how to get a gf in 5 steps (megan skiendiel x fem!reader)
summary: megan just wanted help asking out her crush. yn agreed to coach her through it. five steps later, megan’s starting to realize she might be falling for the wrong girl.
genre: fluff, slowburn, megan is a loser, reader is also kind of a loser.
warnings: not proofread.
wc: 14k
a/n: this is my longest fic i've ever written fhshdhsh (kinda nervous) i hope this is up to your expectations. i worked rly hard on this one 🫶🫶
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you’ve been in the library for three hours, but you’ve only read, like, maybe four pages. and by read, you mean your eyes have been skating across the words while your brain replays danielle’s voice on loop.
you don’t even have feelings. you’re like a robot. who the fuck dates a robot?
a month later, it still stings like she said it yesterday. maybe you are robotic—organized, efficient, put together. maybe you do come off cold sometimes. but that doesn’t mean you don’t feel. if anything, you feel too much.
you drag your highlighter across a sentence you definitely didn’t process and sigh.
that’s when you hear it.
“i fucking told you, lara, i panicked!” a voice echoes through the quiet study floor.
heads turn. yours too, unfortunately.
and there she is—megan skiendiel, bright as a highlighter with pink streaks cutting through her black hair, storming in like she owns the place. lara raj is right beside her, grinning like she’s here for the carnage, and sophia laforteza trails behind them with her giant purse and the patience of a saint.
“what the hell did you even say this time?” lara snorts, tossing her burgundy hair like she’s on a runway.
megan slams her bag onto the nearest table. “i told eunchae… i liked her fucking elbows.”
you choke. literally choke.
lara bursts out laughing so hard she nearly slides out of her chair. “her elbows? you’re kidding.”
“do i look like i’m kidding?” megan groans, face in her hands. “they were just… there, okay? all bendy and pointy and i—fuck, i don’t know, lara!”
“you’re a menace,” lara wheezes.
sophia puts down two iced coffees with the calm energy of someone who has done this fifty times before. “meg, sweetie, you can’t just compliment someone’s elbows. that’s serial killer energy.”
“i’m aware!” megan flails dramatically. “do you think i wanted to say it? no! my brain short-circuited, and now eunchae probably thinks i have an elbow fetish.”
“i mean,” lara says, straight-faced, “do you?”
“fuck you.”
you try to focus on your book, really you do, but their voices keep carrying and now you’re invested against your will.
megan groans again, this time smacking her forehead against the table. “i’m never gonna get this right. i’m doomed. eunchae’s never gonna look at me without thinking about goddamn elbows.”
lara spins lazily in her chair, eyes scanning the room until they land directly on you. you freeze like she just caught you doing something illegal.
“oh my god,” lara says slowly, devil’s grin spreading. “what about her?”
“what about who?” megan mumbles into the table.
lara points. right at you. “her. yn. she’s, like, perfectly put together. maybe she can teach you not to sound like a fucking idiot.”
you blink. “excuse me?”
megan jerks her head up so fast her pink streaks practically whip. her eyes land on you, and she points before she can stop herself.
“wait—you’re yn, right? oh my god, i’ve seen you in class. you’re, like… the girl who always has her notes color-coded and shit.”
you blink. “i—what?”
lara grins. “yeah, that’s her. yn could probably run a small country with her planner.”
“exactly!” megan slaps the table like she’s just solved world hunger. “you’re perfect! you actually know how to use words like a normal person. please, help me before i tell eunchae she’s got… i don’t know, nice kneecaps or some shit.”
lara is losing her mind beside her. sophia just sips her coffee and shakes her head.
“you don’t want me,” you say flatly. “i’m not—”
“yes we do,” lara cuts in, grinning like she’s just thrown you to the wolves. “come on, yn. do us all a favor. you look like you could teach someone how to flirt in a powerpoint presentation.”
“you’re such a bitch,” you shoot back.
lara smirks. “i know.”
megan leans closer, hands clasped like she’s praying. “please. i’m desperate. one more flop and eunchae’s gonna get me banned from campus.”
sophia pats your arm gently, mom-friend mode activated. “she’s not exaggerating.”
you stare at them. at megan’s wide, hopeful eyes. at lara’s smug little grin. at sophia, who looks like she already knows you’re going to cave.
and against every ounce of common sense, you say: “fine. but no elbows.”
“deal!” megan beams so brightly you have to look away.
—
step 1: confidence & compliments
you’re starting to think you’ve made the worst decision of your life.
somehow you’ve become megan skiendiel’s dating coach.
you tell yourself it’s temporary, one little favor, and then you can go back to being the quiet, slightly bitter girl in the library. but now you’re standing on the quad, and megan is bouncing on her toes like this is the olympics. lara and sophia sit nearby with all the smug energy of judges waiting to give scores.
“alright, so.” you cross your arms, trying to sound like you actually know what you’re doing. “step one is basic introduction. nothing complicated. no weird body part comments.”
megan gasps. “you say that like i’m gonna do it again.”
“you are gonna do it again,” lara says. “you’re incapable of being normal.”
“fuck you, lara,” megan shoots back.
“love you too, babe.” lara blows her a kiss.
sophia nudges your arm. “don’t worry, yn, you’ll get used to them. eventually.”
you’re not sure if that’s comforting.
“okay,” you say, rubbing your temple. “practice. megan, pretend i’m eunchae. you’re walking up to me after class. go.”
megan instantly straightens her spine, face brightening like she’s about to deliver a speech to the nation. “hi, uh… nice shirt! it really, um, compliments your… torso?”
you close your eyes. “megan.”
lara is already doubled over, wheezing. “torso! oh my god, you’re actually insane.”
“what?!” megan throws her hands out. “torsos are underrated! people always go for eyes, hair, whatever. no one appreciates the torso!”
“because it sounds like you’re about to dissect someone,” sophia says flatly.
megan groans, dragging her hands down her face. “ugh. fine. redo.” she shakes her shoulders out, takes a deep breath, and looks at you again. “hi. i liked what you said in class today. it… made me think about stuff.”
you tilt your head. “…that’s actually decent.”
her eyes widen. “really?”
“yeah. just… keep it casual. no one expects you to come up with a sonnet on the spot.”
lara pouts. “booo. boring. where’s the spice?”
“do you want her to crash and burn?” you snap.
“yes,” lara says without hesitation.
sophia elbows her. “ignore her. megan, try again, but less panicky this time.”
megan inhales dramatically, then lets it out and softens her smile. “hey. you seemed really into the debate earlier. i thought that was cool.”
there’s something steady in the way she says it this time, less like a girl fighting for her life, more like a person who actually gives a shit.
you nod slowly. “better. keep that tone.”
megan beams like you just handed her a gold medal. “fuck yeah. see, i’m getting it.”
“one (1) normal line does not equal success,” you say, but your lips twitch.
lara groans. “this is taking too long. just let her compliment eunchae’s elbows already.”
“lara.” sophia smacks her arm.
“fine, fine. god. fun police.”
—
the first real test comes the next day after class.
you’re pretending to read your notes when you hear megan whisper, “okay, okay, it’s happening,” like she’s about to storm a battlefield.
sophia nudges her forward. lara snickers like she’s watching a live prank show.
you keep your head down, but your ears perk.
megan walks right up to eunchae, who’s packing her bag. “hey. um…” she pauses, and you swear you can feel the entire quad hold its breath. “i thought what you said earlier was really cool. about, y’know, the reading? i, uh, actually looked it up after.”
there’s silence. then eunchae looks up, blinking in surprise. “oh. really? that’s… wow. thanks. most people don’t care.”
megan shrugs, suddenly casual in a way she wasn’t with you. “nah, i think you explained it really well.”
and then—eunchae smiles.
megan looks like she just discovered oxygen for the first time. “uh—anyway, yeah. cool. see you later.”
she scurries back to sophia and lara like a soldier retreating to base, face red, grin unstoppable.
sophia claps her hands. “she did it! no elbows!”
lara whistles. “not bad, meg. still think ‘nice torso’ would’ve been iconic, though.”
megan practically bounces in place. “did you see that?! she smiled! holy shit, she smiled at me!”
you keep your eyes glued to your notebook, trying not to laugh at how giddy she is.
sophia leans toward you, whispering, “see? you’re a good teacher.”
you roll your eyes, but you don’t argue.
—
step 2: shared interests
you flip to the next page of your notes, tapping the end of your pen against the margin. “alright, step two,” you say, glancing at megan. “shared interests. the whole point is finding something you both like, so you actually have something to talk about. otherwise it feels… shallow.”
megan leans forward on her elbows, hair falling in her face. “sounds easy enough.”
“it’s not just about asking random questions,” you continue, ignoring the way lara is already smirking like she’s watching a bad sitcom unfold. “it’s about listening and connecting. like, if she says she likes hiking, don’t just nod. ask where she hikes. swap a story. show her you actually care.”
megan wiggles her eyebrows. “so, pretend to care. got it.”
“no—” you groan, dragging your hand down your face. “not pretend. actually care.”
lara snorts from the couch. “good luck teaching her that.”
“i do care!” megan shoots back, indignant. “i’m literally here trying to learn.”
sophia hums from her corner chair, rummaging through her bottomless purse. “mmh. she’s got a point.” she pulls out a protein bar and tosses it onto the table like a dealer throwing cards. “but yn’s right. sincerity matters.”
you nod, turning back to megan. “so. let’s practice. ask me.”
her brows lift. “ask you what?”
