To All The Boys I've Loved Before
[Chapter 2]
^ all credits to @juhoon-holic, please DO NOT copy/steal/repost.
pairing: CORTIS OT5 x fem!reader warnings: unrequited feelings, jealousy, underage drinking, confession letters, second person pov, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort (eventual), school au, injury mention, friends to lovers w:.c.: 17.3k jinni's note: chapter 2 is here!! i had to squish a lot of the paragraphs together because of some block restriction?? so sorry about the layout and formatting.. i have also not proof-read this, so apologies for any errors! i feel like i could work on my pacing a bit but, uh, let me know ^^
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Chapter 2
I.
The walk to school the next morning feels like punishment.
Not dramatic punishment. Not cinematic heartbreak beneath pouring rain or some beautifully tragic collapse. Just a dull, throbbing kind of suffering that settles behind your eyes and refuses to leave. Your head aches with every step against the pavement, sunlight too bright against your skin despite the cloudy morning sky, your stomach still vaguely uneasy from the alcohol you definitely should not have consumed in that quantity.
You pull your hoodie sleeves further over your hands as you walk, exhaling slowly through your nose.
Unfortunately, you remember everything. Every single second from last night exists in humiliating clarity.
Keonho’s face when he saw you.
The fight.
The look in his eyes when he said: I can’t even recognize you anymore.
You squeeze your eyes shut briefly as you stop at a crosswalk, pressing two fingers against your temple.
God.
You feel exhausted in a way sleep hadn’t even remotely fixed. Maybe because you hadn’t actually slept much. You’d laid in bed staring at the ceiling for hours after getting home, still fully dressed, your thoughts looping endlessly until exhaustion finally dragged you under sometime close to morning.
And somehow, the part your brain keeps replaying most isn’t even the fight.
It’s afterward.
The park. The swings. Seonghyeon.
Your chest tightens slightly before you can stop it. You remember the way his arms had wrapped around you carefully, you remember crying so hard your breathing hurt while he just sat there with you beneath the dim orange streetlights, quietly grounding you every time your thoughts spiralled too far.
No pressure, no demands, no anger. Just warmth.
You remember eventually calming enough to actually speak in full sentences again, embarrassed beyond belief the second the emotional fog had eased slightly.
“I’m sorry,” you’d mumbled hoarsely, wiping at your face with your sleeves. “This is so humiliating.”
“It’s really not.”
“It really is.”
A quiet laugh had left him then. Soft enough that you almost missed it beneath the wind moving through the empty playground.
“You know,” he’d said gently, “you say that a lot.”
You’d looked up at him tiredly. “What?”
“Sorry.”
The memory makes your chest ache strangely now.
You step onto campus with another slow exhale, immediately greeted by noise. Conversations overlapping through the courtyard, students lingering near stairwells, the sound of someone skateboarding badly somewhere near the front entrance.
Normal. Everything around you feels painfully normal.
Meanwhile your entire life feels like it’s been cracked open publicly against your will.
Your grip tightens around your bag strap slightly as you move through the halls.
Every interaction feels strange now.
Not because anyone is staring at you, they aren’t. But because you keep wondering.
Who knows?
Who read them? Who heard about them? Who knows what was in those letters?
The thought makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.
You barely survive your first class. Your second only slightly better. By lunchtime, your headache has settled into a steady pulse behind your eyes, though at least the nausea has mostly faded.
You’re halfway through absentmindedly copying notes during third period when another thought suddenly wedges itself into your brain so sharply it makes you pause mid-sentence.
How did the letters even get out?
Your pen stills.
Because seriously. The box had been hidden, buried beneath old things at the back of your closet in your room. Nobody should’ve even known they existed anymore.
You frown slightly at your notebook, but you’re too tired to start spiralling into conspiracy theories now.
The bell rings before your thoughts can go further.
By recess, the noise inside your head has become unbearable.
You need quiet, or at least something resembling it.
That’s how you eventually end up near the football field, climbing the bleachers slowly while students gather in clusters below across the grass. The wind feels cooler here, carrying faint traces of cut grass and sunlight-warmed concrete.
You move automatically toward the higher rows before stopping slightly.
Someone’s already there.
Seonghyeon sits a few rows above you, elbows resting loosely against his knees as he stares toward the field below. A pair of headphones hang around his neck, though no music is playing.
For a second, you consider leaving. Then he notices you.
His expression shifts immediately, not dramatically, just enough to soften slightly in surprise.
“Oh,” he says. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
God. Why does this suddenly feel awkward?
You hover there like an idiot for half a second before he gestures lightly toward the empty space beside him.
“You can sit if you want.”
You do.
The silence afterward isn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just careful.
You glance toward the field. “Nice weather.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you internally want to die.
Seonghyeon blinks once before a quiet laugh escapes him. “That’s what you’re going with?”
You groan immediately, covering your face briefly. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s okay,” he says, amused now. “I appreciate the effort.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “I’m functioning at approximately four percent capacity right now.”
“Hangover?”
“…Maybe.”
Another small laugh, and weirdly, it helps.
The tension eases slightly after that.
“How are your classes?” you ask weakly.
“Boring.”
“Mine too.”
“Tragic.”
You snort softly despite yourself.
Then silence settles again. Not the tense kind, just inevitable. Because both of you know there’s something much larger sitting between you now.
You glance down at your hands. “About last night…”
Immediately, Seonghyeon shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to-”
“No, I want to.” You exhale slowly. “I just…thank you.”
His expression softens almost immediately.
“You really didn’t have to stay with me like that.”
“I wanted to.”
The wind shifts lightly through the bleachers, and for a few seconds neither of you speaks.
Then quietly, Seonghyeon asks, “Are you okay?”
No one had asked you that since you came back. The question almost makes you laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because you genuinely don’t know how to answer it.
“I think,” you say slowly, “I’m emotionally concussed.”
That earns another soft laugh from him, but his expression remains gentle. “You and Keonho…” he starts carefully before hesitating slightly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but…”
He trails off deliberately, giving you room to refuse. And somehow, that’s exactly why you don’t.
You stare toward the football field below, jaw tightening slightly. “It’s complicated.”
“I figured.”
A weak breath leaves you. “No,” you murmur. “I don’t think anyone really did.”
The words settle heavier than expected. You pull your knees slightly closer to your chest before speaking again, slower this time. “I loved him.”
The words settle between you quietly, carried away almost immediately by the wind moving across the empty bleachers. But even after saying them, they still feel heavy. Not because it’s some shocking revelation anymore. But because it’s the truth. The oldest truth you have.
Seonghyeon doesn’t react beside you. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t look startled.
So you keep going. “It wasn’t sudden either,” you admit quietly. “That’s the worst part.” Your gaze drifts unfocused toward the football field below. “Nothing dramatic happened. There wasn’t one big moment where I suddenly realized I liked him.”
“It was just…Keonho.” Your fingers tighten loosely around the sleeves of your hoodie. “He was my best friend for years, like actual years.” A faint, tired smile flickers across your face. “He knew every stupid thing about me. My habits, my moods, when I was lying, when I was upset even if I pretended I wasn’t.” You glance downward briefly. “We were always together.”
Memories come too easily now. Late-night calls that lasted until one of you fell asleep first. Shared earbuds on bus rides. Him stealing food off your plate while pretending it wasn’t theft. Sitting on your bedroom floor surrounded by homework neither of you wanted to do. Him showing up at your house without warning because he was ‘bored.’
“He was just…woven into my life,” you murmur. “So deeply that I stopped noticing where he ended and I started.”
Beside you, Seonghyeon stays quiet, listening.
“I think I got attached before I realized I was falling in love with him.” You laugh softly under your breath. “Because loving him didn’t feel dramatic. It felt normal.” Your throat tightens slightly. “Like of course I wanted to be around him all the time. Of course he was the first person I looked for in every room. Of course every good thing that happened made me want to tell him first.”
That almost makes you smile despite everything.
“Everything with him felt natural. Easy. Like breathing.” You swallow lightly. The wind brushes lightly through your hair. “And then one day…” you pause briefly. “One day I realized I was getting jealous.”
That part still makes you feel ashamed somehow. You look down at your hands. “And it was horrible because he wasn’t even doing anything wrong.”
Seonghyeon finally speaks then, voice gentle. “Jealous of what?”
You hesitate before answering honestly. “Everyone.” A humourless laugh escapes you. “Anytime he got close to someone else. Anytime he started spending more time with other people. Anytime I saw him laughing with someone and looking happy…” Your jaw tightens slightly. “It felt awful.”
You shake your head slowly. “And I hated myself for feeling that way because it was selfish.” Your voice softens. “He wasn’t mine.”
The words hurt more than expected.
“I couldn’t confess,” you continue quietly. “I was terrified.” Your fingers curl tighter together. “Because if he didn’t feel the same way, I would’ve ruined the most important friendship in my life.”
You stare toward the field again, blinking against the brightness of the sun. “So instead I just…” You exhale shakily. “Stayed quiet and kept wanting things from him anyway.”
That finally makes Seonghyeon glance at you properly.
You laugh weakly, embarrassed now by your own honesty. “I still wanted to be the person he prioritized most,” you admit. “I wanted his attention. His time. I wanted to feel special to him while giving him absolutely no explanation for why I was acting weird every time another girl got close to him.”
Rain flashes suddenly through your memory.
Keonho staring at you in frustration beneath dark clouds, water dripping from his hair as he said:
I’m still here, so what’s the problem? Your chest aches sharply.
“He kept trying to understand what was wrong,” you whisper. “And I couldn’t tell him.”
“Because saying it out loud would make it real,” Seonghyeon says softly.
You look at him immediately. Something about the way he says it, so understanding, so certain, almost undoes you again. You nod slowly. “Yes.”
Silence settles briefly between you. Then Seonghyeon leans back slightly against the bleachers, gaze drifting toward the field again. “For what it’s worth,” he says carefully, “I don’t think Keonho ever thought you stopped being important.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“He talked about you a lot back then,” Seonghyeon continues casually, almost like he isn’t fully aware of what he’s implying. “Even when you guys were fighting.”
“He was angry,” Seonghyeon admits. “Confused too. But…” He pauses briefly, searching for the words. “People don’t usually get that wrecked over someone unless they mattered a lot to them.”
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He mattered too much.
“I think part of me just wanted to disappear before he realized how pathetic I’d become.”
Immediately, Seonghyeon’s expression changes slightly. “You were not pathetic.”
You shrug weakly. “Felt like it.”
“You were in love with your best friend.”
The simplicity of the statement catches you off guard slightly.
“You used to look at him like he was the only person in the room,” he continues quietly. “It was kind of hard not to notice.”
You look away quickly. “And your letter?” you ask after a moment, voice quieter now. “I never explained that properly.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
This time, the silence that follows feels different.
You exhale slowly. “You were…” You pause, trying to find the words. “Safe.”
Seonghyeon finally looks at you fully then.
You continue before you lose the nerve. “When things got bad, you were always just…there.” Your fingers curl slightly against your sleeves. “Not in a loud way. You never forced yourself into things. But somehow every time I was struggling, you noticed anyway.”
