It feels like any other morning. Soft. Slow. Familiar in the way that makes you forget to question it.
The sunlight slips through the curtains at the wrong angle, brushing against your face like something gentle enough to ignore. You groan quietly, burying your face deeper into the pillow, instinctively shifting closer to the other side of the bed.
There is a dip in the mattress.
Faint. Subtle.
Like it has always been there.
You settle into it without thinking, your body moving on memory alone. Your arm drifts across the sheets, stopping just short of where she should be. Your fingers curl slightly, like they remember something your mind refuses to say out loud.
“…you’re awake,” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.
A quiet hum answers you.
Soft. Familiar.
“Go back to sleep,” Karina murmurs.
“You woke me up.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re breathing too loud.”
There is a pause.
Then a quiet scoff, almost fond. “You’re impossible.”
You smile into the pillow, eyes still closed.
You stay like that longer than you need to. Suspended in that fragile space between asleep and awake, where everything feels right as long as you don’t move too much. As long as you don’t think too hard.
“…what time is it?” you ask.
“Too early.”
“Rina, baby, that’s not a real answer.”
“It’s real enough.”
You huff softly, dragging your hand lazily across the bed again. This time your fingertips press a little deeper into the mattress, like you are testing the shape of something that isn’t quite there.
“Five more minutes,” you say.
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“I mean it this time.”
“You always mean it.”
“…and I always fail.”
“Exactly. See, whoever said you’re stupid.”
“I’m guessing you did”
You crack one eye open.
She is there.
On her side, facing you. Hair messy, falling across her face in soft strands. Her expression is calm, a little amused, like she has been watching you for longer than you realized.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“You’re ugly when you wake up.”
“You say that every morning.”
“And I’m always right.”
You squint at her, then reach blindly for the blanket, tugging it up over your face.
“…you’re mean in the mornings.”
“I’m honest.”
“Same thing.”
She laughs quietly, the sound soft enough that it feels like it belongs in this half-asleep world more than anywhere else.
You peek out from under the blanket again.
She’s still in that same position, looking at you.
“You’re still staring,” you mumble.
“You’re still ugly.”
“…rude.”
You push yourself up slowly, stretching your arms over your head. Your hand drifts toward her again without thinking, reaching out to brush her hair away from her face like you always do.
You stop.
Just before contact.
Close enough that it feels like you did it.
Your fingers hover there for a second too long.
“…what?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
You pull your hand back, scratching your cheek instead like that was always the plan.
“Stay here,” you say, swinging your legs off the bed. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“You’re going to burn it again.”
“I burned it once.”
“You burned it three times.”
“Details.”
She shifts slightly, propping her head up with her hand as she watches you. There is something comfortable about it. Like she has always been there in the mornings, watching you fumble your way into being awake.
“You also almost set off the fire alarm,” she adds.
“That was one time.”
“That was the same time.”
“…still counts as once.”
She hums, unconvinced.
You grab a shirt from the chair, pulling it on as you head toward the door. You pause just before stepping out, glancing back at her.
“Don’t move,” you say.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod.
The kitchen greets you the same way it always does. Quiet. Still. A little too neat in places you don’t remember cleaning.
You reach for two plates without thinking.
Set them down.
Side by side.
There is a small pause.
Then you keep going.
Eggs crack against the edge of the pan, the soft sizzle filling the space. It sounds louder than it should in the quiet.
“You’re staring again,” you call out, glancing over your shoulder.
She’s there, leaning against the counter now.
She always leans against the counter.
“I’m supervising,” she says.
“You’re judging.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re not doing anything.”
“I’m emotionally supporting you.”
You laugh quietly, flipping the eggs with a little more confidence than before.
“Wow,” she says. “Look at that. Almost edible. You’re improving baby”
“You’re so annoying.”
“And yet you keep cooking for me.”
“…I’m a good person and a loving partner.”
“Debatable.”
You reach for two cups, filling both with water. One sits closer to you. The other sits across from you.
Untouched.
You don’t look at it for long.
“You want toast?” you ask.
“You’re going to burn it.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“…fine. Make it.”
You slide the bread into the toaster, leaning against the counter as you wait. Your eyes drift back to her without meaning to.
She’s watching you again.
Quiet.
“You’re smiling,” she says.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“…stop looking at me.”
“Make me.”
You hesitate, then grab a piece of bread from the bag, holding it up like a weak threat.
“I will throw this.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You won’t.”
“…you’re right, I won’t.”
She smiles, and it’s enough to make you lower your hand.
The toaster pops.
You flinch slightly at the sound.
She doesn’t.
You don’t think about it.
“See?” you say, grabbing the toast. “Perfect.”
“It’s slightly burnt.”
“It’s golden.”
“It’s brown.”
“Golden brown.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
At the table, you sit across from her. Two plates. Two cups.
She looks exactly the same as always.
Like she belongs there.
“You’re not eating?” you ask.
“I will.”
You nod, taking a bite.
It tastes normal. Warm. Real.
“You improved,” she says.
“See? I told you.”
“I didn’t say it was good.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied it was edible.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“Not even close.”
You smile anyway.
Your eyes flick to her plate.
Still untouched.
You look away quickly, taking another bite.
“…you always rush,” she says.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I eat at a normal pace.”
“You eat like someone’s going to take it from you.”
“…are you going to take it from me?”
“No.”
“Then I’m fine.”
She hums softly, like she doesn’t fully agree.
You slow down anyway.
Just a little.
After breakfast, you leave the plates in the sink.
Karina’s plate remained untouched. You moved it to the fridge.
You tell yourself you’ll come back.
You always do.
You wipe your hands on a towel, glancing toward the living room.
She’s already there.
She’s always there first.
You walk in, dropping onto the couch with a quiet sigh. The cushion dips slightly under your weight.
You pat the space beside you.
“Come here.”
“I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
She rolls her eyes, but shifts anyway.
Close enough that you can pretend you feel her warmth.
You lean back, letting your head fall against the cushion.
“You’re going to fall asleep again,” she says.
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“…I might.”
She exhales softly, something fond hidden in the sound.
You turn your head slightly, looking at her.
“…stay today,” you say quietly.
She meets your gaze.
“I’m here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
A small pause.
“…you’re overthinking again.”
You nod.
“…yeah.”
You don’t push it.
Instead, you reach for the remote, turning on something random. The screen flickers to life, filling the room with soft, meaningless noise.
You lower the volume a little.
The click sounds louder than it should.
She doesn’t react.
You don’t think about it.
Your shoulder leans just slightly toward her.
You stop before it actually touches.
“…hey,” you say after a while.
“Hmm?”
“If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”
She tilts her head, thinking.
“…somewhere quiet.”
“This isn’t quiet?”
“It’s not the same.”
You nod slowly.
“…then I’d go with you.”
She glances at you.
“…of course you would.”
“Someone has to make your breakfast.”
“You’d burn it there too.”
“Wow. You really have no faith in me.”
“I have accurate expectations.”
You laugh softly, letting your head tilt back.
“…what about you?” she asks. “Where would you go?”
You think about it.
Then shrug.
“…here’s fine.”
She watches you for a second.
“…you’re lying.”
“…maybe. But you’re here. So that’s okay.”
The show continues playing in the background, something slow, something neither of you are really watching.
“See,” you murmur after a while. “You’re already falling asleep.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m resting.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true.”
You smile faintly, letting your eyes close.
For a while, everything feels normal.
Perfect, even.
Like nothing has ever been wrong.
Like nothing could be.
And if you stay like this long enough, you almost believe it.
Later, you order food.
Two portions.
When it arrives, you take both bags from the door.
You glance behind you.
She is still in the living room.
She stays in the living room.
“You didn’t come to get it?” you call out.
“I knew you would.”
You nod.
That makes sense.
You sit at the table again.
Two meals.
She does not touch hers.
You leave it there longer this time.
Long enough for it to go cold.
Even when you throw it away, you hesitate.
Like you are waiting for her to stop you.
She does not.
Evening settles.
You find yourself watching her more.
Not obvious.
Just enough to make sure she is still there.
She always is.
Until she is not.
You are in the middle of talking, turning toward her, expecting that small, unimpressed look.
The space beside you is empty.
Your words stop.
You blink.
She is back.
“…you’re being weird,” she says.
“You disappeared.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You just…”
“I haven’t left”
You nod.
“…yeah.”
Night comes.
It always feels easier.
You sit on the floor, back against the couch. She sits beside you.
Close.
Still not touching.
“You’re thinking again,” she says.
“…I always think.”
“Not like this.”
You let out a slow breath.
“…are you really here?”
Silence.
“…what do you think?” she asks.
“I think you’re right in front of me.”
“Then why don’t you ever touch me?”
Your chest tightens.
“I do.”
“No,” she says gently. “You don’t.”
You look down at your hands.
You do not answer.
“…you didn’t come see me,” she says.
The words land heavier now.
“…what?”
“You didn’t come.”
Your throat feels dry.
“I didn’t know where to go.”
A pause.
“You did, you just didn’t go” she says softly.
The memory presses in before you can stop it.
White flowers.
Too many of them.
People speaking in hushed voices.
A framed photo that you refused to look at.
Your hands clenched so tightly they hurt.
You shake your head.
“I couldn’t.”
She watches you.
Quiet.
“I kept everything the same,” you say, your voice smaller now. “I thought if I didn’t move anything…”
“…then it wouldn’t be real,” she finishes.
You nod.
“Dance with me,” you whisper.
She studies you for a second.
Then nods.
“…okay.”
There is no music.
You stand anyway.
You hold your hand out.
You hesitate.
Then you close your fingers like they are wrapping around hers.
You move slowly.
Carefully.
“…you’re stepping on my feet,” she murmurs.
A weak laugh leaves you.
“You don’t even have feet right now.”
“…rude.”
Your grip tightens around nothing.
You do not look down.
“You love me, right?” you ask.
She looks at you.
Soft.
Certain.
“…you know I do.”
“Say it.”
“…I love you.”
Your chest tightens.
This time, you say it back.
“…I love you too.”
The words feel heavier than they should.
Like they are late.
Like they are meant for somewhere else, another time, another life.
When you stop moving, the room feels still.
“…you know this is goodbye,” she says.
Not a question.
You shake your head.
“…no.”
“You do.”
Your eyes burn.
“I didn’t get to say it properly.”
“You’re saying it now.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know.”
Silence settles between you.
“I should have been there,” you whisper. “I should have stayed. I should have—”
“You couldn’t,” she says gently.
“I could have.”
“You didn’t.”
The truth sits between you.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
“…say goodbye,” she whispers.
You close your eyes.
Your hand tightens around nothing.
“…goodbye, Karina.”
When you open them, she is gone.
This time, you do not call out.
You already know.
The room is exactly the same.
But it feels different.
Not emptier.
Just… honest.
The next morning, the sunlight feels too bright.
You sit at the table with one plate.
One cup.
You eat slowly.
When you finish, you wash everything right away.
You do not leave anything behind.
Later, you pick up your phone.
You scroll up.
Message after message.
All sent.
None answered.
Your thumb hovers for a moment.
Then you type again.
I’m sorry I didn’t come see you. I’m sorry I didn’t show up in time. Maybe in another life, my love.
You stare at it.
Then, slowly, you press send.
The message delivers.
It sits there.
Quiet.
Unanswered.
You lock your phone.
You do not open it again.
A song plays softly from your record player.
Familiar.
It’s late.
The moon is out, and the city sleeps.
You stand in the middle of the room.
You take a step.
Then another.
Your body remembers the rhythm.
Even if nothing else does.
You close your eyes.
For a moment, it feels like she might still be there.
You open them.
You are alone.
You reach out nonetheless
You keep moving anyway.
Slow.
Unsteady.
And even when the song ends, you continue dancing.
A/N:Happy Valentine’s day. Also, it’s gender neutral, all are welcome to enjoy😸
Chapter 1
You’ve been awake for so long the world has started to look unreal.
Lights smear. Voices drag. Your own hands feel a fraction disconnected from the rest of you, as though your pulse forgot to keep them warm. But you keep walking down the hallway anyway, clutching the iced tea you bought out of habit, not out of thirst.
It’s late—later than you intended to still be on campus. The building is empty. The kind of empty that makes you aware of your breathing.
And then you hear it.
A soft thud. A muffled curse. The sound of someone very tired trying not to sound tired.
When you round the corner, she’s there. Sohyun. Hood half-off her head. Hair messy in a way you’ve never seen—like she ran her fingers through it a few dozen times too many. A tote bag hangs from one shoulder, overstuffed with scripts and notebooks and things she won’t have time to put down tonight.
She looks up and freezes. It takes her a second—one long second—to place you, and when she does, her shoulders drop with something that looks suspiciously like relief.