“about my interests. pretend i’m eunchae.”
megan groans dramatically but straightens up, putting on a mock-serious face. “alright. yn, what are your interests?”
you pause, caught off guard by how direct it sounds, but answer anyway. “uh. i like video games. pokémon, mostly. also… music. musicals, actually.”
megan’s eyes light up. “no way, pokémon? like, the actual games or just the little creatures?”
“both,” you admit, trying not to sound sheepish. “i grew up with them.”
“same,” she says, grinning so wide her pink streaks practically glow under the overhead lights. “i still play—though i always end up picking the wrong starter and regretting it.”
“there’s no wrong starter,” you argue automatically. “they all have strengths.”
“picking charmander in gen one was definitely a mistake,” she counters, leaning closer like she’s challenging you.
“okay, fair,” you concede, and for some reason your chest warms at the way she laughs.
“and games in general, huh?” megan adds. “i didn’t peg you for the gaming type. thought you were, like, strictly academic.”
you shrug. “everyone needs a break from studying.”
lara whistles. “oh, the valedictorian’s a nerd. shocking.”
you roll your eyes, but megan just beams, like she’s found a hidden treasure.
“what about music?” she presses. “what musicals?”
before you can answer, she adds quickly, “i dance, by the way. so musicals are kind of my thing too.”
you tilt your head, surprised. “you dance?”
“yep.” she pops the ‘p’ like it’s the easiest confession in the world. “been doing it since high school. hip hop, contemporary, whatever i can get my hands on. it’s… kinda my favorite way to de-stress.”
you nod slowly. “that makes sense. explains why you’re always bouncing around like you’ve had three cups of coffee.”
lara chuckles. “she doesn’t need caffeine. she’s chaos-powered.”
“rude,” megan mutters, then turns back to you. “so, musicals?”
“wicked,” you say without hesitation. “and hadestown.”
that’s when sophia perks up from across the room, her face brightening. “did you say hadestown?”
you blink. “yeah.”
“oh my god, finally someone else who gets it.” sophia practically leaps across the space to join the table, purse still dangling from her arm. “everyone else rolls their eyes when i bring it up. you like wicked and hadestown? yn, we’re besties now.”
“hey,” megan protests, pointing dramatically between you two. “don’t just steal her like that.”
sophia ignores her, clasping your hand like you’ve made a blood pact. “i saw the tour last year. cried my eyes out.”
“same,” you say, grinning despite yourself. “the soundtrack wrecks me every time.”
“finally,” sophia sighs. “someone cultured.”
megan throws her arms up. “i’m literally right here!”
lara laughs so hard she almost falls off the couch. “god, i love this group dynamic. meg versus everyone else.”
you catch yourself laughing too, the sound bubbling up more freely than you’d expected. it feels… nice. warm. like being folded into something bigger than yourself.
later that night, megan takes her newfound confidence and goes to try it out on eunchae.
you’re tucked at a nearby table, pretending to read, though your eyes keep drifting.
“so, what about you?” megan asks, her voice a little too bright. “what’re your hobbies? stuff you’re into?”
eunchae tilts her head, considering. “i like painting. and volunteering. but not really games or musicals or… you know.” she gives a polite smile. “those just never clicked with me.”
you glance back down at your book. the words blur.
“oh, cool, cool,” megan says quickly, nodding too fast. “that’s… yeah, that’s great.”
you shouldn’t care. you tell yourself that. she’s practicing. that’s the whole point of this stupid five-step plan.
but the way her brightness falters—the way her grin strains for just a second before she pastes it back on—it sits wrong with you. like a pebble in your shoe.
you grit your teeth and refocus on the same sentence you’ve been reading for ten minutes. “not my problem,” you whisper under your breath.
by the time eunchae excuses herself, megan trudges back to your table, groaning into her arms.
“failed. again. kill me.”
lara smirks. “did you at least try not to sound like a malfunctioning toaster this time?”
“yes,” megan snaps, muffled against the desk.
“small victories,” lara deadpans.
sophia slides a granola bar in front of her. “here. eat.”
megan peeks up, grabs it like it’s life-saving, and takes a giant bite.
you clear your throat, forcing yourself to sound detached. “maybe just… try another angle next time. find something else to connect over.”
megan glances at you, crumbs stuck to her lip, and grins weakly. “thanks, coach.”
you look away, focusing on your notes again.
and when the table erupts back into its usual chaos—lara roasting, sophia fussing, megan flailing—you let yourself laugh along. but that little twist in your chest? it doesn’t leave.
you shove it down, hard.
—
step 3: vulnerability
the cafeteria is loud in the way cafeterias always are—trays clattering, people calling across tables, laughter echoing too sharply against too much tile. you’re halfway through stabbing at a bowl of rice you didn’t really want when chaos starts three tables over.
at first it’s just noise, a crash of voices and chairs scraping back too fast. then you see it: sophia strutting—yes, strutting—across the cafeteria with a slipper raised in one hand like some kind of divine weapon. her eyes are locked on a freshman boy who’s already halfway to the doors, panicked arms flailing as if the slipper might actually take his soul.
“you think you can talk shit about my friend, huh?” sophia calls out, tone scarily calm for someone brandishing footwear. “say it again. i dare you.”
the freshman squeaks. it’s a sound you didn’t know grown humans could make. he trips over a chair leg and nearly eats floor before scrambling back up and sprinting for the exit. sophia doesn’t even chase—she just follows in this deliberate, almost elegant march, slipper still lifted.
the entire cafeteria watches in silence.
megan doesn’t even blink. she’s sitting across from you, picking at fries, pink streaks falling into her face like none of this is worth a reaction. “oooh that guy is so cooked.” she claims.
lara leans back in her chair, arms crossed, completely unfazed. “it’s a cultural reset every time she does it.”
you whip your head toward them, eyes wide. “what the fuck do you mean ‘every time’?!”
lara shrugs, cool as hell. “normal tuesday.”
“normal tuesday?!” you repeat, choking on your own voice. “she literally just—she just threatened a freshman with a shoe!”
“slipper,” megan corrects without missing a beat, dipping a fry in ketchup. “there’s a difference.”
you gape at her, searching for even a shred of disbelief in her face, but there’s nothing. absolutely nothing. both her and lara are calm like this is routine, like cafeteria slipper assaults happen biweekly.
“you people are insane,” you mutter, but your fork hovers forgotten in midair, because you can’t tear your eyes away from sophia, who’s finally lowering the slipper, satisfied. she tucks it under her arm like a general sheathing her sword.
as sophia makes her way back to the table, lara lifts her soda can in salute. “majestic as always.”
sophia drops back into her seat with a sigh, slipper thunking onto the table. “he called lara scary. like he thought she couldn’t hear him. stupid.”
lara smirks. “i am scary, though.”
“yeah,” sophia agrees serenely, “but that’s our scary, not for him to say.”
you press your palms into your eyes. “i’m surrounded by lunatics.”
“you’ll get used to it,” megan says cheerfully, like you’ve already signed some invisible contract.
the group breaks into laughter—sophia all soft giggles, lara sharp and biting, megan bright enough to make the air hum. somehow, impossibly, you find yourself laughing too, even though your brain is still trying to process slipper warfare as an accepted part of daily life.
lara’s still smirking, sipping her soda, when megan leans across the table toward you. “so what’s next, professor yn? what’s the magical step three in this love boot camp?”
you snort, almost choke on your rice. “first of all, don’t call it a boot camp. second—fine. this one’s about… vulnerability.”
“vulnerability?” sophia repeats, eyebrows raised.
“yeah.” you twirl your fork for emphasis. “like, sharing something you don’t usually tell people. insecurities, fears, whatever. the messy stuff. it’s about making space to be real, so the other person feels safe being real too. no masks, no fake coolness.”
lara barks a laugh. “so basically trauma dumping, but make it romantic?”
you shoot her a glare. “not trauma dumping. there’s a difference. it’s sharing, not unloading.”
sophia hums thoughtfully, resting her chin in her hand. “actually, that makes sense. you can’t really build closeness without honesty.”
megan’s grin is instant, wide and mischievous. “so i just walk up to eunchae like, ‘hey, fun fact, i cry whenever i see sad dog movies’? that’ll work?”
“oh my god,” you groan, dragging your palms down your face. “no. jesus. you don’t lead with that. you ease into it, naturally.”
lara leans back, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself. “this i gotta see.”
eventually, sophia checks her phone and groans. “ugh, i promised my cousin i’d help her move her crap. lara, you’re coming.”
lara makes a face. “why me?”
“because you’re tall,” sophia replies simply, already standing.
lara groans louder but follows anyway, flipping you a mock salute on her way out. “good luck babysitting her,” she mutters, jerking her chin toward megan.
and just like that, you’re alone with her.
the cafeteria hums around you, but suddenly it feels quieter, emptier.
megan taps her fingers against the table. “so… vulnerability, huh?”
“yep.” you sip your drink, eyeing her carefully. “you game?”
she tilts her head, pink streaks catching the light. “depends. you gonna go first or should i?”
you hesitate, then sigh. “fine. i’ll start. keep it fair.”
she leans in, suddenly serious.
you exhale. “i… don’t really connect with people easily. like, i can smile and be polite, sure, but it’s… shallow. i get awkward fast. i don’t have a ton of close friends. and sometimes it feels like… like i’m on the outside of everything, no matter how hard i try.”
megan’s grin fades into something softer. she doesn’t laugh or tease. “that sounds lonely.”