Memories surface one after another.
Seonghyeon quietly handing you tissues during exam season when you started stress crying in the library. Walking you home after terrible days without making you explain them. Texting you at two in the morning because he somehow sensed you were awake and spiralling again.
“You always knew how to deal with me when I was falling apart,” you admit softly.
That earns the faintest smile from him. “You make it sound very dramatic.”
“I am dramatic.”
“That’s true.”
A small laugh escapes you both.
But your expression softens again quickly. “There were days where I genuinely thought something was wrong with me,” you continue quietly. “Like…I was too emotional. Too difficult. Too much for people.”
Seonghyeon’s brows pull together slightly at that.
“But every single time I felt like that,” you murmur, “you somehow made me feel manageable again.”
His gaze doesn’t leave your face now.
“You’d sit with me through every breakdown like it wasn’t inconvenient. Like I wasn’t exhausting.” Your throat tightens slightly. “Every problem felt smaller after talking to you.”
The wind moves softly around the two of you.
“And when someone keeps showing up for you like that…” You smile faintly. “You start relying on them before you even realize it’s happening.”
You glance down briefly. “I think part of me started loving you for how gently you handled me.”
The confession hangs there quietly.
“And when someone keeps picking up your broken pieces for long enough…” You smile faintly. “Eventually you start wondering if maybe it means something more.”
Seonghyeon watches you carefully, expression unreadable but soft.
“I cared about you,” you say truthfully. “A lot.”
Your voice grows quieter. “But I don’t know what those feelings are anymore.” You shake your head slightly. “Everything from that time feels tangled together now.”
And there it is. Not certainty, or some dramatic love triangle revelation. Just confusion. Old feelings colliding with present ones until you can’t tell where one ends and another begins.
Seonghyeon absorbs the words quietly before speaking. “That’s okay.”
Your eyes lift toward him slightly.
“You don’t have to figure everything out immediately,” he says gently. “Especially not after getting hit with…” He gestures vaguely. “All this.”
A weak laugh escapes you. “I just feel bad.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve clarity.”
Something softens in his expression then. “I think,” he says carefully, “being honest about not knowing is still clarity.”
That…You stare at him quietly for a second too long before suddenly another thought cuts sharply through your brain.
The letters. Your expression changes instantly.
Seonghyeon notices immediately. “What?”
You blink rapidly. “Wait.” Your mind starts moving too fast suddenly. “When did you get your letter?”
Seonghyeon’s brows pull together slightly at the abrupt shift. “What?”
“The letter,” you repeat quickly. “When did you get it?”
He thinks for a second. “The day you came back, I think.”
“The twelfth?”
“…Yeah.”
Your heartbeat stutters violently. “Do you still have the envelope?” you ask suddenly.
Now he looks properly confused. “I think so?”
“Can I see it?”
There’s a brief pause before Seonghyeon reaches into his bag beside him, still watching you carefully as he pulls out a slightly folded envelope.
Your hands shake a little when you take it from him.
There it is. The sender’s address written neatly in the corner. Megan’s.
For a second, your entire body goes still. Because suddenly every single thing clicks together all at once with horrible, perfect clarity.
Megan in your room the day you unpack, her insisting you go to the party, her sitting beside you acting shocked while you vented about the letters and the fallout and Keonho and everything else.
Seonghyeon’s brows furrow slightly. “Y/N?”
But you’re barely hearing him now, as anger crashes into you all at once. Hot and sharp and immediate enough to make your pulse pound in your ears. “No way,” you whisper.
Then you see her. Walking near the lower pathway beside the field with a group of girls, laughing loudly about something, completely unaware.
You stand immediately.
“Y/N-”
“Sorry,” you say quickly, already moving. “I just…I’ll explain later.”
And then you’re halfway down the bleachers before he can respond. Your pulse pounds violently in your ears as you cross the field.
Megan notices you almost immediately. “Hey!” she calls casually. “You disappeared after-”
“Did you do it?”
The sharpness in your voice cuts through the entire conversation instantly. The girls around Megan fall silent immediately.
Her smile falters slightly. “What?”
“The letters.” Your breathing is uneven now. “Did you send them?”
Her face changes, and that’s all the confirmation you need.
You stare at her in disbelief. “Oh my god.”
“Megan?” one of the girls says carefully.
“Guys,” Megan says quickly, eyes still fixed on you. “Can you give us a second?”
Nobody argues. Within seconds they scatter awkwardly away from the growing tension. The second they’re gone, you step closer. “You went through my things?”
Megan immediately lifts her hands defensively. “Okay, before you freak out-”
“Before I freak out?” you repeat incredulously. “Are you insane?”
“I was trying to help!”
“By stealing deeply personal letters I wrote YEARS ago and mailing them out to people without my permission?!”
Her expression twists guiltily. “I didn’t think it would blow up this badly-”
“That’s because you weren’t thinking!” Your voice echoes louder than you intended across the mostly empty pathway. A few nearby students glance over automatically now.
You don’t care. Your chest is heaving. “Do you have any idea how violating this is?”
“I know it looks bad-”
“Looks bad?” you cut in sharply. “Megan, you literally dug through private things I never wanted anyone to see!”
“I didn’t read all of them!”
“You read enough!” She flinches hard at that.
“And then what?” you continue, anger shaking through every word now. “You sat there stuffing envelopes like you were starring in some stupid romance movie?”
Megan’s eyes widen slightly. “It wasn’t like that-”
“Then what was it like?”
Silence.
Your laugh comes out sharp and disbelieving. “Oh my god. You actually thought this was romantic.”
“I just thought…” Megan swallows hard. “You wrote all these things you never got to say.”
“That was not YOUR decision to make!”
“I know!”
“No, I really don’t think you do!” Your chest hurts now. Genuine hurt bleeding through the anger.
“Do you know what the last three days have been like for me?” you ask shakily. “Do you know what it feels like having every single unresolved feeling from two years ago dragged back up all at once?”
Megan’s face crumples slightly. “I thought maybe it would help you get closure.”
“Closure?” You laugh again, harsher this time. “Megan, my life has been imploding for three straight days.”
“I know, okay?! I know I messed up!”
“You don’t get it!” Your voice cracks fully now.
“Keonho and I are barely speaking anymore!” you say, frustration spilling out uncontrollably. “We had this huge unresolved mess between us already and now he finds out I loved him through some letter I wrote two years ago because YOU decided to play cupid? Do you know how humiliating that is?”
“I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Well, congratulations,” you snap bitterly. “You did.”
Silence crashes heavily between you afterward. Your breathing is uneven. So is hers. Then more quietly, your voice shaking with disbelief more than anger now: “You listened to me talk about all of this yesterday.”
Megan’s eyes immediately flick away.
“You sat there while I cried about the letters and Keonho and everything else,” you continue. “And you acted like you had no idea what happened.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You should’ve started with the truth!”
You stare at her, chest aching painfully now. “Did it ever occur to you,” you say quietly, “that maybe those letters were private because I never wanted those feelings exposed?”
Megan’s eyes shine slightly. “I just thought maybe if everyone knew how you really felt-”
“That’s the problem!” you cut in immediately. “Those feelings were mine.”
Not Keonho’s. Not Martin’s. Not James’. Not Seonghyeon’s. Mine.
You step backward once, suddenly exhausted. “I trusted you,” you say quietly.
That hurts her. You see it immediately, but right now, it doesn’t make you feel better. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
“Y/N-”
“No.” Your voice comes out sharp enough to stop her immediately. You turn before she can say anything else.
And then…You see him. Across the football field.
Keonho.
Your steps falter instantly. He’s wearing his practice jersey, the dark fabric clinging slightly to his shoulders from sweat, sleeves pushed up carelessly like he always used to do halfway through practice. Sunlight catches against the sharp line of his jaw as he turns his head laughing at something one of his teammates says, dark hair damp and falling messily into his eyes from the heat.
And God. He looks good. Not in the distant, objective way people casually say someone looks attractive. No, he looks good in the devastatingly familiar way only someone you’ve loved for years can look.
Every tiny thing about him still feels hardwired into you. The shape of his smile. The way he ducks his head when he laughs too hard. Even from this far away, your body recognizes him instantly, painfully, like muscle memory.
And beside him…A girl.
Your stomach twists violently, because you recognize her immediately.
The same girl from two years ago, the one you used to pretend not to feel threatened by. And now she’s standing there smiling while Keonho leans in closer between conversations like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Your chest caves inward so abruptly it almost physically hurts.
No. No, no, no.
The sunlight catches against his smile as he leans closer to hear something she says over the noise of the field. He looks comfortable beside her. Easy, happy.
And suddenly you’re back to where you were two years ago.
Standing across crowded hallways watching them laugh together while pretending it didn’t bother you. Pretending you were not memorizing every interaction between them. Pretending you didn’t go home and cry quietly into your pillow because you felt insane for being jealous over a boy who wasn’t yours.
Your throat tightens painfully.
Because even now, even after leaving, after two years apart, after everything that happened the other night, seeing someone else beside him still feels unbearable.
There he was. Smiling, laughing with another girl like his world didn’t just crack open two nights ago the same way yours did.
A horrible thought twists through you immediately after. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe you were the only one shattered by it.
Keonho laughs again softly at something she says, and your heart breaks all over again.
You turn immediately before he can notice you looking, vision blurring too quickly now. You need to get out of here.
Your footsteps grow faster automatically as you move across campus, breathing uneven again, your thoughts spiralling violently.
He moved on. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?
You were the one who disappeared, the one who left. The one who came back carrying old feelings and messy confessions and unresolved heartbreak like time had frozen for you while everyone else kept living.
Maybe that girl had been there all along. Maybe after you left, she just slipped naturally into the empty place beside him.
“I can’t even recognize you anymore.” The memory slams into you again.
Your eyes burn...Because looking at him out there under the sunlight, beautiful and familiar, and laughing with someone else, you realize something awful.
You still recognize him perfectly.
II.
By the time you push through the gym doors, your breathing is shaky enough to hurt. The basketball court sits mostly empty in the afternoon quiet, sunlight stretching lazily across polished wood floors in long gold streaks. The air smells faintly like rubber and varnished wood, familiar in that oddly comforting way school gyms always are. Somewhere overhead, an old ventilation fan hums softly.
You move toward the wall automatically before sinking down against it, knees pulling loosely toward your chest as you press the heels of your palms against your eyes.
This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous, yet the tears come anyway. Your head throbs harder now too, emotional exhaustion and lingering alcohol combining into something miserable.
You inhale shakily.
THUMP.
You look up quickly. A basketball bounces away across the court.
“Oh,” a voice says immediately. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.”
James jogs lightly after the ball before stopping when he properly notices your face. “…Oh.” Fantastic.
You wipe quickly at your eyes, sniffling once. “I’m fine.”
“Mm.” He picks the basketball up easily beneath one arm. “That sounded incredibly convincing.”
You let out a weak breath somewhere between a laugh and another sniffle.