“Hey,” she breathes, and that single word is softer than anyone else ever gets from her. “You’re still here?”
You don’t mean to smile, but you do. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
She huffs a tired laugh—tiny, real, the kind she only gives when her guard is down. It makes something in your chest ache.
You’ve known Sohyun for months, in that comfortable, unspoken way people know each other when their lives overlap at strange hours. She’s an idol on the rise, constantly juggling rehearsals and filming and meetings you can only guess at. You’re… you. A person who studies too hard and sleeps too little and somehow always ends up in the same quiet hallways she’s hiding in.
You never plan to see each other. But somehow you always do. Tonight, though—tonight she looks different. Overwound, frayed, on the edge of something invisible.
You nod at the bench by the window. “Sit,” you say before thinking. And somehow, impossibly, she listens. She drops beside you, bag sliding to the floor. She leans her head back against the cold wall, eyes fluttering shut.
“You okay?” you ask gently.
Her voice comes out hoarse. “I don’t remember what okay feels like.”
You shouldn’t be the person she admits that to. You don’t know why you are. Maybe it’s because you’re safe. Because you don’t want anything from her. Because you aren’t part of the machine chewing at her every waking hour. Or maybe it’s because you’re the only person who ever asks her if she’s tired, instead of asking her to prove she isn’t.
Minutes pass like that—quiet, shared breath, glowing emergency lights humming above you. And then her shoulder bumps yours. Barely there. Careful. Like she’s scared you’ll flinch.
You don’t. If anything, you lean a little closer. Her eyes open slowly, heavy-lidded and exhausted. “Have you slept?” she asks.
You shake your head. “You?” She lets out a breath that almost counts as a laugh. “Not in a way that matters.”
The silence that settles between you is warm this time—strangely gentle, like you’ve both been walking through storms and finally found the same doorway. Then, very quietly: “Can I…” She swallows. “Can I stay here a bit? Just—not alone.”
Your heart stumbles. Of course she can. Of course.
But the way she asks—like she’s apologizing for existing—unravels you.
You say her name softly. “Sohyun.”
Her eyes flick to yours.
“You don’t have to ask.”
Her lips part. Something vulnerable flickers across her expression—raw, fleeting, impossible to look away from.
She shifts closer. This time less cautiously. Her shoulder presses against yours, deliberate.
“Thank you,” she whispers. The words are small. But they hit you like a tide. Because no one ever thanks you for staying. You don’t know how long you sit there—minutes, maybe hours—two tired souls leaning into each other because neither has the strength to stand alone tonight.
When her head finally droops onto your shoulder, you freeze only for a heartbeat before adjusting, letting her settle against you.
You hear her breathing steady. You feel her relax for the first time since you met. And it’s stupid—so stupid—but you let yourself imagine that maybe you could be someone she returns to on purpose. Someone she chooses not out of exhaustion, but out of want. You don’t know yet that love, for her, will be a slow undoing. You don’t know yet that this quiet closeness will become her escape, and then her fear.
For now, for tonight, she is here. Your shoulder beneath her cheek. Your heartbeat where she rests.The world soft around the edges.
And it almost feels like the beginning of something gentle. Something hopeful. Romance is in the air. But romance makes fools of the hopeful.
Chapter 2
If anyone asked you when it started—when the world tilted just slightly toward her, when coincidences began to feel suspiciously like choices—you wouldn’t know what to answer.
Maybe it was in the hallway. Or the convenience store. Or at the bus stop where time felt soft enough to stretch.
Maybe it was all of them at once. Because the truth is: Park Sohyun doesn’t enter your life like a moment. She arrives like a pattern.
It’s nearly eleven when you step out of your classroom, rubbing at your neck, blinking sleep out of your eyes. The building is quiet at this hour—just the buzz of old lights and your footsteps echoing down the polished corridor.
You turn a corner. And almost collide with her.
Sohyun stops short, clutching her bag to her chest. Her cheeks are already pink, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
“Oh,” she breathes, hair slightly messy from rushing. “You’re here.”
You blink. “You’re… also here.”
She nods with the sincerity of someone trying very hard to look casual. “Just finished.”
You glance down at her hair—still damp from practice. Her shoes—pointing directly toward the practice rooms, not the exit. Her breathing—just a touch too fast.
“You just finished,” you repeat.
“Yes,” she insists.
“Sohyun,” you say gently.
She shifts her weight, looks away, pretends to study a vending machine that has been broken since last semester.
“…Okay,” she whispers, “I maybe finished a while ago.”
You smile. “You were waiting.”
She puffs out her cheeks—her signature tell of embarrassment. “Shut uuuup.”
You grin wider. “You’re a bad liar.”
Her eyes widen indignantly. “I’m excellent at lying. I once lied to a trainer about eating an extra pudding!”
“That’s… not the flex you think it is.”
She gives you a light punch on the arm—just enough to make your heart swing a little. And then she walks beside you, the hallway suddenly feeling less empty. Less lonely. More… something.
You don’t have a name for it yet. But it hums low in your chest, warm and hopeful.
You’re at the refrigerated section, debating between caffeine and sleep (sleep won’t win), when the bell above the door rings.
You don’t even turn. You already know it’s her. Sohyun stands frozen in the entrance, holding a random carton of milk like it’s evidence in a crime show. Her eyes widen when she sees you, her whole body going stiff like she’s trying to decide between fleeing or pretending she was invisible.
“You,” she says, sounding personally attacked.
“You,” you echo, amused.
She lifts the milk weakly. “I needed… dairy.”
You stare. “That’s banana milk.”
She looks down at it, betrayed. “Why do I keep grabbing the wrong one—?”
You laugh. She hates how much she likes making you laugh. She huffs, sulky and adorable, and follows you to the counter, pretending she just happened to buy two warm canned drinks and only realized it outside the convenience store.
“For you,” she says, shoving one toward you without looking. “It’s cold.”
You deadpan. “It’s hot outside.”
She frowns. “Then… emotional coldness.”
You snort.
She gasps. “Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You are!”
“I’m laughing near you.”
She groans dramatically, but her lips twitch upward anyway. There’s a faint tremble in your hand when your fingers brush hers while accepting the drink. She pulls back as though the contact burned her—in the soft, startled way that says she didn’t hate it. Maybe even liked it.
The bus stop is quiet at night. The kind of quiet where your breath sounds louder than it should.
You’re scrolling through your phone when you hear hurried footsteps.
You look up.
She’s there—hood up, hair sticking to her cheeks, breathing like she ran a marathon.
She stops right in front of you, trying and failing to appear composed.
“Oh hey,” she says, casually pretending she hadn’t just sprinted half the neighborhood.
“…hey,” you reply. “Coincidence?”
She nods with so much force her hood almost falls off. “Yes!”
“Sohyun.”
She deflates. “…Fine. I waited.”
“For me?”
She tucks her chin down, toeing at the ground. Her voice goes tiny.
“Maybe.”
You say nothing—not because you don’t know what to say, but because something in your chest shifts, warm and painful in the way soft things often are. She sits beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. Not quite on purpose, not quite accidental.
“Your practice ended an hour ago,” you murmur.
She doesn’t look at you. “Sometimes time… goes weird.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Like… it moves differently when I’m walking somewhere.”
“Somewhere like here?” you ask softly.
She bites her lip. “Shut up.”
You’re starting to think that ‘shut up’ is Sohyun language for you’re right but I’m too shy to admit it.
Somehow, without deciding it, without ever needing words, meeting her becomes a rhythm. She finishes practice “coincidentally” when your class ends. She appears in hallways she has no reason to be in. She texts you occasionally—not enough to be obvious, but enough that your phone feels emptier without it. And every time she sees you, she brightens in a way she tries desperately to hide.
One night, as you wait for the bus, she begins talking about music.
“I want to compose something one day,” she says, eyes shining. “Something that feels like… like opening a window on a rainy morning. Or like the first breath after crying.”
You smile. “That sounds pretty.”
“Does it?” she asks, hopeful in the softest way.
You nod. “Very you.”
Her heart stutters—you can see it in the way her fingers twist around her drink, in the way her eyes soften.
“Do you think…” she begins, hesitant, “you’d like my music? I mean—if I made it big? If things changed?”
“Of course,” you say instantly. “I’d still be here. Still listening.”
She freezes. And then she smiles—a small, radiant, shy thing that looks like it escaped before she could hide it.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. That’s… good.”
You don’t realize you’re falling. Not yet. You don’t realize how your heart picks up whenever she appears. How her laughter hangs in your mind longer than it should. How her “coincidences” feel like little constellations forming a shape only the two of you can read.
She doesn’t realize it either. Or maybe she does— but she’s too gentle to name it, too scared it might disappear if spoken too loudly.
So instead, she waits for you in hallways. Buys you warm drinks you don’t need. Sneaks glances like she’s memorizing your face piece by piece. And you let her.
You walk slower so she can match your steps. You hold your drink with both hands so she won’t notice how warm it actually makes you.
You let her orbit closer. And she lets you pull her in.
For now— for this chapter— everything is sweet. Everything is hopeful. Everything is blooming quietly.
You don’t know what’s coming, and she pretends not to feel the ache in her future.
But tonight?
Tonight, she bumps her shoulder into yours and pretends she didn’t. Tonight, her cheeks warm when you tease her. Tonight, she waits for a bus she doesn’t need— because you’re there.
Tonight is soft.
Tonight is cute.
Tonight is the kind of sweetness you’ll ache for later.
And neither of you knows it yet, but these coincidences are the memories that will haunt you most.
Chapter 3
You show up at the company building with a paper bag warm in your hands and nervousness fizzing beneath your ribs like trapped fireworks. It’s late—past ten—when most trainees have already trickled out of the mirrored rooms and fluorescent hallways, their bodies heavy, their eyes hollow with exhaustion, their dreams bruised from another day of being told to smile wider, dance sharper, be perfect or be forgotten.
But still, you wait.
You lean against the cool wall in the lobby, pretending to scroll your phone, pretending you aren’t listening for every footstep, pretending you didn’t spend twenty minutes in the convenience store debating which snacks she might like even though you already know her preferences by heart.
When Sohyun finally appears, every excuse you had rehearsed evaporates.
Her hoodie is slipping off one shoulder, her bangs stick lightly to her forehead with sweat, and she looks so tired she seems almost translucent. But the moment her eyes land on you—the exact moment—something bright flares across her face.
Soft. Surprised. Like she’s been stumbling through the dark all day and suddenly found a light left on for her. “You’re here,” she breathes, a little startled, a little relieved.
“You sound surprised,” you tease, though your voice is softer than you expect.
“I— I always am.” A flush rises across her cheeks, faint but unmistakable. Your heart missteps.
You offer her the bag. “I brought snacks. Protein cookies. And those strawberry milk things you pretend you don’t like.”
She stares. Blinks once. Then her lips curl into a crooked grin that hits you square in the chest.
“I don’t pretend,” she counters, her voice weak with fatigue and something else. “I just— okay, fine, yes, I like them. A lot. Maybe.”
She holds the paper bag carefully, like it’s fragile. Like it’s meaningful.
You don’t point it out. You don’t need to.
Her fingers tighten around the handles, and then—without warning—she looks at you with a sudden decision in her eyes.
“Come with me.”
Before you can even ask where she’s going, she gently hooks her fingers in your sleeve, tugging you along through the dim, quiet corridors. Trainees’ voices echo faintly below through the stairwell, fading with every flight you climb.
You follow her up three sets of stairs, heart thumping louder with each step, until the rooftop door creaks open. Cold night air washes over you like a blessing. The sky is a deep navy, hazy with clouds. Neon lights flicker in the distance, blurry and distant like the city is dreaming its own dreams tonight. The rooftop is quiet—too quiet—like a place meant to hear secrets instead of footsteps. Sohyun walks ahead, then drops onto the concrete ground with a long, dramatic sigh before patting the space beside her.
Close. Too close. Deliberately close.
You sit, and the moment you do, her knee nudges yours. Just barely. But enough for your breath to snag.
She doesn’t move away.
Instead, she smiles a little, almost like she’s testing you. Testing the idea of you.
“I didn’t bring you up here to traumatize you,” she jokes, noticing how stiffly you sit at first.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter.
She nudges you with the side of her foot—light, playful, almost tender. Then she leans back on her hands, head tilting upward toward the sky. Her shoulders lift and fall with a quiet breath.
“You know…” She pauses, searching for the right words. “Sometimes I come here because it’s the only place I don’t have to pretend. No trainers drilling me into the ground, no mirrors reminding me of everything wrong, no other kids trying to look confident while silently breaking.”