“yeah,” you mutter, stabbing your fries again.
“thanks for telling me,” she says, voice low but warm.
you glance at her, caught off guard by how genuine she looks.
then she takes a deep breath. “okay. my turn.” she fidgets with the straw wrapper in her hand. “i’ve got dyslexia. and i hate it. like, really hate it. words just… blur sometimes, and reading long stuff feels like climbing a mountain. i joke about it, cover it up with sunshine crap, but it gets in my head. makes me feel dumb. and i know i’m not, but… try telling my brain that.”
the cafeteria noise fades a little. you watch her, heart tugging.
“megan…” you start.
she shrugs quickly, trying to lighten it. “dancing helps. like, my body doesn’t betray me the way words do. and making people laugh helps too. if they’re laughing, they’re not noticing me struggling with a textbook, y’know?”
you want to say something, but the words stick. instead, you nod slowly. “that… makes a lot of sense.”
you clear your throat, fingers twisting in your lap. “megan, you’re not stupid.” it slips out before you can stop it, earnest and firm. “you’re… you’re one of the smartest people i know, actually. just… not in the same way.”
her lips curve, but it’s a small, fragile thing. “thanks.”
there’s a beat of silence, then she tilts her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “your turn.”
you blink. “what?”
“vulnerability, remember? i went. now you go.”
shit. you should’ve seen this coming. you fiddle with the edge of your tray, trying to find words that don’t sound pathetic out loud. “fine,” you mutter eventually. “i… i’m not great with people. like, connecting. i’m organized and smart and whatever, but it doesn’t really matter when you can’t… talk to people right. i get awkward. i don’t have many friends. sometimes i feel like i’m just… outside everything. like i’m always the extra, the background character.”
you laugh, sharp and self-deprecating. “danielle used to call me a robot. said i didn’t have feelings. and i guess… sometimes i believe her.”
megan’s chair screeches as she leans forward, eyes blazing. “okay, first of all, fuck danielle.”
you startle at the sudden heat in her voice.
“seriously,” she continues, voice low but fierce. “you’re one of the most caring people i’ve met. you care so much it practically leaks out of you. awkward or not, you’re… real. and if danielle couldn’t see that? that’s her loss. not yours.”
something in your chest twists painfully, and you look away, blinking hard. “you’re too good at this,” you mutter.
“nah,” she says, leaning back with a grin that tries to lighten the weight. “i’m just honest.”
the two of you sit there, silence stretching but not uncomfortable. it’s softer than you’d expected, this moment—like you’d cracked yourselves open and somehow found the other person wasn’t looking to break, but to understand.
and then—because timing is cruel—eunchae walks into the cafeteria.
megan’s head snaps up instantly, and you watch as she straightens, energy shifting like someone flipped a switch. “oh shit, okay. time to try it for real.”
you force a smile, shoving the ache in your chest into a tiny locked box. “go for it.”
megan strides over to eunchae with a wave that’s just this side of awkward. you watch from your seat, tray untouched, as they start talking.
“hi eunchae!”
eunchae blinks, then smiles. “oh—hi, megan.”
“need help?” megan gestures at the tray like it’s a heroic task.
eunchae laughs lightly. “i think i can manage, thanks.” but she lets megan fall into step beside her anyway.
they find an open spot, and megan, nerves buzzing, blurts out: “so, uh, random question. do you ever… like… hide stuff? not, like, stolen silverware. i mean insecurities.”
eunchae tilts her head, surprised. “that’s… a random question.”
megan laughs nervously. “yeah, i guess i’m trying to be more real these days. not just jokes, y’know? i, uh… i’ve got dyslexia. reading long stuff feels like climbing a wall half the time. i usually cover it up with humor, but… yeah.”
eunchae’s eyes soften. “that must be hard.”
megan shrugs. “eh. dancing helps. makes me feel capable again.”
“that’s really brave to share,” eunchae says gently.
megan swallows, searching her face. “what about you? something real?”
eunchae stirs her soup thoughtfully. “i guess i… hate letting people down. i try to meet everyone’s expectations, and sometimes i lose track of what i actually want. i don’t usually admit that.”
megan nods quickly. “that’s… yeah. i get that.”
but the silence after stretches. polite. kind. flat.
from across the cafeteria, you watch, and something sharp twists in your chest.
lara isn’t here to make a comment this time. sophia isn’t here to soften the edges.
it’s just you, watching megan’s smile falter for half a second before she pastes it back on.
you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. you tell yourself you don’t care.
but your spoon trembles just slightly in your hand.
—
step 4: ask them out
you’re sitting in the cafeteria with megan, lara, and sophia, and honestly, it’s chaos as usual. trays are half-covered in fries, lara’s stabbing her fork like it’s a weapon, and megan is tapping her pink-streaked bangs against the table like she’s about to explode.
“alright, so, step four,” you say, trying to sound patient while you shove your notes aside. “this one’s about actually asking someone out. the… y’know, date invitation step.”
megan immediately groans, dropping her head into her hands. “oh my god. i’m gonna combust. i can’t even say hi to eunchae without sounding like i’ve swallowed a bee, and now you expect me to be like, hey, wanna go grab dinner?”
lara snorts, leaning back in her chair. “please. you’d be lucky if it just sounded like a bee. last time it was more like a goat choking.”
“excuse you—” megan whips her head up, scandalized, but sophia pats her arm gently before it can escalate.
“no, but lara’s right,” sophia says, soft but mischievous. “you panic too much. you need practice. real practice.” she glances at you for a second, and you swear there’s a glint in her eyes like she’s plotting. “what if you went on a practice date first?”
megan blinks. “with who? i can’t exactly bribe some stranger—”
lara smirks, already pointing her fork straight at you. “oh, that’s easy. yn.”
you choke on your drink. “what?”
“what,” megan echoes, nearly knocking over her plate.
lara waves her fork like it’s obvious. “c’mon. yn’s organized, she knows the steps, she’s… not terrible company—”
“wow, thanks,” you deadpan.
“—so it makes sense. she’ll keep you from flopping. also,” lara adds, grinning now, “i wanna see you two go on a fake date. that sounds hilarious.”
sophia swats her arm but doesn’t deny it. instead she looks at you, steady and encouraging. “it makes sense though, right? yn already knows what you’re trying to do. if you practice with her, you won’t feel like you’re gonna die in front of eunchae.”
megan turns to you like you’re her lifeline, eyes wide. “would you… actually do that? like—just for practice?”
your brain screams no, but your mouth says, “yeah, sure. practice.”
lara claps her hands. “perfect. let’s set it up before either of you chickens out.”
you and megan share a look across the table, both of you trying to play it cool, both failing miserably.
—
you don’t know why you said yes.
actually, you do. because lara wouldn’t fucking shut up about it.
“if we’re doing practice dates, we’re doing them right,” she declared last night, standing in your doorway like she was about to pitch a pyramid scheme. “a whole day. full girlfriend package.”
you almost slammed the door in her face. “don’t call it that.”
but now it’s saturday afternoon, and you’re regretting every life choice that led you to following megan into an arcade that smells like stale popcorn and broken dreams.
the place is buzzing. neon lights flash, coins clatter, kids scream at machines. megan’s eyes light up like she’s found her natural habitat.
“holy shit, skee-ball,” she says, already fishing tokens out of her pocket.
“megan, we’re not—”
“yes we are.” she grabs your wrist, drags you over.
before you can protest, she’s launching balls like she’s in the fucking olympics, racking up tickets while you can barely get yours into the ramp.
“this is rigged,” you mutter as another ball bounces pathetically into the gutter.
“nah, you just suck.” she smirks, her machine spitting out tickets. “date tip number one: always let the other person win at least once. it’s called generosity.”
“you’re not letting me win.”
“yeah, but i could. that’s what counts.”
you’re still grumbling when she drags you to dance dance revolution.
“absolutely not.”
“absolutely yes.” coins clink, the screen flashes, and suddenly you’re on the platform as techno music blares.
megan stomps like she’s performing in front of a stadium. you, meanwhile, look like a malfunctioning pigeon.
she’s laughing so hard she nearly misses a step. “holy fuck, yn, you dance like you’re trying to summon satan.”
“shut up! i’m trying!”
“trying to break the machine, maybe!”
you nearly trip off the edge. she’s howling.
by the time you finally stumble away, sweaty and humiliated, she buys you a consolation soda and shoves a tiny pikachu keychain into your hand.
“for effort,” she says casually.
you blink. “…you won this?”
“duh. you weren’t gonna.” she shrugs, sipping her soda. “don’t make it weird.”
you slip the keychain into your pocket, hiding the way your chest feels weirdly warm.
dinner ends up at a little diner near campus. megan props her chin in her hands, staring at the menu like it’s a math exam.
“what’re you getting?” she asks.
“burger, probably. easy.”
“wow. safe choice.” she smirks. “you don’t strike me as a plain burger girl.”
“and what do i strike you as?”
“mmm…” she taps her chin theatrically. “spicy noodles. or like… something with way too much cheese.”