James hesitates briefly before walking closer, gaze lingering on your face in a way that’s observant without feeling invasive. “You good?”
“Define good.”
“That bad, huh?”
You lean your head back lightly against the wall. “Something like that.”
For a second, he looks like he might leave you alone. Then, after another glance at your face, he walks over and lowers himself onto the floor nearby with a soft squeak of sneakers against polished wood. The basketball spins lazily against his fingertips. “Want to talk about it?”
You immediately shake your head. Then pause. “…Maybe later.”
“Fair enough.”
Silence settles comfortably enough between you. James bounces the basketball once beside him. The sound echoes sharply through the mostly empty gym.
You glance toward him after a moment. “What are you doing here anyway?”
James bounces the ball once lightly beside him. “Habit.”
Your brows furrow slightly. “I thought you couldn’t play anymore.”
The second the words leave your mouth, something shifts subtly in his expression. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Mostly.” He rolls the basketball slowly between his hands, eyes fixed on it instead of you. “Messed my leg up during a match last year.” A small shrug. “Bad timing too. Final season.”
James keeps his tone casual, but you can hear the careful detachment underneath it. Like he’s recited this explanation enough times to sand the edges off it. “Tore it pretty badly landing wrong after a shot.” He snorts softly. “Actually made the basket too, which feels unfair. Like if I was gonna ruin my life, I at least deserved to miss dramatically.”
You smile faintly despite yourself.
“It was one of those huge matches everyone cared about,” he continues. “Scouts there. Coaches. Whole inspirational sports movie setup.” Another bounce of the ball. “And then my knee basically exploded.”
“James-”
“I’m exaggerating,” he says quickly. “Slightly.” But the smile he gives afterward doesn’t fully reach his eyes. The basketball stills briefly in his hands. “So that was kind of it.”
You blink slowly, gaze dropping toward his leg before you can stop yourself.
He notices immediately. “See?” he says lightly. “That face again.”
“What face?”
“The devastating pity face.”
“I do not have a pity face.”
“You absolutely do.”
You roll your eyes weakly, but your chest still aches for him, because now you understand. The jokes. The detached attitude. Why he acted like nothing really mattered anymore sometimes. Basketball had mattered. A lot.
“It healed weird,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “Physical therapy helped, but not enough.” Another shrug, smaller this time. “Couldn’t move the same afterward. Couldn’t play properly.” The basketball stills briefly in his hands. “And if you can’t play properly at that level…” He exhales softly through his nose. “That’s kinda it.”
The silence afterward stretches heavier than before. “You lost your scholarship,” you say quietly.
James exhales quietly through his nose. “Yep.”
You stare at him for a second, suddenly imagining what that must’ve felt like. Working toward something for years only to have it ripped away in one bad moment. One wrong landing. “That must’ve really hurt.”
James laughs softly, though this one sounds thinner. “Excellent medical terminology. Very professional.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” That’s the thing. He does know. That’s what makes it sadder.
You glance toward the hoop across the court. “Do you miss it?”
James looks over automatically too. The answer comes immediately this time. “Every day.” No joke attached to it. No sarcasm.
Something in your chest twists quietly at the sound of his honesty. You recognize that kind of loss. The kind that changes the shape of your life so suddenly you don’t know what to do with yourself afterward.
James notices your expression and immediately groans. “Oh my god,” he says. “You’re doing the face harder now.”
You snort softly despite yourself. “Sorry.”
“Don’t pity me too much. It ruins my mysterious image.”
“You were never mysterious.”
“That’s brutal.”
“You literally flirt with cafeteria workers for extra fries.”
“They like me.”
“They tolerate you.”
James clutches the basketball dramatically against his chest. “Wow. And here I was opening up emotionally.”
That earns a real laugh out of you. Small, but real.
“There we go,” he says immediately, pointing lightly toward you. “Much less concerning.” The warmth in his tone catches you slightly off guard.
James bounces the basketball once again before glancing sideways at you. “So,” he says casually, “I’m assuming whatever’s going on is probably about a guy.”
You groan instantly. “That obvious?”
“You look like you just walked out of an emotionally devastating indie film.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Also accurate.”
You bury your face briefly in your hands. “I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.”
James watches you quietly for a second, expression softening slightly. Then he says, “Can I be honest?”
“That depends.”
“You’re probably both stupid.”
You blink at him. “…Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean stupid stupid,” he clarifies. “Just emotionally stupid. Which is unfortunately very common.”
You stare. He shrugs lightly. “Sometimes people get so focused on wanting to be understood that they forget they actually have to communicate things.” “And sometimes,” he continues, spinning the basketball once against the floor, “people are idiots who don’t realize how important something was until they’re about to lose it.”
The words land harder than they probably should. Because despite how vague he’s being, it still feels uncomfortably close to home.
James glances toward you briefly. “Human beings are embarrassing.”
“That was weirdly insightful.”
“I’m multifaceted.”
A weak smile tugs at your mouth again before it fades slightly.
James notices immediately. His voice softens a little when he speaks next. “Hey.”
You glance toward him.
“Whatever happened…” He pauses briefly. “Don’t cry yourself into thinking you’re impossible to love, okay?”
Your breath catches slightly, because somehow that sentence cuts straight through you.
James leans his head lightly back against the wall behind him, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “People screw things up,” he says quietly. “Sometimes really badly. Doesn’t mean the feelings weren’t real.”
The gym suddenly feels too quiet. You look down quickly at your hands.
“Also,” he adds a second later, tone abruptly lighter again, “someone definitely drank way too much last night.”
Your expression freezes. James narrows his eyes at you. “…Oh my god, you’re actually hungover.”
You immediately groan. “Shut up.”
“That explains everything.” He points accusingly with the basketball. “The emotional instability. The tragic posture. The thousand-yard stare.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” Unfortunately true.
James snorts softly before continuing, “Drink water. Actual water. Not iced coffee pretending to be water.”
“Yes, mom.”
“And eat real food.” James watches you for a second, expression unreadable for a moment before he says quietly: “You know…back then, I never really noticed you.”
You blink slightly.
He rolls the basketball slowly between his palms. “I mean obviously I knew who you were,” he says. “You were always around.” “But mostly as Keonho’s person.”
Something about hearing it phrased that way hurts more than expected. Because it’s true. For years, so much of your identity had been tied to him so naturally you’d barely even noticed it yourself.
James glances toward you properly then. “Kinda feels stupid now.”
“What does?”
“Missing out on knowing you sooner.”
The words hit softly, not flirtatious or dramatically. James exhales quietly through his nose before continuing. “You’re funny.” He gestures vaguely toward you. “And weirdly easy to talk to. And way less scary than people make you seem.”
You blink. “People think I’m scary?”
“You have a judgmental face.”
“I do not.”
“Girl.”
Another reluctant laugh escapes you. James smiles faintly at the sound before his expression softens again. “I think…” He pauses briefly, searching for the wording. “Back then, everyone kinda saw you as part of Keonho. Like you came together automatically.”
“But now?” He shrugs lightly. “I dunno. Feels like I’m actually getting to know you.”
Something warm and painful twists together inside your ribs. After the last few days, after all the tension and heartbreak and old feelings dragged violently back to the surface, this feels strangely gentle.
James spins the basketball once more before looking at you with a small grin. “I think I’d really like being your friend now.”
Simple words, but something about them settles deeply inside your chest anyway. Not because they’re grand, but because they aren’t. Because after everything lately, there’s something almost healing about someone choosing to know you now. Not as Keonho’s best friend. Not as some old memory. Not because of a letter from two years ago. Just you. Building a personal connection now, not one that’s trapped in the past.
For a second, you simply stare at him. Then slowly, you smile too.
The rest of the school day passes in a blur of irritation. Not sadness anymore, not heartbreak. Just anger.
Every time your phone buzzes against your desk, you already know who it is before even looking.
Megan. The first message is careful. Can we please talk? The second longer. I know you’re mad but please just let me explain... Then another. I genuinely didn’t think it would go this badly.
That one almost makes you laugh out loud from sheer disbelief. You don’t answer a single one.
By lunch, she starts trying in person instead. You catch glimpses of her hovering outside classrooms, searching for you between passing periods, her expression growing more frazzled every time you walk past without acknowledging her.
At one point she actually manages to catch your wrist lightly in the hallway. “Y/N, please-”
You pull your arm back immediately. “What?” you snap quietly. “What exactly are you expecting me to say right now?”
Her expression crumples instantly. “I said I was sorry.”
“You sent out my private letters to multiple people.”
“I know but-”
“You listened to me vent about all this while pretending you weren’t the reason it happened!”
Several nearby students glance over at the sharpness in your voice. Megan notices too and lowers hers immediately. “Can you not yell at me in the middle of the hallway?”
You stare at her in disbelief. “Oh my god.”
“Look, Y/N-”
“No, seriously,” you laugh once harshly. “You do not get to act overwhelmed right now.”
The guilt on her face deepens. For a second, you almost feel bad. Almost. Then you remember Keonho standing in the middle of the street looking at you like you’d ruined him. Your expression hardens again instantly. “I need space from you right now.”
“Y/N-”
You walk away before she can finish.
By the end of the school day, your anger has dulled into something heavier. Not forgiveness, not even close, just exhaustion settling deep into your bones after hours of emotional whiplash. Your final class lets out slowly, students flooding into the hallway in loud groups while you shove your books into your bag with a tired sigh. For one brief, hopeful second, you consider just going home and collapsing face first into your bed for the next twelve hours. Then you remember. Tutoring. Right.
You drag yourself toward the library with the enthusiasm of someone heading toward public execution. Thankfully, the pounding headache from earlier has mostly faded now, thanks to James’ aggressive insistence that you drink actual water. Emotionally, though, you still feel stretched thin.
The library is quieter this late in the afternoon. Sunlight filters softly through the tall windows, painting long golden shapes across the tables while the air smells faintly like old books and coffee from the librarian’s hidden stash behind the desk.
And of course, sitting at the same back table as always, is Juhoon. Already set up, organized and looking painfully academic.
You narrow your eyes at him from across the room. He notices immediately. “…Why are you looking at me like that?”
You drop into the chair across from him with a sigh. “You annoy me.”
“I haven’t spoken yet.”
“Exactly. Your whole presence.”
Juhoon stares at you for a second before calmly sliding a worksheet across the table toward you. “Sit properly.”
“Wow, you really do sound like an exhausting tutor.”
“And you really sound like my student failing mathematics.”
“That’s actually really hurtful.”
Juhoon studies your face for a second longer than usual. “You look tired.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly what every girl wants to hear.”
“You know what I mean.” His tone softens slightly on the last part, and annoyingly, your chest does a tiny stupid thing because of it. You quickly look away while pulling your notebook out. “I’m blaming you for this by the way.”
“For what?”
“For making me do math after the worst week of my life.”
Juhoon gives you a flat look. “You’re on the verge of failing, Y/N.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Yours.”
“You’re being very unsupportive right now.”
“I’m tutoring you for free.”
“That’s true,” you admit solemnly. “You’re basically a humanitarian.”