Her voice dips, barely audible. “I feel like… up here, I can actually breathe.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you say softly.
She freezes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the air to tighten.
Then her expression shifts—cracks open, even. Her eyes glisten faintly in the city’s glow, vulnerability pooling in the dark like a reflection of the sky.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m not enough,” she whispers. “Like no matter how hard I try, I’m always one mistake away from losing everything. For the company. For the world. For—”
“For me?”
You don’t know why you say it. The words slip out like a truth you’ve been keeping warm inside your mouth. A truth you weren’t ready to release. Sohyun’s breath catches. She looks at you like she wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud, even though she wanted you to.
“Maybe,” she finally admits, voice trembling with something honest and terrifying.
You swallow hard. The rooftop suddenly feels too small for the size of your feelings.
“You are enough,” you say, firmer than before. “More than enough. You don’t have to try so hard to earn that. Not from me.”
Her eyes widen—so gently, so quietly. Like she’s hearing a foreign language. Like she’s learning how to accept something she didn’t know she was allowed to have.
For a moment—just one weighted heartbeat—she looks at you like you’re something she’s been searching for without realizing it.
Her gaze falls to your mouth. Slow. Lingering. Yours drops to hers, as if pulled. The space between you becomes electric, delicate, a trembling thread. She leans in just a little—barely anything, barely noticeable—but you feel it. Her warmth. Her breath. Her uncertainty. Her want.
The world feels like it’s leaning with her.
But she stops.
Not pulling back. Not retreating. Just… hovering.
Her forehead almost touches yours. Your breaths mix. The moment quivers like a fragile note suspended in air.
Then—gently—she lets her head fall onto your shoulder. Her hair brushes your jaw, light as a confession. Her hand reaches out, hesitating only a split second before curling into your sleeve, clutching like she needs something steady. You adjust your shoulder, letting her settle more comfortably against you, and you both sit there in a quiet that feels warm, safe, and impossibly fragile—like the start of something neither of you has the courage to name yet. And you stay. Longer than you should. Long enough for the night to wrap around you both like a secret.
Long enough to fall a little more in love with her.
“Stay a little longer,” she whispers, voice barely there.
You don’t say anything.
You don’t tell her that you’d stay forever if she asked.
Chapter 4
You go to the Han River that night for no reason at all.
Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s because everything feels a little too loud lately, and the water always seems to quiet the noise in your head. The river glimmers under the streetlights, soft waves collapsing against the bank in gentle rhythms. Couples pass you with muffled laughter and linked fingers. Joggers run past with neon shoes and steady breaths.
You sit on a bench facing the water, hands folded in your pockets, mind drifting nowhere in particular.
You don’t expect anything.
Least of all her.
But then—A familiar voice breaks the hush of the evening. Your name, spoken with breathless awe and uneven emotion. You turn sharply.
Sohyun stands there, framed by streetlight and night sky, as if she’s stepped out of a memory you weren’t sure you had the right to keep.
Her hair is tied up messily. Her jacket is too big. Her eyes flicker—bright, watery, scared, overwhelmed, incandescent.
It’s the kind of expression someone wears when they’re standing on the edge of a dream and don’t know if they’re about to fall or fly.
“Sohyun?”
Your voice comes out softer than you expect.
She closes the distance between you in three quick steps, nearly tripping in her haste.
“You— I…” she starts, then stops, then laughs a little wildly. The sound trembles. “I needed to tell you in person.”
She’s shivering. Not from cold. From everything else.
You rise slowly from the bench as if approaching a skittish bird.
She lifts her hands like she can’t hold the words in any longer.
“I’m debuting.”
The world tilts.
For a heartbeat, you can’t breathe—your chest folds in around her words, your ribs expanding with relief and a quiet ache you don’t understand yet.
Then you’re moving before you even think to. You step forward. She steps into you.
You wrap your arms around her instinctively, but it’s her who truly holds on—fists gripping the back of your jacket, forehead pressed to your shoulder, entire body shaking with adrenaline and disbelief.
“I’m debuting,” she repeats into your neck, voice cracking. “It’s actually happening.”
You hold her tighter, because she feels like a miracle happening in real time, because you’ve watched her bleed for this dream in practice rooms and hallways and rooftops.
“Of course you are,” you murmur. “You deserve it.”
Her breath shudders against you. She clings harder, almost painfully, as if afraid the moment might slip through her fingers if she loosens her grip.
For a second—a fleeting, delicate second—you feel something in her hold that you’ve never felt before.
Fear. Joy. A quiet, desperate need.
Like she’s bracing for the world to pull her away.
Like she’s already mourning something she hasn’t lost yet.
You sit together afterward, side by side on the bench, watching the water glow with city lights. Sohyun talks in broken, breathless bursts—about the call from the company, the tears in the practice room, the congratulatory messages, the disbelief still clinging to her.
“I didn’t know where to go,” she admits, voice quiet. “But I knew who I wanted to tell.”
Your heart tightens.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
She leans her head onto your shoulder for only a second before pulling back—too aware of time, of schedules, of managers checking dorm rooms. Of the countdown already ticking.
“I can’t stay long,” she says reluctantly.
You nod, though it feels like swallowing something sharp.
For a while, nothing changes. At least not in ways you can measure.
She still sends texts with too many emojis. Still tells you about the choreo that made her ankles scream. Still laughs breathlessly when you tease her.
Hope is alive.
Small but real.
But then—Slowly. Quietly.
Something shifts.
It starts with the texting.
Before, her replies came so fast you sometimes wondered if she ever put her phone down.
Now, minutes stretch into hours. Hours stretch into days. Sometimes she forgets to reply entirely.
Other times she sends a rushed: Sorry! Practice ran over. I’ll text later!!
But “later” grows further and further away.
You keep telling yourself she’s just busy.
You keep believing it.
Then it’s the cancellations.
“Tomorrow? I swear I’ll be free tomorrow.”
“Wait—schedule just changed, I’m so so sorry.”
“Dorm curfew is strict today. Next time?”
There’s always a reason. Always valid. Always painful in a way that doesn’t show. You tell her it’s okay every time.
Because how could you not?
She’s chasing something enormous. But each promise postponed leaves a small, hollow bruise in the chest—one you don’t notice at first, one that grows silently.
One night, very late, she appears outside your apartment building. Hood up, mask on, breathing hard like she sprinted the last block.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispers. “But I wanted to see you.”
Your heart stutters.
She hands you a plastic bag—snacks, drinks, things she picked out with the same tenderness you once offered her.
“I owe you so many nights,” she says, eyes flicking up toward yours. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Her voice is soft. Too soft. Too full of guilt and hope and a quiet pleading you don’t understand yet. She means it. You know she does. That’s what makes the ache worse. A van honks somewhere down the street.
Her phone buzzes twice. Her shoulders flinch. She looks at you one more time—really looks—like she’s memorizing you in the dim streetlight. Like she’s afraid the world will soon get too fast for moments like this.
She lifts a hand in a half-wave before backing away. And then she’s gone—swallowed by schedules and cameras and a future that doesn’t have room for pauses.
You stand alone with the snacks she chose for you, with the warmth of her promise lingering like smoke.
You believe her.
But as you walk up the stairwell to your place, something inside you whispers. It's quiet, faint, almost imperceptible
Hope can thin quietly, long before it breaks.
Chapter 5
Debut day feels unreal.
You arrive at the venue early, long before the seats begin to fill, because you want to see every moment—every test run of lights, every snippet of audio, every tiny step that proves she made it. You sit in the audience with your hands clasped too tightly in your lap, heart pounding like you’re the one about to go onstage.
And then the crowd begins to swell. Fans file in with banners and LED boards. The air vibrates with anticipation, like the entire arena is holding a collective breath.
You don’t know where she is backstage, but you can imagine her: pacing a little; refreshing her lip tint; adjusting her outfit; bouncing on her heels; whispering her lines to herself; trying to hide the way her hands tremble.
The moment the lights go down, the audience erupts.
And then—there she is.
Sohyun steps onto the stage like she was carved from the spotlight itself. Her hair catches the light in soft, unreal waves. Her eyes gleam like she’s swallowed a star. The music hits, and she moves—confident, sharp, breathtaking.
She looks powerful. She looks distant. She looks nothing like the girl who once sat with you on a freezing rooftop, knees touching yours, whispering that she was scared she wouldn’t be enough.
Your heart swells anyway. Pride expands so big in your chest it almost hurts. Tears sting your eyes before you’re even aware of them. You cheer. You scream her name with the rest of the crowd, even though she can’t possibly hear you.
When she smiles—bright, dazzling—it feels like the entire arena lights up. But her eyes never meet yours. Not once.
You tell yourself that’s normal. You tell yourself she’s busy, distracted, overwhelmed. There are cameras and choreo and lights; she can’t possibly pick out one face among thousands.
Still… something settles deep inside your ribs. A quiet ache. A tiny shadow. You ignore it. You clap until your palms sting. You watch every performance with your whole soul, committing every expression of hers to memory. Even when the show ends and the crowd disperses in a tidal wave of adrenaline and tears, you sit there for a moment longer, unwilling to break the spell. Because this is what she dreamed of. And you got to witness it.
That night, she shows up at your apartment. You don’t know how she made it past security or whether she sprinted or stumbled her way here, but she’s still wearing her stage makeup, smudged and glittering. Her hair is tied messily at the nape of her neck, and her eyes—god, her eyes—look exhausted in a way you’ve never seen before.
The smile she gives you is small and cracked around the edges.
“You watched, right?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course,” you answer immediately. “You were incredible. I was… I was so proud.”
Sohyun steps inside before you finish, like she’s afraid she might lose the courage if she stays in the hallway. She toes off her shoes, sets her bag down, and then she just… sinks onto your couch, like gravity suddenly doubled its weight on her shoulders.
She tries to talk—really tries. She starts telling you about backstage chaos, about last-minute changes, about fansigns already being planned. But halfway through a sentence, her voice drifts off. Her eyelids flutter. She falls asleep while still holding your hand.
Her fingers are loosely curled around yours, soft and warm, but twitching with leftover adrenaline. Her makeup leaves faint shimmer on your skin. Her breathing steadies, slow and uneven, like her body is catching up to all the days she pushed it past its limit.
You don’t move. You don’t dare.
Instead, you shift slowly to get her more comfortable. You pull a blanket over her, tucking it gently around her shoulders. You brush stray hairs from her forehead, careful not to wake her.
She sleeps with her hand still in yours. You watch her.
Her lips are parted just slightly, the remnants of a stage smile faded into something softer, more human. There’s a small crease between her brows, like even in sleep she’s bracing for something—criticism, pressure, the world waiting to judge her debut.
You squeeze her hand, just lightly. She doesn’t let go.
You tell yourself this distance is temporary. That once the first wave of chaos passes, she’ll come back to you with the same closeness, the same warmth, the same soft glow in her eyes meant only for you.
But as you watch her sleep—still curled toward you, yet impossibly far away—you feel something shift.
Not a crack. Not a break. Just the faintest tug. Like the beginning of a thread unraveling.
You close your eyes and breathe through it. Because you love her. And she’s shining. And if the light hurts a little— you pretend it doesn’t.
The shadow settles quietly inside you, patient and small. You pretend you don’t feel it.
Chapter 6
You don’t expect her message—not tonight, not at this hour, not with the way she’s been drifting just slightly out of reach these days.
But at 11:47 PM, your phone lights up.
Sohyun:
Are you awake?
I want to take you somewhere.
No emoji. No exclamation point. Just those words—quiet, urgent, a little lonely.
You grab your hoodie. Keys. Shoes. You don’t check the mirror. If she needs you, you’ll show up exactly as you are.
When you step outside, the street is almost empty—cars humming distantly, a few bars spilling late-night laughter into the air—but your attention snaps toward the figure leaning against the corner pole.
Sohyun. Hood pulled low. Mask covering half her face. Eyes wide and tired and warm when they land on you.
“There you are,” she whispers, relief softening every line in her body.
“You sound like you thought I’d say no.”
A small breath of a laugh. “Maybe I did.”
She doesn’t wait—she catches your sleeve between two fingers and pulls you toward the curb where a taxi slows down like it has been summoned for something important.
The ride is quiet. Not tense. Just… heavy.
Sohyun keeps her forehead against the window, watching the city pass as though it’s something she needs to memorize to stay grounded.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Mm.” A vague, heavy sound. “Just trying to keep my soul inside my body.”
“That bad?”
“Not bad. Just…” She scrunches her nose. “Big. Everything feels big lately.”
You don’t know what to say, so you reach out and brush your knuckles against her sleeve. Not a grab. Not a hold. Just a reminder. She leans the tiniest bit closer.