“you’re not wrong,” you admit, and she beams like she’s won a prize.
the food comes fast, and conversation drifts. she tells you about how she used to sneak into arcades as a kid, you mention how you once beat a rhythm game on expert mode, she groans dramatically again.
“god, you’re such a nerd.”
“takes one to know one,” you retort, and she laughs so loud the table behind you turns to stare.
—
back at your dorm, the air feels too still without sophia’s constant humming in the background. megan barges in like she owns the place, tossing her bag onto the chair and immediately flopping across your bed with the grace of a starfish.
“movie night,” she declares, muffled into your pillow. “your bed is comfier than mine. i’m not sorry.”
“you didn’t even ask,” you say, exasperated, but you’re already pulling up the streaming app.
“consider this… my tax for being emotionally traumatized by air hockey,” she says, rolling onto her back with a dramatic sigh.
“you were the one who suggested it,” you remind her, but she only sticks her tongue out.
you throw a blanket over her face. she squeaks, flails, then yanks it off, glaring. “unnecessary violence! i’m a guest!”
“you’re impossible,” you mutter, trying not to laugh.
the movie starts, the glow painting the room in shifting blues and golds. megan pulls the blanket around herself like a cape, then gestures for you to sit. “c’mon. floor goblin or couch potato, pick your poison.”
with a resigned sigh, you sit beside her. somehow, the blanket ends up draped over both of you.
at first, it’s easy. the two of you heckle the opening scene, argue over the main character’s outfit, toss popcorn at each other like children.
“that’s not how swords work!” megan yells.
“you’ve never even touched a sword,” you shoot back.
“i’ve touched chopsticks. same vibe.”
you snort so hard popcorn almost comes out your nose.
half an hour in, though, the noise settles. your laughter tapers into quieter giggles. the blanket shifts, your knees brushing hers. it should mean nothing—just a crowded dorm bed, just two people sharing space. but the way your pulse jumps makes it feel like the entire world shrank down to this one spot.
at one point, she spills soda on herself, yelps, “betrayal!” and waves her hands like she’s been mortally wounded.
“you’re so dramatic,” you say, grabbing her a hoodie from your closet.
she pulls it on, sniffing the collar. “wow. smells like you.”
your brain short-circuits. “shut up.”
“no, really. comfy.” she burrows into it like a cat. “10/10 would steal again.”
you roll your eyes, but your chest feels too warm, too tight.
the movie keeps playing, but your focus drifts. you notice the way her hair curls slightly at the ends, the way her laugh softens when she’s not trying to be loud, the way her knee keeps pressing against yours like she’s forgotten she could move away.
megan leans forward during an intense scene, eyes wide, lips parted. the blanket slips, and without thinking, you tug it back over her shoulders.
she glances at you, a small smile flickering. “thanks.”
simple. ordinary. but it lingers.
“you know,” she says after a long stretch of silence, “if this was a real date, i think i’d be killing it.”
you raise an eyebrow. “you spilled soda on yourself.”
“battle scars,” she says solemnly. “chicks dig ‘em.”
you snort. “you’re ridiculous.”
“and yet you’re still here,” she teases, nudging your shoulder.
“only because this is practice,” you shoot back, but your voice doesn’t carry as much bite as it should.
her grin softens into something quieter. “practice. right.”
the room feels different after that. the jokes don’t come as easily. the silence isn’t empty—it’s loaded, heavy in your chest.
on screen, the characters are confessing, music swelling. beside you, megan shifts closer without realizing, her head tilting toward yours.
you turn to make a comment, and suddenly she’s right there.
her breath brushes your lips. her eyes flick down, then back up, wide and uncertain.
for a suspended heartbeat, the world holds its breath.
this could happen. this almost does happen.
your heart slams against your ribs so loud you’re sure she hears it.
then she jerks back, laughing too loudly. “uh—popcorn! you, uh, dropped some.”
you blink, dazed. “right. yeah. popcorn.”
the rest of the movie is a blur. neither of you look directly at the screen. every brush of the blanket feels like static, every laugh feels like it’s covering something heavier.
when the credits roll, megan stretches like nothing happened, though her ears are pink. “so, uh. practice date… success?”
“sure,” you say, trying to sound casual. “yeah. success.”
“cool. cool cool cool.” she edges toward the door, hoodie still hanging off her shoulders. “goodnight then.”
“goodnight.”
the door clicks shut, and you collapse backward onto the bed, heart racing, the smell of popcorn and her shampoo still tangled in the blanket between your fingers.
—
the morning after the movie night feels… weird.
you run into megan in the cafeteria. she’s already at the table with lara and sophia, stirring her cereal with a spoon like she’s mixing cement. her hoodie’s hood is pulled halfway up, and her pink streaks are sticking out at odd angles.
when her eyes flick up to meet yours, both of you freeze.
“uh,” she says.
“uh,” you echo, because apparently your brain has forgotten every word in the english language.
lara blinks between the two of you. “why do you two sound like broken printers?”
“we don’t,” you say too quickly.
“totally normal,” megan adds, stabbing her cereal so hard milk splashes onto the table.
sophia raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. instead, she just pops a grape into her mouth and hums like she knows something you don’t.
you’re halfway through your food when eunchae walks in. she waves at the group, smile bright.
megan perks up instantly, almost knocking her spoon over. “hey, eunchae!”
your stomach does a weird twist, but you keep your face neutral, biting into your toast.
eunchae slides into the empty seat across from megan. “hey, what’s up?”
“uh—” megan scratches the back of her neck, then blurts, “do you… wanna go out sometime? like, on a date?”
you choke on your toast.
lara smacks your back helpfully. “smooth, yn.”
“shut up,” you hiss, face burning.
eunchae tilts her head, then smiles. “sure. i’d like that.”
megan looks like she’s just won the lottery. “really? awesome.”
“yay,” you say, forcing a grin that feels plastered on. “go megan, go. you got this.” your voice cracks halfway through, but you pray no one notices.
megan beams. eunchae beams. and you sip your orange juice like it might drown the strange, heavy ache curling in your chest.
—
the date itself is a nightmare. not for megan, not for eunchae—oh no, they look perfectly fine, laughing and chatting as they stroll into the arcade. it’s a nightmare for you, because you’re lurking two machines away with a boba tea in hand, trying to look invisible.
“wow, yn, real subtle,” lara had muttered earlier when you admitted you might ‘just happen to be there.’ sophia had rolled her eyes and muttered something in tagalog that you didn’t understand but definitely wasn’t flattering.
you stick to the shadows anyway.
megan’s competitive streak kicks in immediately, dragging eunchae toward skee-ball. “okay, i’m warning you, i’m basically a pro at this,” she says.
she proceeds to miss the first three shots. eunchae laughs, covering her mouth, and offers a tip. megan grins sheepishly.
you sip your boba so hard the tapioca pearls nearly choke you.
dinner is worse. they get pizza at the same place you and megan had gone. you sit at a corner table with your drink, pretending to scroll your phone while watching them.
they talk, they smile, they share breadsticks. and you realize you’re not just uncomfortable—you’re jealous. bitterly, painfully jealous.
you hate how natural megan looks leaning across the table. you hate how she lights up at eunchae’s stories. you hate that someone else gets to see her like this.
halfway through the meal, you can’t take it anymore. you toss your empty cup, shove your hands into your pockets, and leave.
megan’s eyes flick toward the door as you walk out, but she doesn’t move.
the rest of the date plays out fine—pizza, laughter, a stroll under streetlights. but for megan, something feels… off. she can’t shake the hollowness, the nagging thought that it’s fun, it’s nice, but it’s not sparking. not the way it did when she was yelling about popcorn with you the night before.
when eunchae says goodnight, megan smiles, thanks her, but her head’s somewhere else.
—
you’re curled up on your bed when the door bangs open and megan storms in like she owns the place. she’s flushed from the night air, hair frizzed around her face, pink streak catching the light. she doesn’t even hesitate—just slams the door shut behind her and plants herself in the middle of your dorm like she’s about to demand rent.
“hey,” she says, voice breathless but sharp.
you don’t look up from the book in your lap. “hey.” flat. clipped. a shield of a word.
she crosses her arms. “you left.”
“yeah.” you flick a page you haven’t read. “i was tired.”
“don’t give me that.” her tone cuts through the room. “you didn’t even say goodbye. you just—vanished.”
“you were busy.”
“so?” she takes a step closer, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the tile. “you could’ve tapped me on the shoulder, said, ‘hey, i’m going.’ that’s what normal people do, yn.”
your jaw tightens. “maybe i’m not normal.”
she blinks. “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“it means—” you slam the book shut, the sound ricocheting between the walls. “—maybe i don’t make sense to you. maybe that’s just how it is.”
her mouth opens, then snaps shut, frustration flaring across her face. “no, no, don’t do that cryptic bullshit with me. i’m not a mind reader. if something’s wrong, just say it.”
you throw the book onto your desk, the pages fluttering open. “what do you want me to say, megan? that i didn’t feel like third-wheeling your little romcom with eunchae? that maybe watching you smile across a table with someone else felt like—” you cut yourself off, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek. the words you don’t want spilling out are pressing hot and heavy at the back of your throat.
megan stares, eyes narrowing, trying to piece you together. “felt like what?”
you shake your head, forcing your voice cold. “forget it.”
her hands fly up, exasperated. “god, you’re impossible sometimes! you shut me out and then act like i’m the one not trying.”