A quiet breath escapes him that sounds dangerously close to amusement before he adjusts his glasses slightly and taps the paper in front of you. “Did you at least attempt yesterday’s problems?”
You hesitate.
“Y/N.”
“I opened the document.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Juhoon sighs, though there’s the faintest trace of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth now. He shifts his chair slightly closer to yours before tapping the page with his pencil. “Look,” he says. “If this line is parallel to this one, then this angle and this angle have to match. Which means you can solve for x.”
You rest your cheek against your palm, pretending to pay attention while he explains the equation.
Unfortunately, this becomes difficult very quickly. Not because of the math. It’s just… Juhoon is unfairly pretty when he’s focused. His sleeves are rolled up slightly today, his hair falls slightly into his eyes when he leans closer to the page, his voice low and calm while he explains the problem with patient concentration, and suddenly your brain decides that instead of solving equations, it would rather focus entirely on the angle of his jawline.
Seriously. How are you supposed to calculate x when all you can think about is how nice his hands look holding a pencil? This is a hostile learning environment.
“Are you listening to me?”
You blink quickly. “Mhm.”
Juhoon narrows his eyes immediately. “You weren’t.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “How did you know?”
“Because you’re staring at me like the equation personally offended you.”
“…Maybe it did.”
This time he actually looks up properly, expression flat. “The equation is numbers.”
“And yet I still dislike it.”
“You dislike everything involving effort.”
“Uhhh…true.” You groan dramatically and let your forehead hit the table lightly. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, academically I’m actually very delicate.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Juhoon lightly pushes up his glasses. “It is when you’ve spent ten minutes complaining instead of solving one problem.”
You lift your head just enough to squint at the page again. The numbers blur unpleasantly together almost immediately. “Okay but genuinely,” you mumble, “why does math look fake?”
Juhoon leans back slightly in his chair, watching you struggle for a second before reaching over and turning the paper around toward himself again. “Look,” he says, calmer this time. “You’re overcomplicating it.”
“I’m literally not thinking at all.”
“Exactly.”
You glare at him weakly while he rewrites the equation more simply.
“There,” he says, tapping the page again. “Forget the entire formula for a second. Just focus on this part first.”
You stare down at the simplified version. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“That actually makes sense.”
“I know.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “You’re being suspiciously patient today.”
Juhoon shrugs once, uncaring. “You learn better when you’re not panicking.”
The words settle unexpectedly softly somewhere in your chest. He remembers the way you get overwhelmed when things stop making sense. The way frustration makes you shut down faster. Two years later and he still adjusts around it automatically without making a big deal out of it.
You quickly look back down at the worksheet before your brain starts doing anything stupid.
“You’re losing focus again.”
“I never had focus.”
“That explains a lot.”
You grin despite yourself. And there it is again. That feeling. Not the heavy complicated emotions that keep swallowing you whole lately. Not grief or guilt or unresolved heartbreak. Just…Easy conversation, dry teasing, and the strange comfort of being understood without trying too hard.
The tutoring session drifts on after that, the sunlight outside gradually softening toward evening gold while Juhoon patiently drags you through formulas you only half cooperate with. By the end of it, your brain feels fried. You slump back dramatically in your chair while Juhoon closes his notebook. “I can’t believe I survived that.”
“You got most of the last section right.”
You lift your head slightly. “Wait really?”
“Mhm.”
Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Was that…” You gasp softly. “Praise?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It is weird. I need a moment.”
Juhoon rolls his eyes, though you catch the tiny smile he’s trying to hide again, and for one strange second, watching it appear so briefly, something warm catches you off guard. Because you remember this version of him. Not just the quiet boy from the letters. Not the awkward distance from the first few days after you returned.
This one. The Juhoon who used to sit beside you after school for hours while pretending your terrible grades caused him personal suffering. The one who always acted annoyed but still stayed. Still helped, still cared.
Usually after tutoring, you walked home with Martin. It had started happening naturally again after you came back.
Neither of you really acknowledged it out loud, but somewhere between awkward reconnections and late afternoon conversations, the old habit had slipped back into place. Martin would finish poetry club, you’d finish tutoring, and the two of you would end up walking the same route home while he complained about pretentious literature students and you pretended not to enjoy listening.
Today, though, the second you and Martin step out of the school building, “Y/N.” You stop immediately.
Megan stands near the bottom of the front steps, clutching the strap of her bag tightly enough that her knuckles have gone pale. She looks like she’s been waiting there for a while. Martin glances between the two of you once before subtly slowing to a stop beside you.
You already feel tired. “Megan,” you say flatly.
“Can we talk?” she asks quickly. “Please. Just for like two minutes.”
“No.” You start walking again.
“Y/N, come on.” Her footsteps hurry after you, frustration bleeding into her voice now. “Can you stop walking away from me for five seconds?”
You stop so abruptly she nearly runs into you. “You went through my private letters,” you say, turning toward her. “What exactly do you want me to say right now?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“And I heard you.”
“Then why are you acting like I murdered someone?” Your stare sharpens instantly.
Megan immediately regrets the wording. “Okay, that came out wrong-”
“Yeah. It did.”
Students move around all three of you in waves, the after-school crowd loud and careless around the tension sitting here. Megan exhales hard through her nose before speaking again, quieter this time. “I know what I did was invasive.”
“Invasive?” You laugh once in disbelief. “Megan, you opened letters I wrote years ago that were never meant for anyone else to see.”
“I know.”
“You mailed them out.”
“I know.”
“You sat there listening to me spiral about it while pretending you had no idea what was happening.”
Guilt flashes across her face so quickly it almost makes you angrier. “I didn’t know how to tell you after,” she says weakly.
“Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before acting like a self-appointed relationship therapist.”
“I was trying to help!”
“You are not helping!”
Your voice comes out louder than intended. A couple students glance over before immediately pretending not to.
“I really thought…” She stopped herself, then tried again. “I thought maybe some things needed to be said.”
“But they were mine to say, Megan!”
Megan’s face fell immediately. “…I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“You did.”
“I know that now-”
“No,” you cut in quietly. “You know that because you saw the aftermath. That’s different.”
You can feel Martin standing slightly off to the side, deliberately staying out of it.
You look at Megan for another second before stepping back. “I need space from you right now.”
She looks genuinely panicked at that. “Y/N-”
“I’m serious.”
The firmness in your voice finally made her stop pushing.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then, more quietly, almost desperately, she asked, “Are you really going to throw our friendship away over this?”
You exhaled sharply through your nose before stepping back, “I just…I can’t do this right now.”
You turn away before she can say anything else and start walking down the sidewalk. Behind you, you hear Martin shift slightly, probably about to follow.
“M-Martin, wait.” His footsteps pause. You keep walking.
There’s a brief silence behind you before Megan speaks again, quieter now, directed at him. “I really fucked this up, didn’t I?”
Martin shoved his hands into his pockets. “You want the honest answer?”
“I think I deserve it.”
He sighed lightly. “Yeah. You did.”
Megan looked down immediately. “Do you really think I’m some awful person now?”
He exhales softly. “I think,” he says carefully, “what you did was really invasive.”
“I know that part already.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” There’s no cruelty in his voice. If anything, it sounds tired. “You read private letters,” he continues. “That’s not a small mistake, Megan. It was incredibly invasive, and honestly kind of reckless.”
She groaned softly, covering part of her face with her hand. “God.”
“But…” he paused. “I also think you genuinely believed you were helping.”
“I did.”
“That doesn’t automatically make it okay.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just interfere in people’s lives because you think you know what’s best for them.”
“I get it…I just- I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“You can mean well and still hurt someone badly.”
Megan lets out a frustrated breath, arms folding tightly across her chest. “God, you sound like a poetry book.”
“That’s a horrible insult for someone from the poetry club.”
Despite everything, she snorts quietly. Martin glances toward where you disappeared ahead before looking back at her. Megan notices. “She’s really mad at me, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Helpful. Thanks.”
“You asked.”
Megan looked up at him hopefully for the first time all conversation. “So you don’t think I’m a terrible person?”
“I think you made a terrible decision.”
“…That sounds slightly better.”
“It’s supposed to.”
Then, more quietly: “But…was it completely wrong?” Martin hesitates, which honestly tells her enough already. “She’s talking to all of you again,” Megan says. “You, James, Juhoon, Keonho.”
“Megan,” he says carefully, “something being complicated afterward doesn’t magically make your decision okay.”
“But you can admit it changed things.”
Another pause. “…Yeah,” he admits reluctantly. “It changed things.”
Megan looks at him hopefully for the first time all conversation. “So can you maybe just…” She gestures helplessly. “Explain that to her? Not now, obviously, but eventually?”
Martin studies her for a second. “You really thought you were doing something good for Y/N.” It isn’t quite a question.
Megan laughs weakly. “Yeah. Which somehow feels worse now.”
For the first time all conversation, Martin’s expression softens slightly. “You’re kind of a disaster, you know that?”
She blinks at him. “Excuse me?”
“You created emotional chaos on a near cinematic level.”
“But,” he adds before she can glare properly, “I don’t think you’re malicious.”
Megan looks down at the pavement quietly after that. Martin adjusts the strap of his bag onto his shoulder. “I’ll…see what I can do, okay?”
Her head lifts immediately. “Really?”
“Don’t look so hopeful. I’m not performing miracles.”
A tiny laugh escapes her despite herself. Then Martin gives her one last nod before finally turning and heading down the sidewalk to catch up with you.
And Megan remains standing there alone outside the school building, watching both of you disappear around the corner.
III.
The next morning begins with a mandatory school assembly. Which means hell.
You sit slumped in the auditorium beside Martin while teachers take turns speaking into microphones with the exact same painfully enthusiastic tone that somehow makes everything sound even more exhausting. Upcoming club events, volunteer opportunities, tutoring sign-ups, a fundraiser for debate team renovations that absolutely no one seems invested in. Rows upon rows of students sit half-awake beneath dim auditorium lights, the air filled with occasional coughing, whispered conversations, and the constant rustling of uniforms. Beside you, Martin is doodling flowers onto the corner of the assembly pamphlet.
“This could’ve been an email,” you whisper.
“This is my personal ninth circle of hell,” he whispers back. You snort softly. You’re about three seconds away from dissociating completely when movement near the stage catches your attention.
A girl steps up beside the speaker stand wearing a student council badge clipped neatly onto her blazer, and your stomach drops instantly.
Her. The same girl from the football field. The same girl standing beside Keonho yesterday. The same girl whose smile has already started haunting you for reasons you resent deeply.
Your posture straightens before you can stop it. Martin notices instantly. “What?” You don’t answer.
More students begin filing onto stage behind her now, some wearing matching school jackets embroidered with the swim team logo. A few teachers clap politely, then…Keonho steps into view. Your breath catches so fast it actually annoys you. Because seriously? He has no right looking that good at eight in the morning. His dark hair is still slightly messy, like he towel-dried it too quickly after practice, and the sleeves of his uniform shirt are rolled carelessly up his forearms. He looks relaxed standing under the stage lights, one hand adjusting the microphone stand while one of his teammates says something beside him that makes him laugh softly. And there it is again. That stupid, easy smile that used to undo you without effort. The girl beside him leans closer to whisper something. Keonho tilts his head to hear her properly, smiling again.
