With Yoongi back in LA I released another soulmate and thought of my mom, wondering how she would have felt about Yoongi. I imagined she would have a favorite of the bunch and recalled the way she seemed averse toward Hobi, likely because he was the first, but hadn't been unable to resist Jimin's charm. She surely would have hated Yoongi and thought him a turkey.

She also would have encouraged me to focus on school and on my craft more than any of them. I questioned if I was honoring her by giving so much of my energy to relationships that despite being earth-shatteringly wonderful in the moment, were only temporary. Then again, she gave her all to my dad until that very last day.

Faye and I scuffled around our apartment on the morning of my first day of college, in our usual back and forth of using the bathroom, picking out outfits, and swallowing a quick breakfast. She caught me by the arm on my way out the door, talking through her bagel-stuffed mouth.

"Happy first day and happy soulmate week." She winked at me, pointing to my keys so I wouldn't forget.

I chuckled at her excitement, tucking my earbuds in as I headed to the elevator and started the metro ride to campus. In the Lonely Hour blasted into my ears while I memorized the picture of my schedule I saved, pulling up a map of campus in hopes of avoiding the look of a lost puppy on my first day.

There was still a day until I would meet my next soulmate and a part of me was already preparing, counting out every person I ran into, the classmates who introduced themselves during ice breakers, the guy that bumped into me and helped me gather my dropped books as I made my way to my second class, and even the incredibly handsome man who came over to give directions to the girl who definitely looked like a lost puppy.

With the first couple of days prioritizing syllabus reviews and introductions, I spent some time at the Starbucks on campus, tuning out the packs of other students lounging around at a table I found in the corner. I scribbled due dates and reading assignments into my planner, arranging everything I needed to stay organized before starting the trek back to the apartment, with my mind on tomorrow.

The following morning we went through a similar routine, Faye giving a slightly different comment over her bowl of cereal. "Text me as soon as you meet him. Happy soulmate day!" She cheered, waving me out the front door.

On the metro ride to campus I didn't listen to any music, and after awkwardly meeting the eye of every person who passed, I pushed away the rush for my soulmate, reminding myself that I had a full day of potential ahead.

I breezed through my first class, recognizing a few other students from classes the day before so that I was less inclined to turn my head every time the door opened. I took out my notebook, jotting the date in the top corner to note down any important information, interrupted by an overpowering heartbeat that filled me.

Though all Native American tribes different in values and traditions, I recalled one belief that carries through multiple nations. Used in many ceremonies and gatherings, the drum creates a rhythm meant to represent the first sound heard in the world, the heartbeat of Mother Earth. It's possible that it's a feeling that can only be experienced by indigenous folks, but hearing that drum brims you with connection, to yourself, to life, to every part of the past and present. That's what it felt like the first time I laid eyes on Namjoon.

He stepped out from the door at the front of the class, turning to the whiteboard and etching his name with a marker. The first thing that I learned about him was that he was a man who carried nothing in his hands and everything in his head.

"Does anyone have a pen?" He patted his pockets, nodding as he accepted one offered by a girl seated in the front row.

He leaned against the desk and grabbed a stack of papers that listed every student's name, his eyes narrowing when he finally scanned the class, his gaze meeting mine. His mouth pressed into a hard line and his brow furrowed in thought before refocusing, giving an official introduction.

"My name is Kim Namjoon, but students usually call me Mr. Kim. I'm a doctoral candidate in the Art, Cultural, and Intellectual History program. You are currently in Art History I." He paused as a few students shuffled their bags around, leaving quietly after realizing they were in the wrong class. "I don't want to go over the syllabus because I'm hoping you can read it for yourselves. It has the assignment and reading schedule, my contact information and all the other policies the school makes us throw in. I'm pretty laid back so just show up, listen or discuss if you're comfortable, turn in your assignments and everyone should pass."

He pointed to the pen girl, who's hand was raised and despite being behind her, I could sense the flirtation in her kittenish tone. "Mr. Kim, are you available for office hours? I would love to come by to talk more about the graduate programs." She asked. I could see her reflection through the whiteboard, noting the way she leaned forward to accentuate her cleavage.

He hardly glanced at her, but noticed the smirk on my face, masking the giggle I wanted to let out. One corner of his mouth pulled up in response, revealing a small divot in his cheek. "I do, it's in the syllabus, but let's focus on passing our gen ed courses first." He moved from his desk to pace back and forth in front of the class with leisure. "I want you to describe your favorite painter to me. Tell me why you like their art without using their name." There was a low chatter throughout the room as he gave us time to think, pressing the edge of the pen into his chin as he picked out the first name to call on.

A guy at the front of the class gave his clues first, but as others started to speak I was drawn to the feeling of a drum beating inside me, pounding with a vibration that matched my heart. I drank in the long strides he took, thickness in his shoulders and ashen dyed locks, my attention caught by the way he twisted his mouth when trying to guess the artist being described.

"Seline, Seline Wright?" He said my name again as I zoned out, a few chuckles sounding around me as I was pulled from a daze. "Your favorite painter?" He repeated his question, grinning and exposing a matching dimple on his other cheek.

"Yes," I sat up, barely having thought of a way to describe my favorite painter, "a lot of the painter's work focused on the female form. Apparently he saw power in the eroticism of women and took many lovers that became his muses."

He tilted his head in thought. "You'll have to give me another clue Ms. Wright. Many artists took lots of lovers." There was a suggestive tone in his voice that I wondered if others picked up on.

"You might call him a golden boy of sorts." I hinted.

His brow cocked with knowing. "I'm guessing The Kiss is your favorite painting?"

"Actually it's between Danaë and Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I." I answered, the drum quickening as he seemed to be flirting with me.

Knowing he felt it too, I kept my eyes locked on his until he cleared his throat, moving from our trance-like stare to address the class. "Gustav Klimt." He confirmed his guess with confidence, moving on to the next student.

I pulled out my phone to text Faye. Art history professor ;)

She replied almost immediately. Is he old?

I gave an apologetic glance to the class as a giggle bubbled past my lips. Doctoral student, young and very fine. I typed quickly, tucking my phone away for the duration of my new favorite class.