“maybe you aren’t trying hard enough!” the words leap out before you can stop them, raw and jagged.
her mouth falls open. the silence that follows is deafening.
you swallow, guilt twisting in your gut, but your pride won’t let you take it back. “just drop it, okay? i don’t wanna do this right now.”
megan’s jaw clenches. her eyes shine, hurt and confusion flashing beneath the anger. “fine. whatever.”
she turns on her heel and yanks the door open. the slam rattles the walls, and then she’s gone, leaving nothing but the echo and the ragged pounding of your own heartbeat.
you sit frozen, every nerve buzzing, every unsaid word pressing like glass shards against your chest. you press your palms to your face, but it doesn’t stop the sting or the hollow ache spreading through you.
the dorm feels too quiet. too empty. and for the first time in a long time, you feel small.
—
the morning after feels like sandpaper against your skin. your alarm shrieks at 8:00, but you’ve already been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling and replaying every word from last night until they blur together like static.
megan’s voice, sharp and hurt.
your own, sharper and meaner.
the door slam.
you drag yourself out of bed anyway, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, the weight of exhaustion clinging like fog.
sophia’s already up, perched at her desk, humming softly while brushing her hair. when she catches sight of you, her humming stops. her brows pinch together.
“you look like someone ran you over,” she says, voice gentle, but the words land like a mother’s scolding.
“thanks,” you mutter, grabbing your toothbrush.
“yn.” she swivels in her chair, crossing her arms. “want to talk about why you’re radiating doom energy this early?”
you freeze at the doorway, toothbrush in hand, debating whether to lie. “just… tired.”
sophia raises an eyebrow. “tired, or the kind of tired where you fought with megan and now you’re spiraling?”
your stomach knots. you glare weakly. “do you have to be so psychic?”
she smirks, but it’s soft around the edges. “i’m not psychic. i just know you. and you’ve got that post-fight slump face.”
before you can respond, the door creaks open again, and lara strolls in like she owns the place. burgundy hair shining, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder. she has a coffee cup in one hand and pure judgment in her eyes.
“well, well, well,” she drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “if it isn’t the ghost of bad decisions past.”
you groan. “not you too.”
lara sips her coffee loudly, savoring the moment. “sophia texted me. said you were brooding like a victorian widow. i had to see it for myself.”
sophia swats her lightly. “stop being dramatic.”
“me? dramatic? never.” lara plops onto your bed without permission, kicking her shoes off. “so. you and meg had a blowout?”
“it wasn’t a blowout,” you snap, then sigh. “okay, maybe it was. a little.”
lara tilts her head, assessing. “what’d you do? call her an idiot? she can take that. tell her she’s bad at dancing? unforgivable.”
you bury your face in your hands. “i just… snapped. she asked why i left last night, and i couldn’t explain without…” your throat tightens. “…without saying too much.”
sophia’s gaze softens. “so you pushed her away instead.”
you nod, the weight of it pressing harder.
lara leans back, exhaling. “look, i get it. feelings are messy, terrifying, all that shit. but bottling them up until you explode? classic yn move. and now meg’s probably pacing her dorm like a golden retriever who lost her ball.”
that earns a faint laugh out of you, though it’s bitter at the edges. “great. i made her miserable.”
“and yourself.” sophia’s tone is gentle, not accusing.
you slump against your desk, forehead pressed to the cool surface. “i don’t know how to fix it.”
“start by talking to her,” sophia says. “not cryptic riddles, not sarcasm. just… talk.”
lara nudges your shoulder. “and for the love of god, don’t run away next time she looks at you like you hung the moon.”
your head snaps up. “she does not—”
lara grins. “uh-huh.”
sophia smiles knowingly, not saying a word, but the look in her eyes tells you she agrees.
you groan again, grabbing a pillow to smother yourself. the sound of your friends’ laughter fills the dorm, warm and grounding. but under it all, the ache in your chest lingers, sharp and unrelenting.
you don’t even get the chance to wallow. lara steals your pillow after your half-hearted attempt to suffocate yourself, and sophia claps her hands like a kindergarten teacher.
“up,” sophia orders. “we’re going to breakfast.”
“i’m not hungry,” you mumble, trying to wrestle your pillow back from lara, who’s now hugging it like a prize.
lara smirks. “bullshit. you’re always hungry. you sulk better with pancakes anyway.”
“seriously, i just—”
“nope.” sophia cuts you off, already grabbing her purse. “you haven’t had coffee, your face looks like death, and if i let you sit here, you’ll spiral so hard you’ll start writing sad poetry. we’re not doing that.”
“yeah,” lara says, hopping off your bed. “we’re doing carbs and intervention.”
you groan, but they’re immovable forces. before you know it, you’re trudging out the door sandwiched between them, hair messy, hoodie zipped all the way up. sophia’s arm is linked with yours, warm and steady, while lara walks a half-step ahead, tossing back commentary like she’s narrating a reality show.
the campus café buzzes with early chatter, the smell of butter and syrup thick in the air. sophia corrals you into a booth by the window, shoving a menu in your hands. lara immediately steals it.
“you’re not allowed to pick,” she says, scanning. “you’ll order something depressing like plain toast.”
“toast isn’t depressing,” you mutter.
“it is if that’s your whole meal,” lara shoots back. “you’re getting waffles. extra whipped cream. i don’t make the rules.”
sophia flags down a waiter with the calm precision of someone who always knows what she wants. “three coffees. two waffles, one omelet. thank you.”
you blink at her. “what if i didn’t want—”
“you wanted,” she says, sipping her water. “trust me.”
when the food arrives, the table fills with the kind of chaos only the three of you can manage: lara stealing your bacon, sophia sliding a protein bar across the table “just in case,” and you swatting at both of them like it’ll make a difference.
“so,” lara says around a mouthful of waffle. “what’s the game plan with meg?”
your fork freezes mid-air. “what do you mean?”
sophia leans in, eyes kind but unwavering. “yn. you two fought. she’s probably hurting. and you… well, you’re obviously hurting too.”
“i’ll survive,” you mutter.
lara snorts. “yeah, but surviving isn’t the same as fixing it.”
you frown at your plate, pushing syrup around with your fork. “i don’t even know what to say to her.”
“start with sorry,” sophia suggests. “then maybe… honest words? you’re good with words when you let yourself be.”
lara smirks. “or just send her a meme. nothing says ‘olive branch’ like a cursed cat picture.”
you roll your eyes, but a tiny laugh escapes before you can stop it. “yeah, real mature.”
“hey, it works,” lara insists. “low-stakes, opens the door. then you can actually talk.”
sophia tilts her head, watching you carefully. “she means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”
the question lands heavy in your chest. you don’t answer right away, instead stabbing at your waffle like it’s to blame for everything. “she’s… she’s my friend.” the word feels too small, too flimsy, but it’s the only one you can manage.
lara and sophia exchange a look you pointedly ignore.
“text her,” sophia says softly, sliding your phone across the table. “just… something. let her know you’re here.”
you stare at the screen, Megan’s name sitting at the top of your messages like it’s waiting. your thumb hovers, heart pounding.
lara leans back, arms crossed. “do it. or i’ll draft something myself and it’ll be way worse.”
you glare. “you wouldn’t.”
“try me.” she grins, all teeth.
a beat of silence. then, with a resigned sigh, you type out something small, neutral, stupidly safe: hey. hope you got home okay. you hit send before you can second-guess yourself.
sophia smiles, warm and approving. “see? not so bad.”
but as you shove another bite of waffle into your mouth, the weight in your chest doesn’t lighten. if anything, it presses heavier, because you know one small text isn’t enough—not when what you really want to say is clawing at the edges of your throat.
—
megan had been stabbing at her muffin for ten minutes before lara finally said something about it.
“jesus christ, meg, what did that muffin ever do to you?”
megan blinked, snapping back to the present. the fork in her hand was bent at an odd angle, crumbs scattered across the plastic tray like debris after a storm. she hadn’t even tasted the thing.
“nothing,” she muttered, dropping the fork. “i just—i’m not hungry.”
lara leaned back in her chair, balancing it precariously on two legs, eyes glittering with mischief. “you look like a cartoon villain plotting world domination over baked goods.”
“i’m fine.”
“liar,” lara sing-songed.
sophia, ever the calmer presence, sipped her coffee and gave lara a pointed look. “stop teasing her.” then, more gently to megan, “sweetheart, you’re clearly not fine. what’s going on?”
megan pressed her palms against her thighs, trying to ground herself. the cafeteria buzzed around them — students laughing, trays clattering, the sharp hiss of the coffee machine. it should’ve been background noise, but everything felt too loud, pressing in on her from all sides.
she wanted to say nothing. she wanted to swallow it down like she always did. but the weight of last night — the almost-kiss with yn, the way it had thrown her entire axis off balance — was still too fresh, too raw.
her mouth opened, then closed again.
lara’s smirk widened. “ohhh. this is about yn, isn’t it?”
megan’s head snapped up, heat flooding her cheeks. “no!”
the denial was too sharp, too fast, and both lara and sophia knew it.
lara slapped her hand dramatically on the table. “guilty!”
sophia sighed. “lara, don’t—”
“no, no, listen.” lara leaned forward, chair clattering back onto four legs. “she’s got that look. the i-almost-did-something-stupid look. am i right?”
megan groaned and dropped her forehead to the table, muffled. “i hate both of you.”