Your heart twists painfully. Traitorous organ.
The teacher at the podium begins explaining the upcoming inter-school swim competition, encouraging students to come support the team this weekend since it’s apparently one of the biggest meets of the semester. But you barely absorb any of it, because suddenly your brain is somewhere else entirely.
Two years ago. The school pool after classes. The sharp scent of chlorine lingering in the air while late afternoon sunlight reflected across the water in shifting gold patterns. You’d been sitting cross-legged on the bleachers doing homework you definitely weren’t focusing on while Keonho floated lazily near the edge of the pool during a break between laps, staring up at you.
“You know,” he’d called dramatically, resting both arms against the pool ledge, “real friends bring snacks to practice.”
You didn’t even look up from your notebook. “I did bring snacks.”
“You brought grapes.”
“Those are literally snacks.”
“That’s rabbit food.”
You’d rolled your eyes before tossing one toward him anyway. Keonho completely missed the catch. The grape bounced directly off his forehead before plopping into the water. You laughed so hard your pencil slipped from your hand.
“Oh my god,” he yelled in disbelief, rubbing his forehead. “You assaulted me.”
“You have terrible reflexes!”
“You threw it weird!”
“You literally play sports!”
“And yet somehow defeated by fruit!” You were still laughing when he suddenly splashed water violently toward you in revenge. Ice cold water soaked across your blazer instantly. You shrieked loud enough that the coach turned around from the opposite side of the pool. “KEONHO!” His laugh echoed through the entire natatorium. Bright, warm and completely unguarded, before he looked up at you with that stupid grin, the one that always felt like sunlight directly aimed at your chest. “You should’ve seen your face,” he’d laughed.
“I hate you.”
“Sure you do.” And the worst part was…Back then? You really didn’t.
The memory fades too quickly.
The auditorium floods back in around you all at once. The microphone squeals slightly with feedback. Students whisper somewhere behind you. Someone nearby drops a pen. And up on stage, Keonho is still standing beside her. Still smiling. Just not at you anymore.
Something tightens painfully in your throat. The assembly finally dismisses several minutes later, students immediately rising from their seats as the auditorium dissolves into noise. Conversations overlap everywhere at once, chairs scrape loudly against the floor, and teachers attempt completely unsuccessfully to direct traffic toward the exits. You grab your bag quickly, already wanting distance from your own thoughts before they spiral somewhere unbearable again.
By the time you reach the hallway, your chest still feels tight. You tell yourself it’s stupid. It’s just Keonho. Just a swim competition. Just some girl. But the image of him standing beside her keeps replaying anyway. The easy smile. The way he leaned closer when she spoke. The familiarity between them. You hate how much it affects you.
Your locker swings open harder than intended with a metallic clang. A couple students nearby glance over briefly before continuing past. You start pulling books out distractedly, trying to focus on literally anything else, when something slips loose from between the pages of your history textbook and flutters to the floor. A folded piece of paper. Your brows furrow slightly as you pick it up, then immediately flatten. Megan’s handwriting. For a second, you consider throwing it away unopened. Instead, you unfold it slowly.
The letter is messy in the way only genuine apologies are. Certain sentences are scratched out and rewritten. Ink smudges slightly near the bottom like she pressed her hand against the page before it fully dried. It feels heartfelt enough that you can practically hear her voice while reading it. She admits she crossed a line. Admits she got caught up in the idea of fixing unfinished things without thinking about how badly it could hurt you. Writes that seeing you leave years ago always felt wrong to her. That she hated how everyone drifted apart afterward. That when she found the letters, some stupid part of her genuinely thought maybe honesty would reconnect people instead of breaking them further. There’s even a scribbled line near the bottom: You have every right to hate me right now but I really do love you, idiot.
…
Not enough to erase the anger or suddenly make everything okay. But enough to make the hurt feel heavier instead of sharp.
“…That bad?”
You glance sideways. Martin stands beside the locker next to yours, watching your expression carefully. He must’ve walked over while you were reading. Without saying anything, you hand him the note. He takes it carefully, eyes scanning over the page. You watch his expression shift slightly as he reads, not surprised exactly. More…understanding. When he finishes, he folds the paper properly along the original crease before handing it back to you.
For a second, neither of you says anything. Then Martin leans lightly against the lockers beside you and exhales quietly through his nose. “She sounded pretty wrecked yesterday after you left,” he admits.
You stare down at the note in your hands. “Good.” The answer comes out harsher than you intended.
Martin notices, but he doesn’t call you out on it. “She knows she messed up,” he says carefully.
“She should.”
“Y/N.”
“No, seriously.” You look up at him finally. “You’re talking about her intentions, but intentions don’t magically undo what she did.”
“I know.”
“She read things that were never supposed to leave my room.” Your grip tightens slightly around the paper. “Do you understand how violating that feels?”
Martin nods immediately. “Yeah. I do.”
“And then she mailed them out like she was directing some romance movie.” A humourless laugh escapes you. “I’ve spent the last four days emotionally imploding because of her.” Your voice lowers near the end without meaning to.
Martin’s expression softens. “I’m not saying you should forgive her right now,” he says quietly. “Honestly, if someone did that to me, I’d probably never speak to them again.”
You glance at him. “But…” He hesitates slightly before continuing. “I also don’t think she was trying to hurt you.”
You look away again. If Megan had done it malevolently, maybe it would’ve been easier to hate her cleanly, but she hadn’t. She’d genuinely believed she was helping, which somehow makes the entire thing feel even more complicated. Martin watches you for another second before speaking again. “Yesterday, after you walked away, she asked me if I thought she was a terrible person now.”
Your brows furrow slightly. “And?”
“I told her what she did was invasive and completely out of line.” He pauses. “But I also told her I didn’t think she was malicious.”
Then, quieter now, he says, “She wasn’t entirely wrong about one thing, though.” You already know where this is going.
“You and I are talking again,” he says gently. “And Juhoon. Seonghyeon.”
You exhale slowly. He’s right. That’s the complicated, awful truth sitting underneath all of this. The letters had reopened things you thought were permanently buried. Some painfully. Some beautifully. Some both at once.
Martin studies your expression carefully before adding, “I’m not saying that makes what she did okay. It doesn’t. She took away your choice, and that’s not fair.” You nod once faintly.
“But…” His voice softens slightly. “I’m still glad you came back into our lives.”
The words land quietly somewhere deep in your chest. You look back down at Megan’s letter again, thumb brushing absently over the creased edge of the paper. You’re still angry, still hurt, still not ready to forgive her. But…maybe the anger doesn’t feel quite as sharp as it did yesterday.
By the afternoon, things feel quieter again. Not better exactly, but quieter in the way a storm eventually exhausts itself. Juhoon suggests moving tutoring outside after school because, apparently, “a change in environment might improve your attention span.” You stare at him flatly across the library table. “You sound like an educational podcast.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.” And somehow, despite everything, the corner of his mouth twitches slightly before he starts packing up his notes.
So now the two of you are sitting on one of the benches near the sports field, late sunlight warming the concrete paths around campus while students drift past in lazy afterschool clusters. Somewhere nearby, someone’s playing music too loudly from their phone. The football team is practicing in the distance. The entire atmosphere feels soft and golden and distracting. Which is unfortunate, because Juhoon is trying to teach you trigonometry.
“No,” he says patiently for what is probably the fifth time in ten minutes, leaning over your notebook. “You can’t just guess the angle. That’s not math…” Juhoon exhales through his nose, but there’s no actual annoyance behind it. He takes your pencil gently from your hand before rewriting the equation neatly beneath your disaster of working out. “You keep skipping steps,” he says. “Look.”
You try to focus. You really do. Everything just feels unfairly intimate. The way his sleeves are rolled up slightly from the heat. The way he’s focused enough on helping you that he hasn’t even noticed he’s absentmindedly nudging your calculator back every time it drifts too close to the edge of the bench. The quiet concentration in his expression while he explains things like your grades are personally important to him.
“This expression,” Juhoon says suddenly.
You blink. “What expression?”
“The one where you stop listening entirely.”
“I am listening.”
“You’ve been staring at the same number for two minutes.”
“…I process information slowly.”
“You process information theatrically.” That makes you laugh a little despite yourself. You lean sideways against the bench, resting your cheek against your palm while he continues explaining the problem anyway, completely aware you’re only absorbing maybe thirty percent of it. Still, he keeps going. Never rushing you. Never getting genuinely irritated even when you derail every five minutes.
It hits you suddenly that this was always what Juhoon had been like. Quietly patient. Even before you left. Back then, you used to complain dramatically about homework just to hear him explain things again in that calm voice of his while pretending not to notice you were distracting him on purpose. And every single time, without fail, he’d sigh like you were exhausting and then continue helping you anyway. Completely enabling you.
“You’re doing it again,” he says without looking up from the notebook.
“I’m literally looking at the equation.”
“Yeah, the one we moved on from ten minutes ago.”
Oh. “Well, I’m not done absorbing that one yet.”
“That’s not how learning works…”
“You’re very judgmental for someone voluntarily spending his afternoons teaching me.”
Juhoon glances at you briefly. “I ask myself why every day.”
You grin faintly. “You know you like me.”
The words slip out naturally, careless and familiar. The kind of thing you would’ve said to him easily years ago. A faint warmth creeps up your neck as you suddenly become hyperaware of the silence that follows. Juhoon’s fingers still slightly around his own pencil. For the first time since sitting down, he looks caught off guard too. His eyes flick toward you briefly before looking away again. Then, almost unconsciously, he wets his lips nervously with his tongue. “Unfortunately.”
Your stomach flutters stupidly. God. That was barely even flirtatious. So why did it feel like that? You look away quickly before your brain can embarrass you further.
A comfortable silence settles afterward, broken only by the occasional scratch of pencil against paper and distant noise from the sports field nearby. Then movement catches your attention.
Your eyes lift automatically, and immediately, your mood drops. A group of students are walking past near the front gates, bags slung over their shoulders, swim team jackets visible even from here.
Keonho is in the middle of them.
Your heartbeat stumbles instantly. He’s still wearing part of his practice uniform, hair slightly damp. The late sunlight catches against his skin as he turns to look beside him. And there she is again. Walking beside him. Close, too close. The girl says something that makes him grin immediately, and your chest twists so sharply it almost pisses you off.
Because why did he still look like that to you? Why did he still manage to pull every ounce of air from your lungs without even trying? You hate it. You hate the way your eyes keep finding him automatically. The way your stupid heart still reacts before your brain can stop it. And worst of all, you hate how natural they look together. Like they fit.
Your thoughts spiral before you can stop them.
Were they dating? Had they always been this close? Was this why he never noticed what was happening between the two of you back then? Was she the reason everything fell apart?