The ramen shop looks like a secret someone forgot to hide well. Tucked behind a run-down laundromat, half of its sign burnt out, its windows fogged with steam. It feels like it shouldn’t exist on any map—somewhere only tired dreamers go to remember they’re still human.
Inside, the air is warm enough to thaw bones. A few other patrons glance up—hoodies, masks, caps—but they don’t linger. They all look like they’re carrying the quiet misery of people who live too brightly on stage and too dimly in real life.
Sohyun blends right in. She takes the seat beside you, close enough that her thigh brushes yours, close enough that her breath warms the sleeve of your hoodie. And when the owner recognizes her, he doesn’t say her name—just offers a respectful nod and sets two bowls of ramen in front of you, steaming and rich.
She exhales at the sight. You can tell she hasn’t eaten in hours. You try to lighten the moment. Like you always do.
“So today I met a dog—”
Her head lifts.
“—in a yellow raincoat.”
She blinks. “Like… a detective dog?”
“More like a ‘captain of a tiny ship’ dog.”
She bursts into a laugh that collapses immediately into her palm—soft, tired, but bright. “I needed that,” she mumbles through her fingers.
“I figured.”
“I wish I saw him.”
“You would’ve kidnapped him.”
A shrug. “Maybe.”
She starts eating, small bites, shoulders slowly relaxing as the warmth reaches her. You watch her eyelids droop a little—her body finally remembering what relaxation feels like. You talk. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just about the small, meaningless parts of your day—the kind of things you always save for her, because she listens like you’re saying something important even when you aren’t.
But halfway through your story, her head dips. Her chopsticks pause mid-air. Her eyes flutter closed for half a second—just long enough for your chest to ache. Then she jerks awake, inhaling hard.
“I’m here,” she insists, voice too earnest for someone this drained. “I’m listening, I promise—”
“You’re exhausted,” you say, softer than a whisper. “I’m… trying.” She rubs her face with both hands, thumbs pressing into her temples. “I don’t want to keep fading on you. I really don’t.”
You nod, but she keeps talking, her voice cracking open like something she’s been holding back for too long.
“My life is growing so fast,” she whispers. “Faster than I am. And I’m scared I won’t recognize myself at the end of it.”
“Sohyun…”
“I’m scared I won’t be someone you can recognize either.”
She says it like an apology. Like a confession. Like a plea.
You reach out, slow enough to give her the chance to pull away—but she doesn’t. Your hand brushes over hers, warm to warm.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” you say. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breath shakes. “You shouldn’t have to stay just because I’m trying my best.”
“Trying is enough.”
“Not for this,” she whispers. “Not for you.”
Your heart cracks in a way she doesn’t see—or maybe she does, because she looks down quickly, cheeks flushing with guilt.
The ramen cools between you. The silence grows warm, then fragile, then a little sharp at the edges.
For the first time, you both feel the shift. The ground beneath you isn’t steady anymore.
When you leave the shop, the alley is damp, neon lights trembling in puddles. Sohyun steps into the glow of a flickering streetlamp, looking almost unreal—glamour and exhaustion tangled together.
And then—slowly, hesitantly—she slips her hand into yours.
Her fingers thread between yours like she’s searching for reassurance she’s terrified to ask for.
Her voice comes out barely audible. A confession disguised as breath. “I feel like I’m stepping into this huge, terrifying world,” she murmurs. “And I’m scared there won’t be enough room for us in it.”
You step closer, forehead brushing hers. “We’ll make space.” Her eyes flutter closed. She doesn’t look convinced. Not fully. Not anymore.
But she squeezes your hand like she’s praying you’re right. Like she wants to believe you even as the future looms above you both—big, bright, and just a little too heavy. And in that tiny alley, under failing light, love begins to tremble. Not break. Not yet. But tremble,soft, fragile, like something that knows one day, it might have to learn how to hurt.
Chapter 7
It’s the silence that haunts you first. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. You don’t count them on purpose but your body does, learning the pattern of her absence like a second heartbeat.
You cook too much food.
You keep checking your window at night.
You find yourself staring at your phone, staring at conversations that have grown thin and polite, like a thread being pulled slowly from a sweater. She’s not gone. Not really.
Just drifting, like someone swimming to shore without realizing they’re leaving you behind in the water.
But the ache is familiar. Too familiar.
Some nights, you swear you feel her warmth in the room, a ghost memory of her laugh, the weight of her hand on your sleeve.
You turn your head, and find nothing but shadows. Hope keeps you alive. Hope also kills you a little.
So when your buzzer rings at 9:02 PM, it doesn’t feel real. You expect a delivery. A neighbor. Anything ordinary. Not her. But then
“…It’s me.”
Her voice doesn’t sound like Sohyun. It sounds like someone trying to remember how to be her. You open the door. And she looks like the wind has been carving pieces off her.
Her hoodie hangs: not fashionably oversized but emptily oversized.
Her eyes are rimmed pink. Her lips are chapped.
And her guilt walks in before she does, sharp, heavy, fragrant, like perfume applied too thickly in the dark. “Sohyun,” you breathe.
She tries to smile, but it collapses halfway, falling apart like something brittle.
“Hi.”
A ghost of herself. But still her.
God, still so her.
She toes off her shoes like she’s entering a memory she doesn’t know if she deserves anymore.
Then she sits on your couch, not at the end, not the middle, but the exact place she always used to sit.
Knees pulled to her chest.
Fingers tucked into her sleeves.
Like she’s trying to make herself smaller, less intrusive, less heavy.
You sit beside her.
Close enough to tell her she’s not alone.
Far enough to give her the choice.
She closes the distance in less than a breath.
Her shoulder presses yours.
Light. Tentative. But intentional.
She leans into you like she’s afraid she’ll break if she doesn’t.
Her voice comes out thin, trembling at the edges.
“I’m sorry.”
You inhale too quickly.
It hurts.
“For what?” you manage.
She laughs—
a small, broken thing that sounds like something shattering.
“For all of it,” she whispers.
“For being gone.
For being tired all the time.
For disappearing even though I promised I wouldn’t.
For making you think you’re… not important.”
Your heart flinches.
“You never made me think that.”
She looks at you then.
Truly looks at you.
And her eyes go soft—
devotion, regret, longing, shame
all swirling like storm clouds behind them.
“You’re lying,” she whispers.
And it’s not an accusation.
It’s a wound.
Her fingers tremble in her sleeves,
and your body moves before your mind decides, you take her hands gently, unwrap them from the fabric they’ve been clinging to.
Her palms are cold.
Her knuckles stiff.
Her pulse frantic.
She looks at your hands holding hers, and something inside her breaks so quietly you almost miss it.
“I hate this,” she breathes.
“I hate that I can never be here.
That I say I’ll come and then I don’t.
That I fall asleep in taxis.
That I’m always rushing, always late, always… gone.”
You want to say You’re not gone.
You want to say I understand.
You want to say Nothing will change.
But the words don’t come.
Because somewhere deep inside you, buried under devotion and longing, you feel the buckle.
Tiny.
Subtle.
But real.
Something in the foundation cracking.
She leans into you, forehead pressing softly to yours, breath shaking.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“Of what?”
“That I’m becoming someone who takes more than she can give.”
Her voice breaks.
“And that one day you’ll wake up and… resent me for it.”
Your breath catches.
Her honesty is too raw, too surgical, too precise in the place it lands.
“Sohyun—”
She keeps going, voice fraying.
“And I’m scared I’ll resent you too,” she admits, eyes shining with tears she hasn’t let fall.
“Not because of you, never because of you, but because I’ll want to give you everything, and I won’t be able to. And that’s not fair. Not to you. Not to us.”
Us.
The word stings.
You reach for her without thinking.
And she breaks into you like a wave.
Her body folds into your chest, arms around your waist, face buried in your shirt, tears soaking through with slow, trembling persistence.
She cries silently.
Painfully.
Like she’s trying to hide it.
Like even now, even here, she believes she has to be careful not to inconvenience you with the depth of her sorrow.
You hold her tighter.
Arms around her shoulders, your cheek resting in her hair, breathing her in like she’s something you’ve been starving for.
Because she still smells like herself.
Shampoo and vanilla hand cream.
Warmth and exhaustion and familiarity.
Because she’s still your Sohyun, even if the world is trying to pull her into something bigger, something brighter, something you fear you might not fit into.
Her fingers clutch your shirt.
Not politely.
Not gently.
But with the desperation of someone begging time to slow down.
And in that moment, you both feel it:
Love is here.
God, it’s here.
Burning.
Gripping.
Devoted.
But beneath it, quiet as breath, undeniable as dawn, the first buckle.
Not a break.
Not yet.
Just the unmistakable shift that comes when two people love each other so deeply they can feel the future calling them in opposite directions.
She loves you.
You love her.
Neither of you say it.
But that doesn’t matter.
The devotion is loud enough to echo.
And so is the fear.
Chapter 8
You don’t know when it starts—
the falling apart.
Maybe it’s always been there,
woven into the seams of the two of you, invisible until the fabric begins to strain.
All you know is that suddenly, loving her hurts in ways it didn’t before.
Not sharply.
Not violently.
Just… gently.
Like pressing on a bruise.
You still want her.
Still love her.
Still ache in that quiet, loyal way you’ve always ached.
But now you want something small, something simple, something human, to matter.
To feel like your place in her life isn’t shrinking every time a new schedule is added to her calendar. Every time she forgets to answer because rehearsals ran late. Every time she apologizes so softly you have to pretend it doesn’t wound you.
You don’t ask for much. Just proof that you’re real to her. Important to her. Chosen. But every time you reach for that assurance, she pulls gently away, not because she wants to, or that she doesn’t want to give you what she wants to, but because she’s terrified you’ll see how little she has left to give.
She sits across from you one night, hair tied messily, hands folded too tightly in her lap.
She’s trying to stay awake for you. Trying to listen. Trying to be present. And she is— just not fully. Not in the way you remember. Her eyes keep losing focus. Her voice keeps drifting. Her smile keeps trembling at the edges.
When you tell her a tiny story from your day, she nods, tries to laugh, but her eyelids are drooping.
You stop talking.
She notices too late, blinks hard, with guilt flooding her expression.
“Sorry— I’m listening, I…I want to. I’m just—”
“Tired,” you finish for her.
Her face crumples in relief and shame. You force a smile.
You tell her you understand. You don’t. Not really. But you want to.
She sees the effort on your face. She sees that brave, aching little smile you wear just for her. And it destroys something inside her.
She looks away, voice barely a whisper:
“I’m hurting you, aren’t I?”
You say no. You say of course not. You say she’s doing her best.
And she is. God, she is.
But something in your voice cracks anyway. Soft enough to hide. Sharp enough for her to hear.
It becomes a pattern. You reach a little. She recoils a little. Not emotionally, but out of fear. Fear of being the reason you dim. Fear of becoming a weight on your chest. Fear of loving you so much she ruins you.
She doesn’t run. She just… holds back. And you, desperate to keep her, pretend the space between you isn’t growing.
Every conversation ends with one of you apologizing. You apologize for wanting. She apologizes for not being enough. Neither apology fixes anything. They just hang there, gentle, heavy, tragic. Two people trying so hard and still failing each other without meaning to.
One night, after she leaves, you sit alone on your bed, leftover warmth fading from your sheets like a ghost. You press your hand to the place she sat, memorizing the absence. And it hits you: love shouldn’t feel like begging for sunlight through a half-shut door.
And she shouldn’t feel like she has to close herself off to protect you. But here you are. Two people holding on with both hands. Two people slipping anyway. There’s love, so much love it aches. So much devotion it burns. But it’s not enough. Not against time. Not against distance. Not against a world that keeps taking pieces of her and leaving you with the scraps.
This is the beginning. Not loud. Not cruel. Just heartbreak dressed as tenderness. A flower blooming beautifully even as you both feel the rot quietly spreading at the center. Neither of you says a word.
Maybe because you’re scared. Maybe because you’re hopeful. Maybe because you both know—two people trying their absolute best is sometimes still not enough.
Chapter 9
The storm is already in full rage when your phone rings.
You barely have time to breathe her name before her voice spills through the speaker—thin, shaking, tired in the way people are when they’ve been holding themselves upright through sheer will.
“Can we go out?”
A soft inhale, sharp around the edges.
“Just for tonight. I want to feel… normal with you.”
Normal.
The word lands like something delicate and dying.
You say yes instantly—not because you’re not tired, not because the rain isn’t violent, but because you hear it.
The breaking she’s trying so hard to keep out of her voice.
You meet her anyway. Maybe you always will.
The café she picks is nearly empty, just the hum of an espresso machine and the low murmur of rain against glass. The lights cast a warm glow, soft enough to make anything feel survivable for a little while.