“no you don’t,” lara said cheerfully, plucking a crumb off megan’s tray. “mmm. angst-flavored carbs. delicious.”
sophia rubbed small circles on megan’s back, voice soft. “we’re not trying to make you feel bad. but, honey, avoiding it isn’t going to make it disappear.”
megan forced herself upright, crossing her arms. “you guys don’t understand. i can’t—I can’t screw this up. so… i’m going to ask eunchae out again.”
that shut both of them up.
sophia blinked. “i’m sorry, what?”
lara gawked. “that’s your solution? really?”
megan bristled. “she’s nice. she’s safe.”
lara smacked her forehead. “safe? meg, you don’t pick a date like you’re picking insurance coverage.”
“you don’t get it,” megan muttered, suddenly very interested in a crack in the table.
sophia’s tone sharpened, though it was still kind. “you don’t need safe. you need honest.”
before megan could reply, the cafeteria doors swung open, and eunchae walked in, sunlight spilling in behind her. she looked effortless, easy smile as she scanned the room. megan’s stomach dropped.
lara muttered under her breath, “oh, perfect timing.”
megan’s pulse pounded. she stood too fast, chair screeching across the floor. “uh—hey, eunchae!”
eunchae’s eyes found hers, surprised but pleased. “oh, hey, megan.”
lara and sophia both looked like they’d just been handed front-row seats to a slow-motion car crash.
megan’s throat felt dry. “do you, uh… want to go out again? like—another date?”
lara fake-coughed, “smooth,” earning herself a sharp elbow from sophia.
eunchae blinked, then gave a soft smile. “oh. um, sure. yeah, i’d like that.”
megan’s heart jumped, relief loosening her chest. “great! awesome. yeah.”
lara groaned audibly. sophia pinched the bridge of her nose.
megan ignored both.
—
the park was alive with weekend noise. kids chased each other down winding paths, couples sprawled on picnic blankets, dogs darted after frisbees. megan and eunchae found a bench under the shade of a sprawling tree, a shared bag of chips between them.
they laughed about nothing at first — professors who wore too much cologne, classmates who talked too loud, the time megan tripped on the practice room stairs and tried to style it out like a dance move. it was easy.
and that was the problem.
megan kept waiting for that little spark, that electric pull she’d read about in bad romance novels. but instead, there was just… quiet comfort. nice. safe. like talking to a friend she respected.
eunchae brushed crumbs off her lap. “so. what kind of people do you usually like?”
megan chuckled nervously, scratching the back of her neck. “uh… chaotic, apparently.”
eunchae laughed. “that tracks.”
“and you?”
“people who make me laugh without trying,” eunchae said, smiling warmly at her. “people who feel comfortable. like you.”
megan should’ve felt something then. should’ve felt her pulse quicken, should’ve lost her words. instead, she just smiled weakly and felt the hollowness in her chest widen.
they let the silence stretch.
finally, eunchae tilted her head. “megan. are you okay?”
megan sighed, shoulders sagging. “honestly? i don’t know. i thought this was what i wanted. practice. but…”
“but?”
the words came out before she could stop them. “i’ve been getting help. from yn. she’s been coaching me through all this.”
eunchae’s brows lifted. “oh. really?”
“yeah. she’s—” megan’s throat tightened. “she’s incredible. patient. funny. smart. just… yn.”
there it was, plain as day. the way her chest ached just saying your name.
eunchae studied her for a moment, then gave a small, knowing smile. “so… you don’t feel a spark with me, do you?”
megan winced. “…i’m sorry.”
“don’t be.” eunchae shook her head. “i kind of figured.”
megan blinked. “you did?”
“the way you look at her? the way she looks at you? it’s obvious.”
heat rushed to megan’s cheeks. “it is?”
“painfully,” eunchae said with a soft laugh. “but that’s not a bad thing. it just means you already know who makes you light up. it’s not me. and that’s okay.”
megan’s throat tightened, words breaking. “you’re… way too nice about this.”
“nah.” eunchae smiled, gentle as ever. “i just know when to step aside. you should tell her, megan. before it’s too late.”
megan’s chest felt heavy and light all at once. “thank you. seriously.”
“go get your girl,” eunchae said, rising from the bench with a little wave.
megan watched her go, heart hammering, eunchae’s words echoing in her head.
the night after that, megan didn’t sleep well. she tossed, she turned, she stared at the ceiling until the shapes in the plaster swirled into nonsense. every time she shut her eyes she saw eunchae’s face, kind but firm, the words replaying like a drumbeat. go get your girl. it should’ve felt like encouragement, like a green light. instead it weighed on her chest, a reminder that everyone seemed to know what she hadn’t dared say out loud.
by morning she was a mess. hair sticking out in too many directions, shirt wrinkled from falling asleep on top of it, under-eye circles dark enough to pass for war paint. she shuffled into the cafeteria with her tray, scanning for familiar faces, and spotted lara and sophia at their usual corner table.
lara spotted her first. she let out a low whistle and clapped once. “look alive, skiendiel. you look like you just wrestled a raccoon for dumpster rights.”
“shut up,” megan mumbled, dropping her tray with a clatter and collapsing into the chair beside them.
sophia took one look at her and slid her own coffee cup across the table. “drink this before lara makes it worse.”
lara leaned her chin in her hand, grinning. “megan, honey, i don’t think anything can make this worse. unless you tell me you actually confessed last night and yn laughed in your face. did that happen?”
“no,” megan snapped, then immediately deflated. “but it might as well have. eunchae knows. she told me to tell yn before it’s too late.”
sophia raised her brows. “oh.”
lara let out a bark of laughter loud enough to make the table behind them turn. “you mean she gave you the ‘go get your girl’ speech? iconic.”
“it’s not iconic,” megan groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “it’s humiliating. i’ve been stringing eunchae along while—while—”
“while you’ve been pining for yn like a sad victorian poet,” lara supplied.
“i’m not—” megan started, then stopped. because she was. oh god, she was.
sophia gave her that soft look, the one that always made megan feel both seen and unbearably vulnerable. “it’s not humiliating, love. eunchae was honest with you. she gave you space to be honest with yourself.”
“i don’t want to talk about it,” megan muttered, stabbing her fork into the eggs she didn’t want to eat.
lara plucked a piece of toast from megan’s tray, unconcerned. “cool. then let’s talk strategy.”
megan’s head shot up. “strategy?”
“yeah, genius,” lara said around a mouthful of toast. “confession strategy. the big plan. the dramatic moment where you bare your soul and yn finally realizes she’s been in love with you the whole time—”
“lara,” sophia warned.
“what? i’m just saying, if this were a k-drama, we’d be two episodes away from the finale kiss.”
megan groaned so hard her head thunked onto the table. “kill me.”
“nope.” lara kicked her under the table. “you don’t get to die until you confess. those are the rules.”
sophia slid the coffee back toward her. “megan. drink.”
she did, mostly to hide behind the cup. it burned her tongue but she didn’t care.
lara leaned back, smug. “so, step one: you stop acting like yn’s a plague victim you need to quarantine yourself from. step two: you find the right moment. not too crowded, not too quiet. somewhere she feels comfortable.”
megan lifted her head, skeptical. “and where would that be?”
sophia’s lips curved. “her dorm. her safe space. or maybe a walk. she likes parks.”
“oh my god,” megan muttered. “you two are literally plotting this like an ambush.”
lara shrugged. “better than watching you mope yourself into a tragic folk song.”
megan chewed her lip, staring at her plate. the thought of confessing made her stomach churn, but the thought of not confessing made something else twist tighter. eunchae had been right — she couldn’t keep circling forever.
sophia tilted her head, studying her. “what’s the worst that could happen?”
megan laughed, sharp and humorless. “uh, rejection? ruining everything? making her hate me?”
“or,” sophia countered gently, “the best thing could happen. you just don’t know until you try.”
lara snapped her fingers. “exactly. this is like ripping off a bandaid. except the bandaid is your entire chest cavity.”
“thanks, lara,” megan muttered.
but despite herself, she could feel something shifting. a slow, reluctant crack in the wall she’d been bricking up around her feelings. eunchae’s kindness, lara’s teasing, sophia’s quiet support — it all pressed in on her until the thought she’d been trying to avoid was suddenly impossible to ignore.
she liked yn. not in the abstract, not in a maybe-kind-of way. she liked her. wanted her. cared about her in a way that made her both exhilarated and sick with nerves.
and now everyone knew.
lara saw the look on her face and smirked, victorious. “there it is. the dawning horror of realization. welcome to the club, meg.”
“what club?”
“the club of idiots in love,” lara said cheerfully. “membership’s free, but the emotional damage is permanent.”
sophia rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “ignore her. you’re doing fine. just take it one step at a time.”
megan let her head fall back with a groan, but for the first time the noise carried a thread of laughter too. “i’m doomed.”
lara leaned across the table, stealing another piece of toast. “yep. gloriously doomed. but don’t worry — we’ll make sure your downfall is at least entertaining.”
megan didn’t know if she was ready. didn’t know if she ever would be. but with her friends flanking her, teasing and scheming and pushing her forward, she felt something like courage start to stir beneath the nerves.
she still had to face yn. still had to open her mouth and say the words that had been strangling her for weeks. but maybe — just maybe — she wasn’t as alone in this as she thought.
and that was enough to keep her sitting there, sipping burnt coffee and listening to lara and sophia argue over confession venues like two event planners on a deadline, her heart racing with something terrifyingly close to hope.