No, that wasn’t fair. But then why did seeing her beside him feel so awful? Especially after your fight. Especially after the way he looked at you that night, angry and hurt and completely unfamiliar.
“You’ve been holding the pencil in the air for like thirty seconds.” Juhoon’s voice snaps you back instantly.
You blink hard. “What?”
He follows your line of sight automatically toward the sports field and the students near the gate. Toward Keonho and her. Something subtle shifts in his expression then, like quiet understanding. “Oh,” he says softly.
You immediately look back down at your notebook, embarrassed by how obvious you must’ve been. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Juhoon studies you for a moment before closing the notebook between you gently. “Do you want to take a break?” The softness in his voice catches you off guard slightly.
You shake your head too quickly. “No. I’m fine.”
A lie. An obvious one. Your eyes keep drifting back toward the field anyway, traitorous and restless, and you can feel Juhoon noticing every single time, a strange tightness in his expression. Not annoyance. Something quieter, fainter. Like he’s sitting right beside you, but your attention is still somewhere else entirely.
After a moment, you try for casual. “…Do you know her?”
“The girl?” You nod, pretending to reorganize your notes so you don’t have to look at him.
Juhoon glances toward the field again. “A little.”
“She’s in student council,” he continues. “Athletics representative, I think? She helps organize inter-school sports events and athlete scheduling.”
You try to sound normal when you ask, “How do you know that?”
“James.”
That makes you look up.
“Back when he was still on the basketball team,” Juhoon explains. “I used to tutor him sometimes after practice. I saw her around a few times because of that.”
Your stomach twists quietly. So she’d been there the whole time. Around the gym, the teams…Keonho. “Are she and Keonho…” You hesitate, hating how careful your voice suddenly sounds. “Close?”
Juhoon goes quiet for a second, then shrugs lightly. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “They seem friendly.” His tone stays even, but there’s something slightly restrained underneath it now.
Friendly. You almost laugh. Because that word means absolutely nothing. Friendly could mean classmates. Friendly could mean flirting. Friendly could mean secretly in love for years while everyone else stayed oblivious.
Your grip slightly tightens around the pencil in your hand. The worst part was that nobody could give you a real answer. Just fragments. Little moments your brain kept stitching together against your will. The easy smiles, a hand lingering there, the way Keonho looked at her like being near her was effortless. The same way he used to look at you.
You stare down at the unfinished equation in front of you, numbers blurring slightly together. Then quietly: “What do you do when someone just…moves on without telling you?”
The words leave your mouth and immediately you wince internally. Because isn’t that exactly what you did? You left. You disappeared for two years and cut everyone off because you were scared and hurting and selfish enough to think distance would solve everything. The hypocrisy of the question settles heavily in your chest.
But Juhoon doesn’t point it out, or make you feel guilty for it. Beside you, he goes very still. For a second, you think he’s not going to answer at all. But then he says carefully, “I don’t think people always move on as cleanly as they pretend to.” “Sometimes,” he says slowly, “they just get better at acting like they did. You’d be surprised how long people can carry things quietly.”
Your throat tightens. Suddenly it doesn’t feel like he’s only talking about Keonho anymore. And when you glance at him properly, there’s something unreadable in his expression too.
Something almost sad.
IV.
The next day starts normally enough, which honestly feels offensive considering the state of your internal life. You keep trying to pay attention in class, like your emotional stability isn’t currently hanging by a thread. Students laugh in hallways. Someone nearly trips over a backpack during first period. The cafeteria somehow still serves fries that taste vaguely artificial. Meanwhile, your brain has decided to become deeply, irrationally fixated on one specific person.
Her. You try not to think about it at first. You really do. But then someone in class casually mentions the upcoming swim competition and immediately your mind supplies the image of Keonho standing beside her during assembly. Then during third period, you spot one of the swim team jackets hanging over a chair and suddenly you’re thinking about the football field again. About the way she’d laughed while touching his arm. About the way he’d smiled back without even seeming to notice he was doing it.
It’s irritating. Mostly because you keep trying to convince yourself you don’t actually care. They could just be friends. She worked with the sports teams. Juhoon literally said she was involved in student council athletics stuff. Of course she’d be around Keonho often. He was one of the school’s best swimmers, if not the best. It would honestly be weirder if they didn’t know each other. Logically, everything makes sense. Emotionally, you still hate every second of it.
Because “they work together” doesn’t explain the way he looked at her. And it definitely didn’t explain why every time you saw them together, it felt like someone was slowly pressing against a bruise inside your chest. Maybe that’s the part digging under your skin the most. Not the touching or the closeness. Not even the possibility that they might be dating. It’s the familiarity, the ease. The way she fit beside him naturally, like she’d always been there.
By lunchtime, you’ve managed to annoy yourself so thoroughly with your own thoughts that you end up wandering the administrative hallway mostly to clear your head. Unfortunately, that’s when you notice the giant bulletin board.
MEET YOUR STUDENT COUNCIL.
Your steps slow automatically. Rows of smiling student council photos stare back at you beneath neatly printed names and titles. President. Vice President. Treasurer. Event Planning Committee. And before you can stop yourself, your eyes are already scanning for her.
“You’ve been standing here for a concerning amount of time.” Martin’s voice beside you nearly makes you jump.
“I’m not doing anything,” you say immediately.
“Mm.” He glances at the board. “That’s why you’re staring at student council members like you’re conducting a criminal investigation.” You ignore him, continuing to scan down the poster until finally...There.
‘Han Soojin. Athletics & Events Coordinator.’ Responsible for organizing inter-school sports events, athlete scheduling, team support initiatives, and campus athletics partnerships. There’s a neat little photo beside her name. Perfectly styled hair. Polished smile. Student council badge clipped cleanly against her blazer. Pretty.
Your mood worsens instantly. Martin leans slightly closer to the poster. “That her?”
You cross your arms. “Maybe.”
“That means yes.”
You sigh quietly through your nose. Martin studies your expression for another second before speaking more carefully this time. “You know…you could probably start by admitting to yourself that you care.”
“I don’t care.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m serious.”
“You are currently staring at the student council poster trying to gather background information on another girl.”
“Well, it sounds dramatic when you say it like that.”
“Because it is dramatic.”
You finally look at him. “I’m not stalking her.”
“Can you honestly say you’re not going to try and stalk her on Instagram after this?”
“I’m just curious.”
“About?”
You open your mouth automatically. Then pause. Because honestly? You’re not fully sure. You could say you’re curious about Keonho’s friend, about why they seem so close, about whether there’s actually something going on between them. But that still wouldn’t cover the real question sitting underneath all of it. The one you still haven’t properly admitted to yourself yet. Did he move on?
The thought makes something uncomfortable tighten in your chest. Martin watches your expression shift slightly and immediately softens a little. “Hey.”
You look away quickly.
“I’m not saying you’re crazy for caring,” he says. “I just think maybe pretending you don’t care at all is making you spiral harder.”
You stare back at the poster. At Soojin’s smiling picture. Athletics & Events Coordinator. That’s it. That’s all you’ve managed to find out. A title. A name. Nothing useful. No explanation for why she and Keonho seem attached at the hip lately. No confirmation about whether they’re dating. No actual answers. Just enough information to make your imagination worse.
“I still don’t know anything,” you mutter.
Martin tilts his head slightly. “What exactly are you trying to know?”
You fall silent again. The honest answer sounds humiliating. Were they together? Did he like her? Had he always liked her? Was that why things between you and him had never fully crossed the line back then? Did you lose something before you even properly had it?
Your stomach twists. Finally, you shrug lightly and look away from the board. “…Nothing, I guess.”
Martin gives you a look that says he does not believe you for even a second. Thankfully, he lets it go anyway.
By the end of the school day, the entire campus feels louder than usual. Mostly because nobody is invested in actual academics anymore. Classes are shortened due to the inter-school swim competition, which means students spend the last hour barely pretending to pay attention while making plans for the meet instead. The hallways buzz with excitement by final bell, groups already heading toward the sports complex in clusters of school colours and swim team jackets.
You, meanwhile, are fully prepared to go home.
“Absolutely not,” Martin says immediately when you tell him this while shoving books into your bag.
You look up flatly. “Absolutely yes.”
“You’re coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I literally do not want to watch Keonho look devastatingly attractive in 4K for two straight hours.”
Martin snorts loudly enough that two people glance over.
“I’m serious,” you mutter.
“You’re being dramatic again.”
“You say that like it’s not my defining personality trait.”
Martin falls into step beside you as you leave the classroom. “Y/N, come on. It’s one swim meet. You don’t even know if he’ll notice you there.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Martin laughs under his breath while adjusting the strap of his bag. “You’ve spent the entire day obsessing over this girl and whether or not she’s dating him. At this point, staying home won’t magically make you stop thinking about it.”
You glare at him.
“Come on, where’s your school spirit?” he continues anyway, gaining a groan from you.
“Look,” he says more gently after a second. “I just think hiding from it is probably making it worse.”
You exhale quietly, because unfortunately, he’s probably right. And maybe some part of you wants to go anyway, not for the competition or even for Keonho, but just to see. To understand. To finally figure out what the deal is between him and Soojin, which is probably unhealthy. But still.
Twenty minutes later, you find yourself walking beside Martin across campus toward the natatorium anyway. The late afternoon sun hangs low across the sports fields, warm light spilling across concrete pathways crowded with students. The closer you get to the sports complex, the louder everything becomes. Music echoes faintly from inside the building already, mixed with whistles and overlapping conversations.
You shove your hands into your jacket pockets. “I hate that you convinced me.”
Martin looks smug. “I actually feel very accomplished.”
You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches anyway.
For a minute, the two of you walk quietly through the crowd. Then Martin says carefully, “You know…you could still talk to him.”
Your stomach tightens instantly, but you keep your eyes ahead. “Martin.”
“I’m serious.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I’d argue there’s a lot to talk about.”
You sigh quietly through your nose. Martin slows slightly beside you. “If he knew Megan sent the letters-”
“It’s not about the letters.”
The words leave your mouth too quickly, too honestly. He glances sideways at you immediately…and because he’s Martin, he notices everything.
You stare ahead at the sports building entrance while students stream around you. “The letters just…” You struggle briefly for the right wording. “They brought everything back.”
“Back from where?”
You laugh softly once, but there’s no humour in it. “I don’t know. From wherever I shoved it for two years.”
Martin stays quiet. So you keep talking before you can stop yourself. “It would honestly be easier if this was only about Megan sending them.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your bag. “Because then at least there’d be one thing to blame.”
“But there isn’t.”
You shake your head slowly. Because how do you explain this properly? How do you explain that nothing between you and Keonho had ever fully ended cleanly enough to bury? That leaving had felt easier than staying and dealing with everything you never said? That maybe part of you had always known there were feelings there, but both of you kept dancing around them until it became too late?
You swallow once. “It’s just…” You hesitate. “There’s a lot he doesn’t know.”
Martin watches you carefully now.
“And there’s a lot I never said.”
The noise from the natatorium grows louder as you near the entrance. Students push past excitedly around you while Martin stays quiet beside you for a few seconds. Then gently: “Do you think he didn’t know?”