She’s already there when you step inside.
Sohyun sits hunched over a cup of tea she’s forgotten about, sleeves pulled around her fists, hair slightly frizzy from the humidity, but there’s something else—something heavy, settling over her shoulders.
She looks up when she hears the door.
And then she smiles.
God, she smiles.
Not brightly.
Not effortlessly.
But desperately, like she’s clinging to something slipping through her fingers.
“You came,” she breathes out.
“You sound surprised.”
“I… always am.”
You sit across from her.
Her knees bump yours under the table, and instead of apologizing, she leaves them there—like she needs the contact to stay upright.
The conversation starts light.
Too light.
You talk about your day.
She laughs at all the right moments.
You tease her about her messy lunchbox.
She teases you about your terrible umbrella.
It feels almost normal.
Almost.
But there’s a tension underneath, like the two of you are clutching at threads of something fraying, tugging hard enough to hurt, but not enough to keep it from unraveling.
She stares at her hands while you talk.
Her fingers twist.
Her knuckles pale.
You don’t ask why.
You’re afraid you already know.
Somewhere between a shared pastry and another refill of her untouched tea, she reaches across the table.
Her fingers brush your wrist. Just once.
Then again, more sure this time. You look up.
She looks like someone trying to memorize you.
Like someone terrified time is running out.
“You look tired,” she whispers.
You laugh softly. “You say that every time.”
“That’s because it’s always true.”
You raise a brow. “And you? When’s the last time you slept?”
She hesitates.
You both know the answer isn’t tonight. Or last night. Or the week before.
But she shrugs, ducks her head, and says, “I’m okay.”
She isn’t. She hasn’t been for a long time. But so much of loving her now feels like accepting the lies she tells to keep herself from falling apart.
Hours blur.
Lightning flashes outside, reflecting in the windows.
She flinches—not from the thunder, but from how fast time is passing.
From how quickly the night is slipping away.
You talk about everything and nothing:
Her trainee days.
Your stupid coworker.
The ramen place near your apartment.
The stray cats in her company parking lot.
It’s mundane.
It’s ordinary.
It’s everything she’s starving for.
And everything she’s afraid to keep.
When the café begins closing, she startles like someone waking from a dream.
“We still have time,” she says quickly, half-standing before the employee even speaks.
You don’t tell her the truth:
She’s not talking about the café at all.
She’s talking about you. About this.
About whatever fragile, trembling thing still exists between you—held together by effort and hope and exhaustion.
You walk outside together.
The rain has softened, mist-like and cold.
She walks close to you—not out of affection exactly, but out of need.
Like if she doesn’t stay close, she’ll drift away entirely.
Her shoulder bumps yours.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Finally, she exhales shakily and admits, “I missed you.”
You swallow around the ache in your chest.
“I missed you too.”
Her fingers twitch beside yours.
Not reaching—just trembling.
You hook your pinky around hers.
A compromise.
A quiet, fragile connection.
She holds your pinky like it’s the last thread she can still grasp.
On the way to her dorm, she stops suddenly beneath a flickering streetlamp.
Rain beads in her lashes.
Her breathing stutters.
“Tonight was…” She hesitates.
Her throat moves.
“…all I could handle. And more than I deserved.”
You open your mouth—
She cuts you off with a small shake of her head.
“No,” she whispers. “Let me say it.”
You close it.
She steps closer.
Close enough that you feel her breath warm your jaw.
Close enough that if either of you leaned in, something irreversible might happen.
Her voice trembles.
“Thank you. For loving me, even when I’m—”
“Don’t,” you whisper back, but she continues anyway:
“Even when I’m slipping. Even when I’m not here. Even when I…”
Her voice breaks.
“…when I can’t give you what you deserve.”
Something inside you cracks.
Not because she’s pulling away.
But because she’s trying so hard not to.
Her hands fist in the sleeves of your coat like she’s scared she’ll drown if she lets go.
You reach up, brushing your thumb across her cheekbone.
She leans into the touch instantly—
like she’s been starving for it.
Like she’ll break if you pull away.
“You’re enough,” you murmur.
But even as the words leave your mouth, you feel the tremor beneath them, the unspoken fear, the growing ache,the truth neither of you wants to name:
You’re both trying.
You’re both clinging.
And it’s still not enough.
When she finally steps back, she looks ruined and beautiful in the same breath.
She almost kisses you.
You know she wants to.
You want to.
But she pulls away at the last second, like someone terrified of giving you hope she can’t keep alive.
She whispers your name—quiet, tender, trembling from the effort of holding on.
Then she slips inside her building.
The door shuts between you.
And you stand there in the mist, the ghost of her warmth still clinging to your hand, realizing the tragedy wasn’t tonight ending.
The tragedy is that both of you fought, truly fought, to keep something that is already beginning to crumble beneath the weight of your devotion.
Chapter 10
She comes over trembling.
Not a nervous tremble, but the kind that comes from holding grief so tightly it begins to leak through the cracks in your bones.
You open the door and she’s standing there like she’s barely holding herself upright.
Her hair is damp from the mist outside.
Her lips are pale.
Her shoulders are trembling in small, uncontrollable jerks.
But it’s her eyes that destroy you.
They look hollow, scraped out, as if she emptied herself just to make room for the guilt.
She steps inside like she’s stepping into a memory she already misses.
She toes off her shoes automatically, lines them up next to yours with shaking hands, and then stands still, staring at the floor, like she’s afraid she’ll see her reflection in your eyes and break completely.
You whisper her name.
She flinches like it wounds her.
The air feels wrong.
Too quiet.
Too heavy.
Like a storm pressed flat between four walls.
She tries to speak.
Her breath catches.
Her throat locks up.
You watch her struggle not to fall apart.
Then she does.
Her knees buckle first.
Her hand slaps against the wall for balance.
Her breath shatters into a sob she tries to swallow.
You catch her before she fully sinks.
Your hands steady her waist, her shoulders, her trembling frame.
She folds into you so fast it feels like she’s been waiting weeks to collapse.
Her fingers claw into your shirt.
Her forehead presses into your collarbone.
Her whole body shakes with a grief so raw it frightens you.
“Sohyun,” you whisper, terrified.
She chokes on a sound you don’t know how to name.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps.
“I’m—God, I’m so sorry—please don’t—don’t make this harder—”
She breaks down like she’s been holding it in for years, not weeks.
You sink to the floor with her, arms wrapped tightly around her as she cries with an agony that feels ancient.
Her tears soak through your shirt, your skin, your ribs.
“I can’t—” she whispers, voice cracking.
“I can’t do this to you anymore. I can’t watch you wait for me. I can’t watch myself hurt you. I can’t—”
She can’t even finish the sentence.
You pull her closer, but she’s already slipping into a place you can’t reach.
Minutes pass.
Or hours.
Time is meaningless when you’re watching the person you love unravel in your arms.
She finally forces herself upright—not because she’s okay, but because she’s made a choice and she’s terrified she’ll lose her resolve if she stays held by you any longer.
She wipes her face with trembling fingers.
Her voice is heartbreak carved into sound.
“If we stay together,” she begins, “you will learn to resent me.”
You shake your head, violently, desperate.
She cuts you off with a soft, devastated smile.
“You will,” she says. “Because I can’t give you the love you deserve. I don’t have the strength. I don’t have the space. I’m already failing you every day and I hate myself for it.”
Her voice fractures.
“And I’ll grow to resent you,” she whispers, “because you’ll keep needing what you deserve, more than I can give. And I’ll feel like I’m drowning under my own inadequacy.”
She squeezes her eyes shut.
“And I love you too much to let us turn into people who resent each other, or for me to learn to dread the mention of your name or the sound of your voice.”
You don’t breathe.
You can’t.
Your heart feels like it’s being crushed in a fist that doesn’t know mercy.
She continues, quieter:“I know what’s coming if we try. I’ve been watching it happen in small pieces.”
She looks at your apartment
at your shared mug on the counter, her sweater on your chair, the blanket you always tucked around her legs when she fell asleep on your couch.
She looks at them like they’re tombstones.
“I can’t bear to watch us rot,” she whispers.
You pull her toward you again, and this time she doesn’t resist.
She falls into your arms, sobbing harder than before.
Her hands clutch your back so tightly her nails dig in.
Her shoulders shake with every breath she tries and fails to steady.
“Please,” she cries.“Please don’t hate me someday. Remember the girl you fell in love with. Please don’t remember me like this.”
You hold her face, pushing her hair back, whispering her name over and over like it might tether her to you.
But she’s already drifting away.
You’re both crying now.
It feels like dying in slow motion.
At some point, she forces herself to stand.
You rise with her, unsteady, haunted.
She steps back.
Just one step.
It feels like a cliff opening between you.
Her voice is barely a breath:
“This is the kindest thing I know how to do.”
You whisper:
“Have you thought this through?”
She nods, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
“And you really think,” your voice breaks,
“this is the best thing to do?”
Her lips tremble.
She whispers, “…yes.”
You look at her.
Really look.
And despite the devastation in her eyes, the way her hands are shaking, the way she can barely breathe.
You still see it.
“God,” you whisper, almost laugh, almost cry,
“You’re still bad at lying.”
That breaks her.
A sob tears out of her.
She stumbles forward and throws her arms around you, holding you like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your body, the heat of your skin, the sound of your breathing.
It feels like she’s carving a final memory into herself.
You hold each other like it’s the last moment before the world ends.
It is.
You don’t know who lets go first.
You only know that when she steps back, the entire room tilts with the weight of what you’re losing.
She wipes her tears one last time.
Then she leaves.
And you’re left standing in the doorway, holding your own ribs as if trying to keep your heart from falling out.
The horror isn’t in the breakup.
It isn’t in the leaving.
It’s in the truth:
You loved each other.
Deeply.
Fiercely.
Hopelessly.
And somehow,
somehow,
it still wasn’t enough.
Chapter 11
You try to move on.
You really do.
You throw yourself into the routines you used to have before her, late-night convenience store runs, cheap dinners with friends, playlists that once made you feel whole.
You delete old messages.
You mute her notifications.
You even tell yourself a lie every therapist on earth has warned about:
Time heals everything. But time is a terrible doctor. And grief is a patient that refuses treatment.
You fail. Not dramatically—no collapse on the floor, no midnight phone call, no drunken confession to a friend. Your failure is quieter, softer.
It happens when you reach for your phone without thinking.
When you buy two bottles of banana milk at the store.
When you see the empty side of the couch and feel the ghost of her weight leaning against you.
When you catch yourself laughing at something and then freeze, because she would’ve laughed too.
You try again.
You go out more.
You let friends drag you across Seoul, from neon-lit arcades to cafés that close too early.
You pretend you’re present—try to stitch yourself back into the world of people who aren’t missing someone like a phantom limb.
Your friends think you’re doing better.
Maybe because you’ve stopped crying in bathrooms.
Maybe because you no longer whisper her name in your sleep.
Maybe because you’ve grown skilled at smiling at the right moments.
But the truth is simpler, sadder:
You haven’t healed.
You’ve just learned not to talk about it.
The world moves on without asking if you’re ready.
And she—
Sohyun—
moves faster than anyone.
Suddenly she’s everywhere.
Her face lights up subway stations, glowing from billboard screens and animated ads.
Her laugh echoes from variety shows you didn’t mean to watch.
Her eyes—those eyes that once looked at you like you were the only safe place she had—now sparkle on fancams watched by millions.
She’s luminous.
Brilliant.
Made for stages, cameras, applause.
She shines in a way that makes strangers fall in love with her.
But you see something they don’t.
In the split second between smiles, in the breath she takes before answering a question, in the way she grips her mic a little too tightly— you see flickers.
Regret.
Longing.
The quiet kind of hurt that sits behind her ribs and never fully dissolves.
Maybe someone else would call it imagination.
But you know her.
You knew her in rooms without cameras, in nights without sleep, in moments when all she could be was herself.
So you recognize what her eyes are hiding.
You wish you didn’t.
Because it hurts more now than it ever did.
The first month after the breakup is sharp pain—teeth, claws, heavy breathing.
The second month is dull ache—nothing dramatic, just a low throb.
By the third month, grief becomes something else.
A presence.
A shadow that walks behind you, sits beside you at meals, waits at the edge of your dreams, touches your shoulder when you hear her voice on TV.
Not loud.
Not violent.
Just… there.
A roommate you never invited.
One that doesn’t leave dishes in the sink, doesn’t slam doors, doesn’t inconvenience your day, just one that exists quietly, persistently, a reminder in the corner of your eye.
Some nights, when you close your eyes, you can almost feel her again, the warmth of her fingers, the weight of her head on your shoulder, the tremble in her voice when she whispered stay. And sometimes you let yourself remember.