—
you hate mornings. not because of the sunlight through the dorm window or the alarm that always rings too early, but because mornings are quiet. quiet means thinking. and thinking means megan.
it’s pathetic, you tell yourself. it’s been days since the almost-kiss, days since the fight, and still she lingers in your chest like a bruise you can’t stop pressing. every time you catch yourself replaying the way her laugh slid under your skin or the way her hand brushed yours, you shake your head and bury yourself in homework. as if grades will save you from feelings.
danielle’s voice creeps in sometimes, sharp and cold. robot. no feelings. you grind your teeth against it, because you know it’s not true. if you were really heartless, you wouldn’t ache like this. you wouldn’t miss someone who drives you absolutely insane.
you tell yourself you don’t miss megan. you just… miss having someone to banter with. anyone would leave a silence behind if they were loud enough, bright enough. that’s all it is.
sophia doesn’t buy it. she comes back from class one afternoon, drops her bag, and fixes you with that too-gentle look that makes you want to hide under the desk. “you’ve been moping.”
“i don’t mope,” you say flatly, not looking up from your laptop.
“you definitely mope,” she counters, pulling a protein bar from her never-ending purse and tossing it at you. “eat. and stop pretending you don’t miss her.”
you catch the bar, scowling. “i don’t—”
“yes, you do,” sophia interrupts, with the ease of someone who’s already decided she’s right.
before you can argue, the door bangs open and lara strolls in uninvited, as usual. “jesus, this room’s depressing. what’d i miss?”
“yn denying she misses megan,” sophia supplies.
lara smirks, leaning against the wall. “classic. you know, for a valedictorian type, you’re pretty dumb sometimes.”
“don’t call me that,” you snap automatically, heat rushing to your face.
lara raises her hands in mock surrender. “fine, fine. smartypants, then. point is, you look like death warmed over. and not in your usual tired-but-pretty way.”
you want to tell them both to shut up. you want to say you don’t care. but your throat burns, traitorously tight, and you can’t make the words come out.
sophia sighs and pats your knee. “come to breakfast tomorrow. both of us. no excuses. you need air.”
you start to protest, but lara cuts in with a wicked grin. “yeah, c’mon. maybe megan’ll be there.”
your stomach drops. you glare at her. “that’s not funny.”
“oh, it’s hilarious,” lara says. “but fine, i’ll shut up. just… stop sulking like a victorian widow, yeah?”
the next morning they drag you out anyway. you shuffle into the cafeteria between them, head down, tray clutched like a shield. the place hums with chatter, too bright, too loud.
and then you see her.
megan, at a table across the room, hair pulled into a messy bun with those pink streaks slipping loose. laughing at something lara must’ve said yesterday, shoulders loose in a way that twists something in your chest. she hasn’t seen you yet, and for a split second you consider bolting.
but sophia’s hand rests lightly at your back, steady. lara mutters, “don’t you dare,” and nudges you forward.
megan looks up. her smile falters when she sees you, just for a second, then it’s back in place — too quick, too careful.
you force yourself to wave. “hey.”
“hey,” she says, and her voice wobbles like a radio station just out of tune.
lara mutters something about needing more coffee and vanishes with sophia in tow, leaving you both standing there, alone in the hum of the cafeteria.
you clear your throat. “mind if i sit?”
“no, yeah, sure,” megan says, shifting her tray like it’s suddenly too small.
the silence stretches, brittle. you stab at your eggs just to have something to do with your hands.
finally, megan exhales. “i’m sorry.”
you blink. “what?”
“about the fight,” she says, eyes on her plate. “i didn’t mean to… i don’t know. i didn’t mean for it to go like that.”
your chest loosens, just a little. “me neither.”
she risks a glance up, and for a moment it’s like nothing cracked at all. just you and her, trading apologies over bad cafeteria food, the world pressing in close but not close enough to break it.
you want to say you missed her. you want to say it so badly your tongue aches with it. instead you settle for, “truce?”
her grin blooms, lopsided and warm. “truce.”
the rest of breakfast hums along easier, small jokes and clumsy stumbles back into familiar rhythms. not perfect. not healed. but something like a start.
and you try — really try — not to wonder if maybe this is what danielle was wrong about. maybe you do feel. too much, even. maybe megan’s the proof.
—
step 5: confess
breakfast ends too quickly. you tell yourself you’re relieved — that it’s better to retreat now, while things are tentative, while the threads are only just being mended. but when megan stands and brushes crumbs from her jeans, you feel a hollow tug at your chest.
“you, uh,” she says, shifting her tray from one hand to the other. “you free? i was thinking… maybe we could walk for a bit.”
your instinct is to say no. safer to keep things short, controlled. but the way her eyes flick away, the nervous curl of her fingers against the plastic tray, makes something in you soften. so you nod.
the air outside is crisp, sunlight muted behind soft clouds. you walk side by side, not touching, the space between you humming like static. it’s easier to start with small things — the new professor lara hates, sophia’s habit of humming off-key when she’s concentrating. slowly, cautiously, you trade little pieces of normalcy, like bricks rebuilt one at a time.
“i missed this,” megan admits finally, her voice quiet but steady.
you glance at her, startled. she’s staring straight ahead, hands in her pockets.
“me too,” you say, almost a whisper.
the silence after is heavy, but not unbearable. you carry it down the path, through the faint crunch of gravel and the laughter of distant students.
eventually, you end up at the park. the same one you’d crossed a hundred times before, but today it feels different, charged. you sit on the bench, her close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her shoulder.
she kicks at the grass with the toe of her shoe, not quite looking at you. “hey, can i ask you something?”
“sure.”
“back when you were… coaching me.” her lips twitch, like she’s half embarrassed to even say it. “you walked me through all those steps. confidence, honesty, vulnerability…” she trails off, chewing her lip. “but you never said what the last one was. the final step.”
you answer almost without thinking. “confession,” you tell her. “it’s confession.” the word leaves your mouth softer than you expect, like it’s heavier than it should be.
she goes still beside you. the faint sounds of the park — someone laughing in the distance, the rustle of leaves in the breeze — feel miles away compared to the quiet between the two of you.
“confession,” she repeats, like she’s testing how it feels on her tongue. “that’s what i thought.”
you shift on the bench, suddenly aware of how close your knees are to hers. your pulse is thrumming in your throat. “yeah. it’s… it’s the hardest step.”
megan looks at you then, really looks, and it’s so raw you almost flinch. her voice comes low, steady but shaking at the edges. “then i guess it’s my turn.”
you freeze. your hands tighten in your lap. “what do you mean—”
“i mean…” she lets out a breath like she’s been holding it for weeks. “i like you. not eunchae. not anyone else. you. it’s been you the whole time, and i just—” she breaks off, shoving her hand through her hair, the pink streak catching the dim light. “i can’t keep pretending it’s not.”
the air feels thinner, like there’s not enough oxygen for your lungs. you stare at her, every muscle in your body tense, but your brain won’t catch up.
“megan…” your voice cracks, and you hate it, hate how weak it sounds.
she keeps going anyway, rushing now, afraid you’ll cut her off. “i thought maybe it was just because you were helping me, you know? like, practice stuff, all these steps, the way you’re always so patient with me. i thought i was just clinging. but it’s not just that. it’s—” her breath hitches. “it’s the way i can’t stop wanting to tell you things. the way i look for you when i walk into a room. the way my chest—” she presses her fist against it, helpless — “feels like it’s gonna burst if you smile at me for more than five seconds.”
your throat is dry, your nails digging crescents into your palms. you want to tell her to stop, you want her to keep going forever.
“megan, you don’t—”
“i do,” she cuts in, sharp but not unkind. “i do. i like you, yn. i like you so much it’s scaring the hell out of me.”
her words hit you like stones skipping over a lake, ripples spreading through every nerve in your body. you think about nj, about that night you followed them on their date like an idiot, boba cup sweating in your hand. the twist in your stomach when megan laughed at something nj said. the ache you told yourself was nothing.
you want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s confused, that it’s just because you’ve been spending so much time together. but your chest betrays you, too tight, too warm, too desperate.
she leans forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper now. “say something. please.”
your silence stretches. her face crumples just slightly, like she’s bracing herself for rejection, like she already regrets letting it out.
your silence stretches too long, heavy enough that megan’s eyes flick down, like she can’t hold your gaze anymore. her shoulders hunch the slightest bit, and you can see it — the exact moment she starts preparing herself for you to push her away.
and something in you just breaks.
you don’t think. you don’t plan. you just reach out, fingers curling in the fabric of her sleeve, tugging her toward you before your brain can scream about consequences.
the kiss collides, awkward at first — too sudden, too desperate — but it’s warm. grounding. her breath hitches against your mouth, a startled sound that turns into the softest hum as she leans into you.
it’s not fireworks. it’s not an explosion. it’s something deeper, slower, like finally letting go of a breath you’ve been holding since forever.
her hand comes up, tentative, brushing your jaw like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she touches you too hard.
your fingers are trembling when you tug her closer, so much that you half-expect her to laugh, but she doesn’t. she stumbles forward, eyes wide, and then her lips brush yours. it’s clumsy, half an accident, half a prayer, but your whole body feels like it’s been shocked awake.
