did he even join so late? Then you noticed that nobody seemed to care, as they were too preoccupied with swarming around him like he was the Wizard of Oz and could grant their deepest wishes. Which, coincidentally, he didn't even do. Telling someone they have what they want does not mean that he gave it to them. The Wizard of Oz was a faker.
Anyway, this was that boy. The one whose name you don't actually know but should because everyone else seems to. You really need to pay attention to other's conversations instead of listening to music a majority of the time. Not to say you hadn't heard about him, especially from the whispering girls that sit behind you. But they've always referred to the boy simply as "him," as if he was some magical being. A magical being with dark chocolate hair, warm eyes, and a voice that's so deep you swear it's coming from his feet. 
Yes, the person now holding the gaze of a stern and possibly stress crazed teacher without flinching is well known in the class.
He's able to play every sport the school has given him in gym class, and you've heard a rumor he's never actually lost a soccer game. This boy wasn't someone you would expect to stand up for you. You weren't low on the social scale or anything, it just wasn't like you would usually mix together. He likes sports and socializing, you like going home. But you stop thinking about that soon enough.
You're too busy marveling at his ability to not sink back into his seat when every single person turns to stare at him. You're practically on the floor you're so far down.
Now you're feeling bad you're going to be partially responsible for his murder too. You peek through your fingers while you watch their interaction.
"Excuse me?" the professor growls, "would you like to repeat that?"
"I said that she's right," he shrugs, mildly apologetic, "I think this one time you could forgive her. I've seen her in class. She often has to lead our discussion when nobody else will. Don't you think you can let it slide in return for her hard work?"
He sees you in class? Maybe you've been participating a little too much lately. You sink a little further, embarrassment causing your cheeks to flush.
He's so natural at speaking that you expect to turn to your instructor to find a smile on his face. To just turn around with an exasperated sigh and make a joke about school. He does no such thing.
"Come on, professor," you say charmingly, now inspired by the boy backing you, "please? Just this once?"
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Detention is a lot different than you thought it would be.
Honestly, you're glad to be here, if only because you were expecting worse. 
When your professor had what was possibly an aneurism and sent you and the boy down to the office, you were thinking about crying. All you could do was thank the boy and apologize to him for getting him in this mess (even though it was his choice, as he kept saying.) 
You think the principal felt bad for you, in addition to knowing that you were not a consistent antagonist of teachers, so he didn't suspend you.
The boy was apparently named Minho, according to the "I'm disappointed" speech you heard. He was too new to have much of a track record to go off of like you, so he didn't have anything to guide what his punishment would be. However, he charmed the principal into letting him off easy. You weren't surprised. 
They put you in separate rooms because the administration didn't see it as too wise to let your film teacher know you were "conspiring" (as he put it in the pink slip) together during detention. 
So here you are.
You spend the first 30 minutes doing the assignment set on the board, but finish much faster than you imagined. Too bad you had to stay here for 2 hours. You weren't allowed to do anything fun either because, well, it was detention.
Unfortunately the only things to look at are the morbidly instructive science posters about going blind due to not using goggles around chemicals, and the creepy boy in the corner rifling through his pockets. He's been doing it the whole time as far as you can tell, and you admit you're scared of him. Especially of what he was looking at. You were going with either shrunken heads or some sort of demonic creature summoned from the other realm. You don't like the situation either way.
Once, he caught you staring. You had to suppress a shriek as you turned around, willing your heart to stop jamming against your ribs. He stared at the back of your head for 5 minutes straight. You could feel it. You hope you don't have a hole burnt there now. You feel you hair to make sure, and breathe a sigh of relief when all seems normal. You're okay.
You think your soul is slowly floating away from your body because it's too bored to stick around.
When the supervisor over the class gets up and leaves you hardly notice, your glazed over eyes fixed on the crudely carved words and figures on your desk. Someone had quite the vocabulary.
The door opens again, and this time you look up.
And there's Minho.