The question catches you off guard. You frown slightly. “What?”
“That you cared about him.”
Your heartbeat stumbles annoyingly fast, as you look away immediately. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The softness of his voice makes your chest ache unexpectedly. For a second, you don’t answer. Because honestly? You don’t know. You don’t know what Keonho understood back then, if he realized how much that fight had hurt you. You don’t know if he noticed the way you kept waiting afterward. For one conversation, one text, one sign that he still wanted you around despite everything.
But he never knew you were leaving. That’s the part that still twists painfully inside your chest. Because Keonho would’ve said something if he’d known. Maybe he would’ve stopped you or shown up at your house angry and breathless demanding to know why you were disappearing for two whole years.
Or maybe he wouldn’t have. Not knowing feels worse.
By the time you reach the entrance doors, your thoughts feel tangled all over again. Martin nudges your shoulder lightly before pushing the doors open. “Come on,” he says. “Try not to emotionally combust before halftime.”
“It’s swimming,” you mutter automatically. “There is no halftime.”
“See? You’re already participating.”
The natatorium is already loud when you both enter. The huge indoor pool reflects sharp bands of light across the ceiling while students fill the bleachers in noisy clusters. School banners hang from the railings overhead, and somewhere near the front, the announcer’s microphone screeches painfully with feedback.
“Jesus,” Martin mutters. “That sound aged me.”
As you both climb the bleachers searching for seats, movement catches your eye a few rows over. Juhoon sits near the middle section with James sprawled lazily beside him, one leg stretched over the bench in front. James notices you first.
“Well, well,” James says the second he spots you heading toward their row. “Look who came to a sports event without the motivation of secretly gawking at a handsome player this time.”
You nearly choke. Juhoon turns his head slowly, giving James a weird look. “What?”
James freezes too, realization immediately hitting his face a second too late. “Oh.”
Your soul leaves your body. Of course they don’t know they both got a letter. And judging by the way Juhoon is now looking between the two of you with narrowed eyes, he’s figuring that out very quickly.
James coughs awkwardly. “That sounded worse out loud.”
“You think?” you hiss.
Juhoon’s gaze lingers on you for half a second longer than necessary before he leans back slightly in his seat. “Interesting.”
“Nothing about this is interesting.”
“It actually sounds extremely interesting,” he says calmly.
James points at you immediately, “Hey, she did write that she used to attend my games because she thought I looked good in basketball jerseys.”
You bury your face in your hands. “That’s not- I hate both of you.”
James looks delighted now that he’s no longer suffering alone. “No, wait, my favorite part was when she wrote-”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll shove you into the pool.”
“That’s fair.”
Juhoon is very obviously trying not to smile now, which somehow makes it worse. “You wrote letters to everyone?” he asks lightly.
You look up immediately. “Not everyone…! Don’t act curious. Yours was annoying too.”
James blinks. “Wait, he got one too?”
Now it’s Juhoon’s turn to go still. A beat of silence passes.
Then James slowly points between both of you. “Oh, this just became significantly more entertaining.”
“None of this is entertaining,” you mutter.
“It absolutely is,” James says. “For me, specifically.”
Juhoon shakes his head once, though there’s amusement sitting quietly in his expression now. “You’re lucky I’m choosing not to ask follow-up questions.”
“That’s because you respect my privacy,” you say immediately.
Juhoon gives you a look. “I said I was choosing not to ask. Not that I wasn’t curious.”
Your stomach flutters annoyingly for absolutely no reason. Thankfully, James interrupts before your brain can spiral anywhere embarrassing. “Anyway,” he says, gesturing toward the pool, “welcome to the thrilling world of school sports. There’ll be chlorine, screaming, and at least one overly emotional parent in the audience.”
“And one athlete crying dramatically after winning,” Juhoon adds.
James points at him accusingly. “That happened once.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, the sound coming easier than it had all day.
Juhoon then turns to you, tone perfectly dry. “You must be thrilled about tutoring getting cancelled.”
“It’s the happiest day of my life.”
“I knew you didn’t care about your education.”
James shakes his head solemnly. “Nah, your teaching is unbearable. No compassion or warmth.” He leans back against the bleacher seat with a sigh. “You know what his problem is? He enjoys being correct too much.”
Juhoon just sighs. “That’s because I usually am.”
“You hear this?” James gestures toward Juhoon like he’s presenting evidence in court. “This is why nobody likes gifted students.”
“I like gifted students,” you say absently.
Juhoon glances toward you immediately. You realize what you said about one second too late.
“So,” James says slowly, looking between both of you now, visibly entertained. “Interesting atmosphere here.”
Thankfully, you’re saved as the announcer’s voice echoes through the stadium again, calling swimmers toward the preparation area. Martin, seated several rows lower, glances back toward you and gestures dramatically. “Are you abandoning me for cooler people?”
“You’ll survive,” you call back as you stand, adjusting your bag against your shoulder. “I should go before he starts taking this personally.”
“Looks like he already has,” James says.
Martin flips him off from across the bleachers.
“Charming guy,” James remarks.
“He writes poetry,” you reply.
“That explains everything.”
You laugh again, then glance toward Juhoon briefly. “See you later.”
He nods once, the tips of his ears slightly pink. “See you.”
As you start heading back down the bleachers toward Martin, movement near the aisle catches your eye. Seonghyeon. He’s halfway down the steps already, attention fixed on his phone, clearly searching for somewhere to sit. And before you can really think about why you’re doing it…“Seonghyeon!”
He looks up immediately, visibly surprised. You suddenly feel oddly awkward under the attention. “Uh…you can sit with us if you want?”
For a second, he just blinks at you, like the invitation genuinely caught him off guard. Then he nods slowly. “Oh. Sure, if you don’t mind.”
Martin shifts over slightly as Seonghyeon reaches your row. The two of them exchange the kind of polite half-familiar look people do when they technically know each other from years of sharing classes and hallways without ever properly speaking.
“Hey,” Martin says. “We had literature together last semester, right?”
Seonghyeon nods once as he sits carefully beside him. “Yeah.”
“You did that presentation on Osamu Dazai.”
A faint look of recognition crosses Seonghyeon’s face. “Oh. Right.”
Martin points accusingly. “You set the grading curve way too high, by the way.”
A quiet laugh slips out of Seonghyeon before he can stop it, and something about it feels unexpectedly nice. “Sorry?”
The competition starts in a rush of noise.
The second the first whistle blows, the entire natatorium seems to wake up all at once: water crashing against tile, sneakers squeaking across wet floors, the sharp echo of announcers calling lane assignments through crackling speakers. Students crowd the bleachers in waves of school colours, handmade signs lifted overhead while teammates scream themselves hoarse every time someone from your school even remotely places well in an event.
The atmosphere is ridiculous. Loud, humid, chaotic. Martin gets invested almost immediately. Five minutes into the first relay, he’s already leaning halfway over the railing. “NO, because that turn was suspicious.”
“You do not know swimming rules,” you tell him.
“I know corruption when I see it.”
You laugh despite yourself as the crowd erupts again nearby, another race ending in a frenzy of cheers and splashing water.
For a while, it’s easy to get swept up in the energy of it all. Students chanting school slogans, athletes wrapped in towels rushing past the bleachers, coaches yelling instructions over clipboards. Somewhere behind you, someone spills an entire drink and starts apologizing with the intensity of a war criminal. And then eventually… “Next up,” the announcer says, voice echoing sharply through the stadium, “the boys’ senior individual medley final.”
Something shifts instantly. You feel it before you even fully process why. The noise changes, not quieter, if anything louder, but sharper somehow. More focused. Students start sitting up straighter. A few people near the front stand completely. The swim team gathered by the pool edge suddenly looks intensely alert, teammates crowding toward the railings.
Beside you, Martin glances toward the lanes. “Ah,” he says knowingly. “Golden boy time.”
One by one, swimmers step onto the platforms while their names are announced overhead. And then Keonho walks out. The reaction from the crowd is immediate. Cheers explode across the natatorium so loudly that even the opposing schools start looking irritated.
You hate how instantly your eyes find him.
He looks good. Not in the carefully polished way some people do, not staged or overly aware of himself. Just completely alive in this environment, like every sharp edge of him settles into place the second he steps near the water. His damp hair is pushed messily back from his forehead, swim cap hanging loose around his neck while he rolls one shoulder absentmindedly before adjusting his goggles. The harsh overhead lights catch against the water still clinging to his skin, tracing down the line of his arms and shoulders, the easy strength built from years of training. But more than that, he looks certain. Focused in a way that makes the rest of the room seem blurry around him.
You remember suddenly, painfully, how much he used to love medley races specifically.
Now, standing beneath the stadium lights with his goggles settled into place, he looks exactly like he did back then. Like he belongs here.
The whistle blows. Silence crashes down for one suspended second before the swimmers dive.
The crowd erupts instantly. Keonho hits the water cleanly, barely even splashing before disappearing beneath the surface in one smooth motion. Butterfly first. And immediately, he surges ahead.
The power behind each stroke is almost violent, shoulders cutting through the water while the swimmers beside him struggle to keep pace. Water crashes hard against the lane ropes as the entire pool explodes into motion. Students are screaming already. The swim team is pounding against the railings so hard you’re vaguely concerned they might break something.
Beside you, Martin stands up abruptly. “Oh my god, he’s insane.”
Keonho reaches the wall first and transitions flawlessly. Every movement sharp and practiced like muscle memory carved permanently into his body. You can feel the momentum building through the entire natatorium now: students rising to their feet, teammates shouting themselves hoarse, coaches yelling split times over the chaos.
Lastly, freestyle. His strongest finish. Keonho launches forward like he’s chasing something. Or outrunning it. The final lap becomes absolute madness. Water crashing, whistles shrieking, your school practically shaking the bleachers from sheer noise alone. Someone behind you is screaming his name repeatedly at a volume that genuinely feels medically concerning. Through all of it, he never slows down.
By the final stretch, it’s obvious he’s going to win. You can see it in the confidence of every stroke, in the way the swimmers beside him are already falling behind, in the barely restrained anticipation from his teammates gathered poolside.
Then the buzzer sounds. The scoreboard flashes.
First.
The natatorium explodes.
Students leap to their feet cheering while the swim team practically floods the edge of the pool. Towels get thrown. Someone nearly falls into the water trying to grab Keonho’s shoulder when he surfaces laughing breathlessly, pushing wet hair back from his face while teammates crowd around him yelling over each other. And despite everything….despite the fights, despite the hurt, despite how complicated everything between you has become, you clap too. Because you remember every early morning practice. Every exhausted complaint. Every race he lost before this one. You know how badly he wanted it.
Keonho grins while one of his teammates nearly tackles him sideways into the lane rope again. Then his gaze shifts past them, toward the edge of the pool. Toward her.
Soojin steps closer, laughing as she says something you can’t hear over the noise. Her student council badge still glints against her blazer even here, surrounded by soaked athletes and screaming students. He reaches for the side of the pool while she crouches slightly closer to hear him better, and when she laughs again, he laughs too, wide and unguarded in a way that makes something inside your chest ache sharply.