she tastes faintly of peach boba and mint gum, sweet and sharp all at once. her breath shudders against your mouth, warm and uneven, and you feel the corner of her lips curl like she almost smiled mid-kiss.
her hand hovers, unsure, before settling lightly against your jaw. she’s so careful it nearly undoes you — like she’s terrified you’ll pull away, even though you’re the one who started this. your heartbeat slams against your ribs, every nerve screaming don’t let go.
you lean in again, slower this time, less panic and more ache. your noses bump clumsily, her hair tickling your cheek, but you don’t care. her lips are soft, pliant, and when she sighs into you it feels like she’s exhaling straight into your bones.
your other hand fists in her sleeve like you’re drowning, and she inches closer, closing the sliver of space between you until you’re chest-to-chest. her warmth seeps through your shirt, grounding, dizzying, like you’ve been cold for years and only just remembered what heat feels like.
when you finally break apart, the air feels too thin. she stays close, her forehead resting against yours, her breath shaky but steadying. her lashes flutter, and you catch the faint scatter of freckles across her nose, the way her pink streak has slipped loose and tickles her cheek.
you’re breathing too hard, every inhale catching on the lump in your throat. “i—fuck,” you choke out, words tangled and messy, “i like you too. i’ve been trying so hard not to, but i do. i really do.”
she blinks, eyes glossy in the low light, mouth parted like she’s afraid to believe it. “you—wait. you mean that? you’re not just—this isn’t part of the practice?”
you huff out a weak, breathless laugh, still clinging to her sleeve. “do you think i’d kiss you for practice?”
that pulls a laugh out of her, raw and broken, and it vibrates against your skin where her forehead presses to yours. her hand shifts from your jaw to cup your cheek fully now, thumb stroking like she’s memorizing the shape of you.
you close your eyes and let yourself lean into it, the warmth of her palm, the salt-sweet taste still on your lips, the way your laughter keeps breaking through the tension like it doesn’t know where else to go.
it’s not a perfect kiss, not the kind in movies. it’s better. it’s messy and grounding and filled with everything you’ve been swallowing down for weeks.
and when you open your eyes again, she’s still there. still looking at you like you’re not a disaster. like maybe she’s been waiting for this too.
—
your fingers don’t let go of hers even after the kiss ends. it’s stupid, really — your palms are clammy, you’re hyperaware of every brush of her thumb against yours, and yet you can’t bring yourself to pull away. the night air is cool, brushing over your skin, but the warmth of her hand is enough to ground you.
you both walk in silence at first, footsteps syncopating against the pavement. you try not to trip on your own heartbeat, but your brain is too loud — replaying her laugh, her lips, the way she touched your cheek so gently you almost crumbled.
she squeezes your hand once, tentative, like she’s asking if this is still okay. and you squeeze back, a quiet yes you don’t trust your voice to carry.
by the time you reach your dorm, your stomach is in knots. you’re not ready to let go, not ready to walk into the real world where people might notice. except, of course, the universe doesn’t give you that choice.
because when you push open the door, sophia’s there on her bed with a face mask on, scrolling her phone, and lara’s sprawled in your desk chair, chewing on a pack of pocky like she owns the place.
both their heads snap up at the same time. their eyes drop straight to your intertwined hands.
“ohhh,” lara drags out, grinning so wide it’s borderline feral. “would you look at that.”
sophia’s jaw drops, her mask crinkling. “no. no way. i’m hallucinating.” she sits up so fast the sheet mask almost slips off. “you two—” she points between you and megan like she’s conducting an orchestra. “holding hands. in public. oh my god.”
your face heats instantly. “it’s—it’s not—”
“it’s not what?” lara cuts in, leaning forward with a wolfish grin. “not you two finally stopping the whole will-they-won’t-they? because i’ve been suffering through this slow burn for weeks.”
megan, instead of defending you, has the audacity to snort. “slow burn? really? you make it sound like we’re in some kind of tumblr fanfic.”
“babe,” lara says, popping the pocky stick out of her mouth with a snap, “you literally are.”
sophia claps her hands together like she’s officiating a wedding. “this is historic. monumental. i’m writing it down in my planner.” she digs through her endless purse, pulling out a pen and a tiny notebook like she’s dead serious.
“sophia, don’t you dare,” you groan, trying to untangle your hand from megan’s. but megan holds on, her grip tightening just a little, smug smile playing on her lips like she’s enjoying this too much.
“oh, no, no, no,” sophia teases, scribbling furiously. “the official date of yn and megan finally holding hands: today. what’s the time? 9:47? yeah, i’m putting it down.”
“you guys are impossible,” you mutter, sinking into the nearest chair and covering your face with your free hand. megan sits next to you, still holding tight, and leans back casually like she’s completely unbothered.
“i think it’s cute,” she says, eyes sparkling. “they’re just happy for us.”
“us?” lara repeats, pouncing on the word. “ohhh, did she just say us? like plural, like a couple, like dating?” she’s practically vibrating, her grin wide enough to split her face.
you peek at megan through your fingers. she just shrugs, cheeks a little pink but smile unwavering. “maybe i did.”
sophia squeals so loud you’re pretty sure the RA heard.
—
you don’t notice her at first.
it’s just another late morning in the cafeteria, the kind where the fluorescent lights feel a little too bright and the smell of burnt coffee clings to your clothes. you’re at your usual spot by the window, megan pressed up against your side like she’s made a permanent home there. she’s picking the raisins out of her cinnamon bagel and dumping them onto your plate without asking, and you let her, because secretly you don’t mind.
lara’s across from you, elbows on the table, mid-rant about her econ professor being “a capitalist devil who hates joy.” sophia’s next to her, sipping from a water bottle so huge it could double as a weapon, nodding along with patient mom energy.
it’s normal. warm. a rhythm you’ve slipped into so easily you don’t even realize how much you missed it until you had it.
then, a ripple.
megan stiffens first. her hand freezes halfway to her mouth, bagel forgotten. lara’s eyes narrow, sharp like she’s spotted prey. sophia’s lips purse, her straw bending as she stops mid-sip.
you follow their gaze, slow, reluctant.
and there she is.
danielle.
her hair’s shorter than you remember, blunt cut brushing her jaw. she’s got a new girl with her — tall, effortlessly stylish, the kind of person who looks like she walked out of a magazine spread. they’re holding hands, laughing at something you can’t hear. danielle looks… different. softer in some ways. but when her eyes skim the room and land on you, that softness vanishes.
the glance she gives isn’t sarcastic, isn’t smug. it’s worse. it’s that quick, dismissive look people use when they see something they’d rather not acknowledge. like you’re inconvenient. like you’re a reminder of something she’d prefer stayed buried.
you feel it in your chest, sharp and small.
megan notices instantly. her hand finds yours under the table, squeezes. not asking, not pushing — just there. solid. grounding.
lara lets out a low whistle. “well, well, well. if it isn’t the ex who called you a heartless bitch.” her tone drips acid.
sophia kicks her under the table. “lara.”
“what?” lara snaps, not taking her eyes off danielle. “she deserves to be reminded. yn’s not a robot, she’s—”
“lara.” sophia’s voice is sharper this time, rare enough that it makes lara pause. “don’t. not here.”
but the damage is done — megan bristles, eyes flicking between you and danielle like she’s calculating. you squeeze her hand back before she can do something reckless.
“it’s fine,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “really. it doesn’t matter.”
lara’s eyes flash, but she swallows whatever comeback she has. sophia watches you carefully, like she’s trying to gauge if you believe your own words.
megan, though. megan doesn’t buy it for a second.
she leans closer, voice low, only for you. “hey. look at me.”
you do. reluctantly.
“you’re not what she said you were,” she says, steady, no room for argument. “you’re the opposite. you feel so much it scares you. and that’s… that’s why i—” she cuts herself off, cheeks pink, but her grip on your hand tightens.
the air between you is warm. heavier than the glance danielle threw, heavier than the ache in your chest.
danielle walks past your table without stopping. the new girl laughs again, something light and easy, and danielle looks at her with an expression you don’t recognize. softer. gentler. not the girl you used to know.
you watch them go, and for the first time, you don’t feel the urge to follow.
lara snorts. “good riddance.”
sophia sighs, but she doesn’t disagree.
megan, though. she’s still watching you, not danielle. always you.
“you okay?” she asks softly.
you nod. and this time, you almost believe it.
the day rolls on like nothing happened, but the four of you stick closer than usual. lara cracks jokes too loud in lecture, sophia bribes you with snacks during study group, megan sneaks doodles into the margins of your notes — little pink hearts that make you want to roll your eyes and kiss her at the same time.
by evening, the weight of danielle’s glance has dulled. not gone, but dulled. like a bruise that won’t last.
when you and megan walk back to the dorm together, her fingers laced through yours, she bumps your shoulder and says, casual, “you know, step six-point-five was way more fun than any of the others.”
you laugh, surprised. “the practice date?”
she nods, grinning. “i think we should keep practicing. like… forever.”
your heart stutters, messy and loud. you want to tell her you’re scared, that you don’t know how to do this right, that danielle’s words still echo sometimes when it’s quiet. but instead, you squeeze her hand and whisper, “yeah. me too.”
and for the first time in a long time, you realize you don’t care who’s watching.
----------------------------- 🤎 ----------------------------
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