Just for a moment.
Just for a breath.
Then morning comes.
And you keep going.
Because that’s the thing about heartbreak that no one tells you:
It doesn’t end.
It simply becomes something you live with.
Chapter 12
You didn’t buy the ticket.
You would’ve sooner carved open your own chest than willingly put yourself in the same room as her again.
But your friend pressed it into your hand, voice too soft, too pitying:
“You can’t run forever.”
Maybe they were right.
But God, you wish they’d been wrong.
Now you’re here—
standing in a crowd of people who love her loudly, while you are the only one who ever loved her quietly.
The venue shakes with anticipation.
Chants echo.
Lightsticks raise like a forest of trembling stars.
You feel sick.
Not the kind of sick that makes you want to leave, the kind that roots you to the floor with dread and longing in equal measure.
The lights cut.
Darkness falls.
The screams rise like a tidal wave.
Music blooms.
And then, she steps into the light.
Sohyun.
Your Sohyun.
Except she’s not yours and never will be again.
She looks unreal, sculpted from stage light and dream-dust, hair gleaming, smile polished, eyes shining with the kind of confidence that costs more than anyone in this room will ever understand.
She moves like she belongs to this world. To them. To the noise and the brightness and the unreachable distance.
She moves like she was never the girl who curled into your chest and begged you to stay. Never the girl who whispered I’m scared during dawn. Never the girl who broke in your arms because loving you was hurting you.
She’s everything she worked for.
And you’ve never felt further from her.
When the ballad begins, the stadium hushes.
Soft piano.
A ripple of blue lights.
She stands alone at the edge of the stage, breathing slow, eyes lowered.
This song is different.
New.
Raw.
Something she wrote.
Something she poured herself into.
You already know it will kill you.
The spotlight sweeps across the crowd, passing faces painted with adoration, and you almost pray it won’t reach you, but it does.
And then her gaze follows the light.
Her eyes lock on yours. Everything stops. Her breath, her posture, her practiced, perfect composure, all of it fractures in an instant.
Her lips part.
Her shoulders stiffen.
The note she was about to sing dies in her throat.
Only you notice.
Only you ever would.
Because you know what she looks like when she’s hurting.
You know the exact second her heart caves in.
Her eyes widen with recognition so sharp it’s a wound.
You feel it too, like someone has reached inside you and pulled, hard.
A tremor slips into her voice as she forces herself to continue singing,
but you can hear it.
The break.
The plea.
The collapse.
And God, she looks at you like she’s seeing a ghost she never learned how to stop loving.
She loves you again in that moment.
Not the bright, hopeful love from the beginning, but the ruined, exhausted kind, born from all the ways you tried to stay, and all the ways she had to leave.
Her eyes shine with longing so raw you have to look away.
But you can’t.
Because for a heartbeat, she is yours again.
And then she mourns you again.
That’s the part that destroys you.
Because in her gaze is the knowledge that you should have had a different ending—one where the world wasn’t too big, she wasn’t too breakable, and you weren’t left holding all the pieces alone.
Her voice shivers.
Her hand clenches around the mic.
Her throat works like she’s swallowing pain.
And then, she turns away.
Not dramatically.
Not bitterly.
Just quietly, like she’s placing a memory back onto a shelf she swore she’d never touch again.
The song continues.
The stage glows.
The crowd roars.
But you stand perfectly still, as if moving would make the moment real and you desperately need it to stay unreal.
Your chest aches, not sharply, not suddenly, but with the deep, crushing pressure of something breaking in slow motion.
You swallow. Then swallow again. You swallow everything: her voice, her dream, her pain, your shared history, your own heart, the entire brutal universe that has decided you cannot belong to each other.
Sohyun keeps singing like nothing happened.
But you saw it.
She saw you.
And in that single look, she loved you again, lost you again, and let you go all over again.
You stay until the end of the concert, not because you want to, but because you can’t move.
Because leaving would feel too much like a final goodbye.
Hey rd... real quick question here, how would you hypothetically go about doing a kiss scene?
sorry for the late reply my friend, ive been travelling, also, good to see you! it’s been awhile. well, for kiss scenes, i don’t have a lot of personal experience(chaewon hit me up please)
but when i write them, i never really think about the logistics of kissing. for me, it’s always about the emotion behind it. a first kiss isn’t just lips touching, it’s everything they’ve been holding back finally breaking the surface. it’s the moment all the unspoken things spill out in the only language they can manage.
and not every kiss has to be dramatic. sometimes it’s soft, simple, just a quiet way of saying “i’m here, and i still choose you.” the act itself fades into the background. what matters is the feeling, the choosing, the history, the weight behind it. the kiss is just the spark; the emotion is the fire.
sorry if this doesn’t make a lot of sense, i’m a bad teacher lmao
Wait wtf your Kotone fic has me in tears 😭 it's so good!! Their bickering felt so natural, the fight pulled at the heartstrings, and then the ending! Ahhh. Nien was hilarious too. Thank you for writing that!
my god how did i miss this😭😭😭
im glad you liked the fic anon! hopefully my future works continue to impress
Hey, rd. I just read your Kotone fic and I just had to say it, it was amazing. Mind you, this is quite literally my first ask on this entire platform ever. I just wanted to say this to you, because I really thoroughly enjoyed it. Thank you. I hope you have an amazing rest of your… day, night, whatever. :]
hello friend, i can’t tell you how much this made my day:)
i’m glad you enjoyed my works, and I hope to be able to produce more works like this
The crash was loud enough to wake the dead — or at least the half-asleep cashier behind the counter.
You turn toward the sound and find a familiar disaster standing in the middle of the instant noodle aisle.
Kotone.
Covered in ramen cups.
Holding one in her hand like it’s a grenade.
She freezes, blinks once, and says, deadpan,
“You saw nothing”
You blink back. “You’re right, I did not see that you just declared war on the ramen shelf.”
“It attacked first.”
“I’m sure it did.”
The cashier sighs audibly, and Kotone winces, crouching down in a panic to pick up the mess — except she keeps grabbing the same three cups and restacking them in the wrong order, making the pile collapse again.
You snort. “You’re actually making it worse.”
“Then help me!” she whisper-yells. “This is serious! People could starve without these!”
“Tragic. National crisis.”
Kotone glares at you, the same way she did back in high school when you stole the last pudding from her lunchbox. You grin and crouch down anyway, helping her restack the fallen ramen cups one by one.
The two of you don’t say anything for a moment — the silence thick with dust, nostalgia, and the faint hum of the store’s dying air conditioner.
Then she mutters, “You still eat this junk?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You still trip over air?”
Her mouth opens. “That’s defamation.”
“You tripped on nothing, Kotone.”
She points dramatically at the floor. “You don’t know that. There could’ve been a— a ghost!”
“Right. The ghost of instant noodles past.”
“Exactly!” she says, deadly serious — and for some reason, that’s the moment you start laughing. Like, really laughing.
Her pout deepens. “You’re laughing at me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to help!”
“I am! Emotionally!”
Kotone smacks your arm with a ramen cup. “I should’ve known you’d betray me first chance you got.”
“Please. You’d lose a battle to a paper bag.”
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Tripped-on-a-stationary-chair.”
“That chair was aggressively stationary.”
“Mm-hm.”
You both glare at each other, then burst out laughing again — loud, shameless laughter that echoes down the empty aisles. The cashier mutters something about “kids these days” but you both ignore him.
Outside, the air smells like rain and warm asphalt. Kotone walks beside you, swinging the plastic bag of snacks like it’s a pendulum of chaos.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I think the store clerk hates us.”
“I think he’s filing a restraining order.”
“Good. Keeps things interesting.”
You glance at her. “So you’re back?”
“Temporarily.” She shrugs, the movement small and casual, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes — something softer hiding beneath the bravado. “No schedules for awhile, so I figured I’d come home before my company glues me to a practice room.”
“Your group giving you a break? Scandalous.”
Kotone narrows her eyes. “Oh? You do know who we are.”
You pretend to think. “Double… what now?”
Her jaw drops. “You liar. You know our songs.”
“I might’ve heard one. Maybe. Accidentally.”
“Oh my god,” she says dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “After all these years, you’ve become one of those guys.”
“What guys?”
“The ones who pretend they don’t know me to seem cool.”
“Relax, superstar. I’m not pretending.”
Kotone gasps. “You’re literally gaslighting an idol right now.”
You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure idols don’t get gaslit in convenience stores.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She kicks a pebble down the street, then adds, “Also, for the record, I’m totally telling my members that my childhood friend betrayed me.”
“They’ll side with me. All 23 of them.”
“Impossible.”
“Highly likely.”
“You underestimate my influence.”
“You underestimate my tolerance for chaos.”
She stops, squints at you, then bursts out laughing again. “God, I forgot how annoying you are.”
You grin. “And yet, you missed me.”
She opens her mouth, ready to argue — but then closes it again. A small smile flickers at the corner of her lips. “Shut up.”
You end up walking her home. Neither of you mention it, but it feels natural, automatic. The streets are still the same: cracked pavement, uneven sidewalks, the distant buzz of cicadas.
“You still live at the same place?” she asks.
“Yeah. You?”
She nods. “Feels smaller now. Or maybe I just got taller.”
“Definitely taller. You used to barely reach my shoulder.”
Kotone immediately steps closer, comparing. “I still don’t.”
“Shame.”
She elbows you. “You’re not that tall.”
“Tall enough to—”
Before you can finish, she reaches up and flicks your forehead. Hard.
“Ow!”
“Height doesn’t protect you from justice,” she declares, proudly.
You stare at her. “You’re insane.”
“Takes one to know one.”
You both break into another round of laughter, the kind that leaves you breathless.
By the time you reach her street, the laughter fades into something quieter. Softer.
Kotone glances at her house, the lights off inside except for the faint glow of her bedroom window.
“I guess this is where I turn,” she says.
“Yeah.”
The silence stretches, not uncomfortable — just full of things you both aren’t saying.
Then she looks back at you, eyes warm but tired in a way you’ve never seen before. “Thanks. For… this.”
You blink. “For bullying you in a convenience store?”
“For… showing up,” she says quietly, and before you can respond, she smiles — that same small, crooked smile she had as a kid. “Goodnight, dummy.”
“Goodnight, klutz.”
She waves lazily over her shoulder as she walks away.
Later that night, Kotone sits cross-legged on her bed, hair still damp from a quick shower, a half-eaten popsicle melting beside her. Her old room feels exactly the same — the faded curtains, the posters on the wall, the faint creak in the floorboards.
Except for that..
It’s sitting on her desk under the soft yellow glow of the lamp — a little worn, the edges curled. The ink slightly faded but still clear.
Instead, she traces a finger over it— and laughs under her breath.
“Still a terrible liar,” she murmurs.
She sets it down gently, switches off the light, and crawls under the blanket.
Outside, the rain starts to fall — steady, quiet, and comforting. The sound she used to fall asleep to when everything still made sense.
And somewhere, half a town away, you’re probably still laughing about the ramen cups.
She smiles in the dark.
“Idiot,” she whispers fondly, a bittersweet smile on her face.
Then, finally, she sleeps.
You fall back into orbit without even realizing it.
One day it’s “Hey, coffee?”
Then it’s “You’re free this afternoon, right?”
Then it’s walks that turn into inside jokes that turn into hours that pass too easily.
It’s like muscle memory — how she always walks a half-step ahead of you but turns back to make sure you’re following, how you always wait an extra second at crosswalks just to annoy her.
Everyone sees it — the way your laughter sounds louder when you’re together, how your voices overlap like you’re trying to win an invisible argument.
But both of you pretend it’s nothing.
Like this is just what best friends do.
It’s late afternoon when you find yourselves at the park, the same one you used to visit after school. The swings are still creaky, the vending machine still refuses to accept slightly crumpled bills. Kotone’s hair glows in the sunlight — brown with a soft reddish tint — and she’s drinking iced coffee through a straw like she’s in a commercial.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she asks suddenly, her voice light.
You tilt your head. “What does?”
“Being friends again.”
You grin. “Who said we ever stopped?”
She blinks, and for a split second, something flickers in her expression — like she’s about to say something else. But then she laughs, kicking at a stray pebble. “You’re still as cheesy as ever.”
“And you’re still bossy.”
“Excuse me,” she says, mock offended, “I’m confident.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Confident menace,” she corrects, pointing her straw at you like a weapon.
You roll your eyes. “Sure. That’s what they all say before they trip over nothing.”
She gasps dramatically. “I do not trip over nothing!”
“Uh-huh,” you hum. “Tell that to the ramen aisle.”
“That was one time!”
“Two times.”