Your clapping slows before stopping completely. The cheers around you suddenly feel far away.
Martin notices immediately. He glances sideways just in time to catch the way your expression dims, and something softer settles across his face. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
You force your gaze away from Keonho and make your mouth curve into something that probably resembles a smile. “Never been better,” you say.
Martin hums once, unconvinced. “Mm,” he says gently.
Once the noise surrounding Keonho’s win finally began to settle into scattered conversations and excited chatter, Martin nudged your shoulder lightly with his own. “You need to get out of here before you detonate.”
You were still staring vaguely toward the pool deck where swimmers and students crowded together in celebration. “I’m perfectly composed.”
“You’re spiralling.”
You scoffed quietly, though without much energy behind it. Martin studied you for another second before jerking his head toward the exit. “Come on. Diner?”
That finally pulled your attention toward him. “Right now?”
“Yes, right now. We’re getting fries, you’re getting a milkshake, and you’re going to stop staring at Keonho like a Victorian widow watching her husband leave for war.”
You gave Martin a long look. “What the fuck.”
Still, you shook your head, smiling faintly as you grabbed your bag and followed him down the bleachers. The crowd had mostly dissolved now into smaller groups lingering near the exits, students loudly replaying moments from the meet while swimmers moved around wrapped in towels and team jackets.
As you stepped into the aisle near the lower rows, your eyes landed briefly on Seonghyeon a few feet away. He was alone, crouched slightly while zipping up his backpack, looking like he was debating whether to leave or wait for someone. Before you could properly think the impulse through, you called out. “Seonghyeon.”
He looked up immediately. “Oh, hey.”
You adjusted the strap of your bag awkwardly. “We’re going to the diner nearby. Do you…want to come?”
Beside you, Martin’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise, though to his credit, he recovered almost instantly. “Yeah,” he added easily. “The more people there are, the less she can dramatically monologue about her life.”
Seonghyeon let out a quiet laugh at that, but he still looked caught off guard by the invitation itself. “You’re…asking me?” The question came out more genuine than teasing, like he truly hadn’t expected it.
“Yeah,” you said, suddenly feeling oddly self-conscious. “I mean. If you want.”
For a second, he actually looked tempted, then his expression shifted slightly, almost apologetic. “I can’t, actually.”
“Oh.” You tried not to sound disappointed by that for some reason. “It’s okay, no pressure or anything-”
“It’s just…There’s this thing after the meet,” he explained, rubbing lightly at the back of his neck. “Student council organized some small afterparty for the swim team.”
Martin glanced between the two of you. “An actual party?”
“More like food and celebration stuff,” Seonghyeon said. “Nothing huge.”
Then, after a brief hesitation: “Keonho asked me to come.”
The moment the name left his mouth, his expression changed faintly, like he realized a second too late how awkward that sounded standing in front of you. Especially tonight.
You forced your face not to react. “Oh,” you said quickly. “Right. Yeah, obviously.”
Seonghyeon looked almost uncomfortable now. “Sorry, I just-”
“No, seriously, it’s fine,” you interrupted. “Go. Have fun.”
He still seemed unsure whether he’d somehow said the wrong thing, but after another small nod goodbye, he headed back toward the pool deck entrance.
The second he disappeared into the crowd again, one awful thought surfaced immediately in your brain.
Student council afterparty...meaning she’d be there too. Brilliant.
The diner was crowded by the time you and Martin got there, the inside glowing warm against the dark evening outside. Neon lights reflected against the windows, old songs hummed faintly through the speakers overhead, and the air smelled overwhelmingly like fries, syrup, and coffee. Every booth seemed packed with loud students still high off the energy of the swim meet.
Martin slid into the booth across from you with a dramatic sigh. “If I don’t consume fried food immediately, I may actually pass away.”
“You say that every single time we come here.”
“And yet it remains true every single time.”
You rolled your eyes, but some of the heaviness in your chest had eased slightly already. Maybe it was the familiarity of the place. Maybe it was just Martin being Martin, talking enough for the both of you until silence became impossible.
By the time your food arrived, he’d fully committed himself to the mission of dragging you out of your own head.
“You know,” he said casually while stealing fries from your plate without permission, “I think your current life philosophy is deeply unhealthy.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh? And what exactly is my life philosophy?”
He pointed a fry at you accusingly. “It’s ‘I will stare tragically into the distance over one man until I perish.’”
“That is not my philosophy.”
“It kind of is.”
You snorted despite yourself and reached across the table to smack his wrist before he could steal another fry.
Martin only looked smugger. “Seriously, though. You’re way too hyperfixated on Keonho.”
“I am not hyperfixated.”
“You literally spent an entire lunch break investigating student council posters for a girl he’s hanging out with.”
“That was just curiosity.”
“That was stalking.”
You laughed quietly into your milkshake, shaking your head.
Martin’s expression softened a little after that. “Look, I get it. I’m not saying you can magically stop caring about someone overnight. But you also can’t keep revolving your entire emotional state around one guy.”
Your fingers slowed around the straw.
“I mean…” He shrugged lightly. “There are other people. Other fish in the sea and all that.”
You groaned immediately. “That phrase is horrible.”
“It survives because it’s true.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Martin leaned back against the booth. “You act like Keonho is the only attractive person to ever exist.”
“He’s not.”
“Good. Progress.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it.”
You kicked his shin lightly under the table.
Martin grinned. “My point is, you’re acting like your life is permanently over because one guy might maybe possibly have moved on.”
The words settled uncomfortably inside your chest, because maybe that was true. Maybe you had been letting Keonho consume far too much space inside your head for someone who barely even spoke to you properly anymore.
And it wasn’t like you were hopelessly, devastatingly in love with him. …Right?
Your stomach twisted faintly at the thought, immediately betraying you with the memory of yesterday morning. Sitting beside Seonghyeon. Quietly admitting out loud—
You shoved the thought away instantly. No. You were not thinking about that right now.
Instead, you sighed dramatically and slumped further into the booth. “Fine. Maybe spiralling over him twenty-four seven isn’t exactly helping me.”
Martin pointed at you triumphantly. “Growth.”
“Don’t make this worse.”
“I’m proud of you.”
The conversation drifted more easily after that. Martin went on an unnecessarily passionate rant about how mint chocolate ice cream was “criminally underappreciated by society.” You nearly choked laughing. Then you somehow ended up debating whether your cafeteria food legally qualified as food, followed by Martin launching into a genuinely heated complaint about people annotating library books.
“You are not the protagonist of literature,” he declared. “Stop writing in public copies like your thoughts deserve archival preservation.”
“You sound personally victimized.”
“Because I checked out a book last week and someone had written ‘HE JUST LIKE ME FR’ in the margins.”
You burst into laughter so hard your stomach hurt.
For the first time all evening, you actually stopped thinking about Keonho. Or at least mostly.
Hours passed quicker after that. Outside, the sky had gone fully dark by the time Martin absentmindedly unlocked his phone mid-conversation. His thumb paused suddenly against the screen.
“Oh, the student council already uploaded pictures from tonight.”
Your stomach dipped slightly despite yourself. Martin noticed your expression immediately. “Oh, wait, sorry. I was just gonna show you the decorations because they actually made the place look decent for once.”
“It’s fine,” you said, even though it wasn’t entirely.
He hesitated before turning the phone toward you anyway.
The post was mostly harmless at first. Pictures of the pool. Team photos. Students holding up school banners. Someone had apparently thrown confetti at one point because glitter covered half the pictures.
You swiped once. Then again.
And froze.
Keonho. And Soojin. Standing close together in one of the afterparty photos while people crowded around behind them. Both smiling toward the camera.
And his hand rested lightly around her waist.
Your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt. Martin saw your expression change instantly and reached for the phone immediately. “Okay, never mind, that was a horrible idea.”
But you’d already seen it.
You handed the phone back calmly enough. “It’s okay.” A lie. Your thoughts had already started spiralling again.
So that was it, then. Maybe he really had moved on. Maybe whatever had existed between the two of you had only mattered to you in the end. And if Keonho was happy now, if he liked someone else enough to stand there with his hand around her like that, then what exactly were you still doing? Still waiting for him? Still revolving around him? Still hurting over him?
By the time you and Martin finally left the diner, the streets outside had gone quieter, the air colder against your skin.
Martin kept talking as you walked, clearly still trying to keep your mind occupied, but you barely heard half of it anymore, your attention kept drifting. Back to the picture. Keonho smiling beside Soojin. His hand around her waist so naturally like it belonged there, how easy he’d looked. Comfortable even, happy.
If there had ever been something between the two of you at all, he’d moved past it now. Past you.
And honestly…what were you even doing anymore?
Martin’s words from earlier replayed suddenly in your head.
You’re way too hyperfixated on Keonho. You also can’t keep revolving your entire emotional state around one guy.
The thought settled heavily inside you. Because he was right.
Maybe you had spent so long circling around Keonho, around old feelings, old fights, old memories, that you’d forgotten how to be anything else.
And if Keonho really liked someone else now…if he was happy with someone else…then why were you still stuck here? Still waiting for something that clearly wasn’t coming back?
Your footsteps slowed slightly.
An idea sparked suddenly in the middle of all that spiralling. Reckless. Impulsive. Possibly the worst decision you’d made all month. Which, considering recent events, was saying a lot.
You almost stopped walking entirely.
Martin noticed immediately. “Why do you look like you’re about to commit arson?”
You blinked. “What?”
“That face,” he said suspiciously. “That’s your terrible idea face.”
“I don’t have a terrible idea face.”
“You absolutely do.”
You rolled your eyes, but your brain was already moving too fast now.
By the time you reached the corner where your routes home split apart, the idea had rooted itself firmly enough that you couldn’t shake it anymore.
Martin pointed down the opposite street. “Alright, I’m heading this way.”
“Yeah,” you said distractedly.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You good?”
“Obviously.”
“That answer inspires zero confidence.”
You forced a quick smile anyway. “I’ll text you later.”
Martin still looked unconvinced, but after a second he sighed dramatically. “Fine. Good night.”
“Night, Martin.”
And the second he disappeared around the corner…
You ran.
Not toward your house. Toward his.
Your thoughts pounded louder with every step.
This was insane.
Actually insane.
But the image of Keonho and Soojin together kept replaying in your head anyway, over and over until something hot and reckless twisted sharply in your chest.
Fine.
If Keonho had moved on…maybe it was time you did too.
By the time you reached his house, you were slightly out of breath, lungs aching from sprinting half the neighbourhood in shoes absolutely not designed for running.
Lights glowed softly behind the front windows.
For one brief second, doubt hit you. What exactly were you even planning to say?
Too late now.
You knocked once. Then again, louder this time.
A few seconds later, footsteps approached from inside.
The door opened.
Seonghyeon blinked the second he saw you standing there on his porch.
“…Y/N?” His brows furrowed immediately. “It’s late. What are you doing here?”
You looked straight at him.
“I need your help.”