“…Okay, maybe two, three if you count the supermarket that time, but still—”
You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, and she’s smacking your arm like you’ve just committed treason. The old man walking his dog gives you both a strange look, but you don’t care. For the first time in a long time, it feels easy again.
Later, you stop by the convenience store. The same one where you met her again after years apart.
Kotone grabs a can of milk soda and raises it toward you. “Famous people still drink this,” she declares.
“Oh, right. You’re famous now,” you tease. “Should I start bowing when I see you?”
She squints at you. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of what? Your fans?”
“Of my talent,” she says, smirking proudly.
You snort. “TripleS, right?”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You remembered.”
“I think I’ve heard of them.”
“You think?”
You grin. “Can’t say I’ve ever listened to their songs. What’s your name again?”
She gasps and smacks your shoulder with the rolled-up magazine she’s holding. “You liar! You totally know!”
“I don’t even know what a TripleS is.”
“Kami-sama, give me patience,” she mutters, trying not to laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“Excuse you,” she says, straightening up. “I’m an idol. Drama is part of the brand.”
You grin. “Right. So is tripping over ramen cups, apparently.”
“Stop bringing that up!” she yells, but she’s laughing now, full and loud, the kind of laugh that makes her eyes curve into crescents. You think it’s the prettiest sound you’ve heard in a long time.
That night, she’s back in her childhood room — the one with faded posters and fairy lights that don’t all work anymore. She’s lying on her stomach, scrolling through your messages.
“You still hate the green popsicle part?”
“Obviously”
“Good. more for me.”
“you’re so predictable it’s boring”
“and you’re still so annoying”
She giggles quietly, hugging her pillow to her chest. It feels like the years apart are shrinking, collapsing into the space between your texts.
She replays what you said, “Who said we ever stopped?”
You’d said it like a joke, like a throwaway line. But it sticks.
Her smile lingers, soft and sleepy. But when the phone screen goes dark, the quiet feels heavier.
The words echo in her mind again.
Who said we ever stopped?
She turns over, staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable.
“You didn’t say anything,” she whispers to no one. “That’s the problem.”
You remember that night because it felt too alive to fade.
The sky had that deep, heavy blue that only happens after the rain threatens but doesn’t fall. The streetlights buzzed above you like nervous thoughts, catching in the damp air, and somewhere down the block, someone’s radio played an old love song out of tune.
Kotone had insisted on dragging you out of the house after dinner — said you were getting boring, said she missed your “chaotic energy.” You said that was her way of admitting she was lonely. She told you to shut up, and you did. Because she was Kotone
So you ended up on her porch steps, half a pack of Pocky between you, cicadas screaming like background noise to your laughter.
“You’re seriously bad at this,” she said, balancing a Pocky stick on her nose, face scrunched in focus.
You watched her — her lips pressed together, hair falling over her cheek, the faintest pink at the tips of her ears.
The stick fell.
“Yes!” you said, triumphant. “Finally!”
She groaned, swatting your shoulder. “You were literally rooting for me to fail.”
“Wrong. I was rooting for justice to prevail.”
“Justice?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Says the person who threw my controller last time I beat them at Pokemon.”
“You threw it first!”
“I gently placed it…”
“I will smack you into tomorrow”
“against the wall”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, and for a moment, it felt like time folded back on itself — like you were both children again, like the world hadn’t yet taught you about distance or fear or how dreams can be the cruelest kind of beautiful.
And you thought: This is the night.
The folded letter in your pocket felt heavy — as if it already knew its fate. You’d written it days ago, unable to sleep, every word raw and unsure: how she made everything brighter, how you didn’t know when friendship had stopped being enough. It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t even neat. But it was real.
You’d told yourself you’d give it to her tonight. Or at least say something.
But before you could gather the courage, she spoke.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said suddenly.
The world stilled. Even the cicadas seemed to hold their breath.
“I got scouted,” she said.
“Like what? For basketball? You might be a little bit too…” You barely finish before Kotone shoves you to the ground, a pout on her face.
“No you idiot. To be an idol. In a girl group. In Korea. Like Loona.”
Your throat went dry. “Korea?”
She nodded, eyes darting to yours, like she was waiting for your reaction. “Yeah. For a company. It’s… it’s real. They want me to start soon.”
The words hit you like a wave you didn’t see coming.
“That’s—wow,” you said, trying to sound happy. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s kind of insane, right? I didn’t think it would actually happen.” Her voice trembled on a laugh. “But I think I have to go. I want to try.”
You swallowed. “Of course you do.”
She looked at you then — really looked at you. And something in your chest twisted. Because you could see it: excitement and fear flickering together in her eyes, like firelight in a storm.
“I’m scared,” she admitted softly.
You tried to smile. “You? The girl who fought a seagull over fries?”
Her laugh cracked the tension. “That seagull was terrifying. But that fucker had it coming. No one touches your fries”
“Sure. The poor bird probably tells its friends about you.”
She elbowed you. “You’re such an idiot.”
You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”
“Don’t make me miss you before I even leave,” she said, and it was playful, but the words stuck in your chest anyway.
You wanted to say, Then don’t leave.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Instead, you said, “You’re going to be incredible.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” you said quietly. “You’ve always been the brave one.”
Her smile faltered, just for a second. “That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m running away?”
You didn’t have an answer. You wanted to tell her that maybe chasing something doesn’t mean you’re running — that sometimes it’s just the only way to see how far your wings can carry you.
But the words got tangled somewhere between your heart and your mouth, so all that came out was a shaky laugh.
“Well,” you said, “if you are running, at least you look cool doing it.”
She threw a Pocky stick at you. “Stop ruining my emotional moments.”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood!”
“You’re impossible,” she said, but she was smiling again.
That smile — that’s what destroyed you. The way she could look both terrified and radiant at the same time, like she already belonged to somewhere beyond your reach.
“Promise me something?” she said suddenly.
“Anything.”
“You’ll always be there for me. No matter what.”
You hesitated, then forced a grin. “Of course. I’m basically immortal.”
She laughed, but her eyes were too wet to hide it. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
The rain started then — light at first, just a whisper against the roof. The kind of rain that blurs the world without washing anything away.
You didn’t move. Neither did she.
You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, both pretending the night wasn’t slipping away beneath your feet.
And when it was finally time to go, she followed you to the gate.
“Don’t forget me, okay?” she said, trying to make it sound casual.
You smiled, even though your throat ached. “Never.”
You turned before she could see your face, the rain masking the sting in your eyes.
Somewhere on the walk home, the letter slipped out of your pocket. You didn’t notice. You wouldn’t find out until much later — by which point it wouldn’t have mattered.
Because by then, Kotone was already gone.
At first, she messaged you every day. Photos of her dorm. Complaints about sore muscles. Voice notes of her laughing about weird Korean snacks. You replied at first, quick and easy — keeping the rhythm alive, pretending you hadn’t noticed the growing distance behind the jokes.
But slowly, the messages became shorter. The hours between them longer. The emojis fewer.
And you started typing replies you never sent.
You doing okay? You eating enough? Don’t burn out too fast.
Delete. Rewrite. Delete again.
You told yourself she was busy. That she was chasing something worth the silence.
Then it got harder to lie to yourself. Her text messages went unreplied. Phone calls went unanswered.
Until one night, your phone buzzed again.
✉️Kotone: You promised you’d always be there for me
You stared at the message until your eyes blurred. Typed a reply.
You: I still am.
Your thumb hovered over “send.”
You almost can’t stop yourself
Then you turned the screen off.
You told yourself she’d understand.
That this was what it meant to love someone enough to let them go.
But the truth was quieter, sharper.
You weren’t letting her go.
You were just running away
And so the night she told you she was leaving became the last night that still felt like both of you — the laughter too loud, the silences too full, the air heavy with everything you didn’t say.
You’re halfway through a lazy summer afternoon nap when someone knocks on your door — loud enough to shake your walls.
You groan. “If this is a delivery, I didn’t order anything—”
But when you open the door, she’s there.
Kotone, with her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, cheeks a little flushed from the sun, and two dripping melon popsicles clutched in one hand.
“You’re alive!” she declares.
“You’re loud,” you counter, blinking sleep from your eyes. “Also, you’re melting all over my porch.”
She grins, completely unbothered. “Then let me in before the sugar gods punish us both.”
Before you can respond, she’s already slipped past you, kicking off her shoes and making herself at home. She glances around your small living room like it’s some kind of museum exhibit.
“Wow,” she says, fake awe in her voice. “Still the same couch. Still the same curtains. Still the same tragic lack of interior design.”
You frown. “You’ve been here for, what, two seconds?”
“That’s all it takes for an idol’s expert eye,” she says proudly.
You cross your arms. “You couldn’t even win a game about recognising songs. I thought that was your wheelhouse Miss Kotone”
Her jaw drops. “You watched that?!”
“Internet exists,” you shrug.
She gasps. “You liar! You said you didn’t even know who TripleS was!”
“Still don’t,” you lie easily, leaning against the doorframe. “Sounds like a type of shampoo.”
Kotone looks personally offended. “We are a global idol collective!”
“Oh yeah, totally,” you nod seriously. “The one where Yooyeon, Seoyeon, and Yeonji ambushed you for your map, right? Iconic television.”
Her mouth falls open. “You— you watched Badge Wars?”
“Maybe,” you say. “Purely by accident.”
She narrows her eyes. “You absolutely didn’t stumble on it by accident.”
“I might’ve,” you tease. “Can’t believe you just turtled. I expected more fight from the girl who beat the lights out of me for taking her lunches”
She lets out a dramatic gasp. “Excuse me! That was a very special lunch!”
“If you say so” you say. “I just think you’ve lost your violent spark.”
“TAKE THAT BACK,” she yells, whacking your arm with the popsicle stick.
You yelp, laughing. “Violence! I’m being attacked by a national idol!”
“WHO’S LOST HER VIOLENT SPARK NOW!”
The whole house fills with your laughter — hers bright and unrestrained, yours helplessly caught up in it. The kind of laughter that hurts in the best way.
When you both finally calm down, she leans her head back on the couch, breathless and smiling. “I missed this,” she says softly.
You pause, caught off guard by how quietly she says it.
But then she stands and tosses you one of the popsicles. “Come on. Riverbank. It’s tradition.”
The river looks exactly the same. The cicadas hum, the air smells like damp grass, and the sun dips lazily behind the hill.
You sit side by side, feet dangling over the water. She unwraps her popsicle and immediately wrinkles her nose.
“You still hate the green part,” she says.
“You still forget I like it,” you reply without missing a beat.
She gasps. “You’re lying. You hated it. You always gave me the green part for my orange.”
“Well, that’s because you’d throw a fit and pout if I didn’t give you the green part.”
“HEY! That was one time! And I had just flunked my exam, so I needed comfort food.”
“Well,” you shrug, “even if I used to hate it, taste changes. Maturity.”
“You? Mature?” she scoffs. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve told all day.”
You grin. “I’ve told bigger lies.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” Kotone says through a laugh, though it sounds more like a challenge than a question.
The silence is almost deafening.
“Like saying TripleS sounds like a shampoo brand.”
She chokes on her popsicle laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, here you are,” you say softly.
The words hang there for a moment — heavier than you meant them to be.
You talk for hours. About stupid things — her trip to the convenience store, your tragic attempt at cooking, the time she almost mistook a microphone stand for a person backstage, and the other time she mistook a person for a microphone backstage. The second one went substantially worse.
But eventually, the laughter fades. The pauses between words grow longer.
Kotone leans back on her hands, eyes on the water. “You know,” she starts quietly, “sometimes I feel like I’m running in circles.”
You glance at her. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Being an idol sounds like a dream when you’re outside looking in,” she says. “But when you’re living it... sometimes it feels like you’re not living at all. Just— performing. Even when you’re supposed to be yourself.”
You stay quiet.
She keeps talking, voice soft, steady. “There’s always something next. Another show, another recording, another smile you have to put on. You have to hold your breath, and look graceful like a swan, diving underwater even when you’re drowning. And at night, when the lights go out, it’s just— quiet. You look around, and there are people everywhere, but somehow you feel…”
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t need to.
Lonely.
The word echoes in your head anyway.
And suddenly, you can’t breathe right — because it hits you all at once.
All those years she was out there, trying to be strong, trying to shine, and you weren’t there. You told yourself you were giving her space to chase her dream — but maybe what she needed was someone to tell her she didn’t have to shine all the time.
You look at her, and she’s looking away, blinking fast.
“Kotone,” you say softly.
She shakes her head, smiling too quickly. “Sorry. Wow, that got depressing fast. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” you interrupt gently. “You don’t need to apologize. You’re allowed to be tired.”
Her lip trembles, but she laughs anyway. “You always say the right thing, you know that?”
“Only when it’s about you.”
Her cheeks flush, and she kicks at the water to hide it. “Still smooth, huh?”
“Always.”
“If only-” She catches herself, and you both tense up.
She laughs again — softer this time, almost fragile. Then her hand brushes yours, and both of you freeze.
For one heartbeat, you think neither of you will pull away. But you both do, pretending not to notice, staring hard at the river instead.
You can’t tell if your chest is burning from the sun or from her.
When you walk her home later, she lingers at her gate again, twirling the popsicle stick in her fingers.
“You know,” she says, “it’s weird. Everything here feels like it’s been waiting for me. Even you.”
You grin. “What can I say? I’m dependable.”
“Liar,” she says, laughing softly. Then, after a beat, she adds, “But… thanks for today.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel normal again.”
You smile, trying to ignore the ache in your chest. “Anytime, superstar.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.
That night, you text her:
✉️You: get home safe?
✉️ Kotone: yup. stop worrying, grandpa.
✉️ You: not worrying. just making sure the world celebrity didn’t get lost again.
✉️ Kotone: you mean like how you get lost in your own neighborhood?
✉️ You: that was one time.
✉️ Kotone: once a disaster, always a disaster. goodnight.
✉️ You: goodnight, trouble.
You hover over your screen for a long moment before locking it.
And across town, Kotone does the same — staring at your last message, smiling until the smile trembles.
Both of you fall asleep that night with the same thought echoing softly:
how easily laughter can hide the things you’re both still too scared to say.
You hadn’t planned to call. Really.
It had started as one of those stupid, impulsive ideas you normally talk yourself out of halfway through — only this time, you didn’t. Kotone had been back in town for a few days, and everything had felt almost like before. Laughing until your cheeks hurt, teasing her about her “celebrity walk,” pretending that years hadn’t slipped between you like pages torn out of a book.
And then the laughter would fade, and you’d catch her staring out the window for just a second too long. That’s when it hit you — how much you’d missed. How many moments you weren’t there for. How much you’d let her bear alone.
So, of course, your next logical step was to sign up for a fancall. With her group.
Yeah. Brilliant. The writer needs to stop writing shit cliches and wrap it up.
You couldn’t exactly ask Kotone for advice on how to stop being the person who hurt her. So you told yourself that maybe, just maybe, the people who spent the most time with her — her members — might help you figure it out. Without knowing who you really were.
Your finger hovered over the confirmation button.
“Don’t be weird,” you muttered. “Just… do it.”
Then your screen flashed.
Connected — Nien (TripleS).
Nien’s face filled your phone, a grin stretching from ear to ear. Her hair bounced with every movement, one earbud dangling like it had its own orbit. Somewhere behind her, voices echoed — shouting, laughter, a faint “Nien, stop throwing things!” and a loud crash.
“HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO! IS THIS A REAL HUMAN?!” she screeched, leaning so close to the camera her nose almost fogged the lens. “Finally! A calm one! Normal energy! Oh my god, a break!”
You blinked. “Uh— hi?”
She pointed dramatically at the camera. “You have no idea what I’ve been through today. The last call? The girl whispered my name for two minutes and then fainted. Fainted! I thought she’d lagged out, but no, she just fell sideways! I respected it though — commitment! Romantic! Honestly? I kinda fell for her a little.”
You choked on your laugh. “That… sounds intense.”
“She’s living in my mind rent-free now,” Nien said solemnly, before instantly switching tones. “Anyway! You’re breathing normally, so you’re already my new favorite. Normal! Calm! Safe! Boring but safe!”
“Thanks?”
“Don’t ruin it!” she warned cheerfully, spinning in her chair hard enough to blur. “So! Why are you here, mysterious normal person? You’ve got the ‘I have emotional damage’ face. Spill!”
You hesitated. Then, maybe because she was so wildly disarming, you did.
“I need advice. About a friend. Someone I promised I’d always be there for… and I wasn’t. I thought staying away would protect her, but I think it just made her feel alone. Now I don’t know how to fix it. Or if I even can.”
Nien gasped so dramatically you were sure it echoed through the dorm. “OH MY GOD. THIS IS A K-DRAMA. I LOVE IT.”
You blinked. “That’s… not—”
“No no no, listen, I’m invested. Okay, step one!” She raised a finger like she was teaching a masterclass. “Admit you messed up. Not with a novel. Not with a sad PowerPoint. Just say: ‘I was wrong. I’m sorry.’ Keep it short and punchy, like a good chorus drop. Boom!”
You bit back a smile. “Okay…”
“Step two,” she said, spinning again, this time juggling her phone and a stuffed penguin. “Context, not excuses. ‘I thought I was protecting you’ — valid. ‘I’m a noble tragic hero’ — not valid. Nobody likes that. You ghost someone for ‘their own good’? No! That’s Marvel-movie behavior.”
You snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Step three! Actions, not speeches!” she continued, shaking the penguin for emphasis. “Little things! Quiet gestures! Put a snack she likes in her bag, send a postcard, share a stupid meme. Do not flood her inbox like you’re spamming a game boss. Consistency over chaos. Small moves, big meaning.”
Her energy was relentless — a hurricane in a hoodie — but somewhere under the comedy, her words stuck.
“Step four!” she yelled. “Timing! You don’t just barge in with a speech like in movies! You ask. ‘Can I tell you something I should have said before?’ She says yes? Go! She says no? You wait. Respect her rhythm. Timing makes or breaks everything.”
You nodded slowly. “You’re… actually really good at this.”
“I contain multitudes,” she declared, striking a dramatic pose before laughing. “But seriously—wait, I have something real to say.”
And just like that, she shifted. The grin softened. Her voice steadied.
“Listen,” she said quietly, eyes still bright but suddenly focused. “The past means more to people than it shows sometimes. There was this once, I did something… stupid. I stole a letter from a member. Thought it’d be funny. Just a prank. You know — Nien chaos. But when they realized it was missing… they freaked out. Not like, cute angry. Real angry. Crying. Shaking. It was—” she exhaled, “—it was bad.”
You stayed silent, sensing how rare this side of her was.
“I didn’t get it back then,” she continued. “I thought, ‘It’s just a piece of paper.’ But to them, it was everything. Memories. Love. Something that kept them grounded. When I saw how broken they looked — like I’d taken away something sacred — I felt so small. I tried to joke, to fix it, but some things… you can’t fix with jokes.”
She looked down briefly, then back at you. “That’s when I learned: everyone has anchors. Things that keep them steady when the world spins too fast. You mess with those — you’re not just being dumb, you’re breaking something. Don’t take someone’s anchor. Protect it.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the chaos before.
Then she clapped her hands suddenly, the sound exploding through your earbuds. “OKAY! EMO TIME OVER!” she shouted, half-laughing. “So, moral of the story: Don’t ghost, don’t steal, don’t play the tragic hero. Do small, honest things. Listen when they talk. And if she tells you she was lonely—” her voice softened again, “—don’t try to fix it right away. Just… say you’re sorry she felt that way. That you wish you’d been there. That’s all. That’s enough.”
“I’m beginning to sound like Seoyeon…eww” Nien mutters to herself
Her eyes lingered on the camera for a moment, kind and unguarded. Then she grinned again, wide and unhinged. “Now! I’m gonna go pester Jiwoo because she hid my ramen cup. Wish me luck, normal human!”
“Good luck,” you said, still dazed from her whirlwind of sincerity and noise.
She saluted. “May chaos guide you!” she yelled, spinning so fast you caught a blur of colors before the call disconnected.
And then the screen went black.
You sat there for a long moment, the silence almost too loud after all that noise. Somewhere outside, cicadas hummed, as if they’d been waiting for you to listen again.
You weren’t exactly sure what counted as a “small gesture.”
After Nien’s whirlwind advice session, you’d spent the next morning staring blankly into your fridge, trying to decode her words like they were a secret questline.
“Tiny gestures,” she’d said. “Consistency. No tragic speeches.”
So, naturally, your brilliant idea was: invite Kotone over.
Low risk, high reward, right? Just hang out. Casual. Friendly. Not emotionally catastrophic. Probably.
When you texted her — hey, come over? I’ll cook something? — she replied almost immediately.
✉️Kotone: wow, u? cooking?
✉️ Kotone: is this a threat or an invitation
✉️ You: it’s called growth
✉️ Kotone: it’s called attempted murder
She showed up anyway.
The doorbell rang, and before you could even finish drying your hands, she was already half through the doorway, holding a bag of chips and looking far too at home for someone who hadn’t been there in years.
“Smells suspiciously edible,” she said, leaning over your shoulder to peek at the pan. “Who are you and what have you done with the disaster I used to know?”
“Disaster’s still here,” you muttered. “Just… slightly reformed.”
Kotone grinned — that same sharp, sunshine-filled grin that made your heart stutter. “Wow. Reformed. Big word. Did you learn that from your therapist or from watching cooking shows?”
“Neither,” you shot back. “From surviving your ego.”
“Fair,” she laughed, tossing her hair dramatically before hopping onto the counter like it was still her house. “So what’s the occasion? You suddenly feeling generous? Or guilty?”
You handed her a spoonful of soup. “Neither. I just figured we could hang out.”
She tasted it, hummed, and gave a small nod. “Not bad. Still too salty, though. Fitting.”
You rolled your eyes, pretending her presence didn’t fill every quiet corner of your house like it always used to. She looked the same — older, maybe, but still her. The mischievous tilt in her eyes, the way her foot swung idly against the cabinet door, the slight smile when she thought you weren’t looking.
Dinner went as well as expected. You bickered about everything — from how much garlic you added, to whether her band’s choreography looked painful (“We’re professionals, not contortionists,” she’d said indignantly), to who could hold more ice cream in one bite.
And then, somewhere between dessert and laughter, she noticed.
You’d poured her water before she asked. Pulled out a blanket when she shivered. Reached to fix the strap of her hoodie when it slipped. You didn’t even think about it — it just happened.
Kotone squinted at you. “Okay, wait. What’s going on here?”
“What?” you asked, mid-sip.
“You’re being…” she tilted her head, smirking. “Nice. Like—unusually nice. Suspiciously nice. You going soft on me?”
You choked. “I’m just being decent.”
“Oh no no,” she teased, pointing her spoon dramatically. “This isn’t decent. This is you, serving me soup and tucking me in with a blanket like some kind of romcom lead who finally learned empathy. What happened? Did guilt finally evolve you into a functioning adult?”
You gave her your best deadpan stare. “Keep talking and I’ll revoke your soup privileges.”
“Too late,” she said around a mouthful of soup. “Soup’s mine now.”
You sighed, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. It was chaotic, familiar, her. And somehow, it made your chest ache in the gentlest way.
After dinner, the two of you ended up in the living room, legs tangled on opposite sides of the couch, a movie playing in the background — one neither of you were watching.
Kotone was scrolling through her phone, when she suddenly said, “You know… this feels weird.”
You glanced at her. “Weird how?”
“Like…” she scrunched her nose, searching for words. “Like time froze. Like we just… paused for a few years and now we’re unpausing.”
You nodded, your voice soft. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“You just…threw away the remote.”
Kotone doesn’t let that statement hang in the air long enough to sting.
She looked at you for a second too long, eyes soft and unreadable. “You still remember all the small things. The soup, the blanket, the way I like the fan on setting two instead of three.”
“I told you,” you said, trying to smile, “I have an excellent memory.”
“Liar,” she teased, but her voice trembled just slightly at the edges. “You forgot me for years.”
The air stilled. You opened your mouth to reply — to explain, to apologize — but then she smiled again, a little too brightly. “Kidding! Relax! You look like you’re about to cry or propose or something.”
You forced a laugh, even as your chest tightened. “Yeah, you wish.”
She threw a pillow at you. “Oh, please. You couldn’t handle me.”
“Handle you? You’re like caffeine mixed with chaos. I barely survived the soup.”
She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch, the sound bright and unguarded — like nothing had ever hurt her. You laughed too, because that’s what you both did best. Pretend it was all okay.
And for that night, maybe it was.
Because even if your chest still ached with all the things you hadn’t said, even if she still smiled like she was holding something back — for now, you were here. Together. Talking too much, laughing too loud, sharing old warmth as if it had never gone cold.
And maybe, you thought, watching her curled up with a popsicle in hand and that familiar glint in her eyes, that was what healing looked like — not grand gestures, not dramatic confessions, but quiet, ridiculous moments of almost-normal.
“Hey,” Kotone said suddenly, voice softening. “You’re still bad at hiding it, you know?”
“Hiding what?”
She smiled, lazy and knowing. “When you care.”
You froze — then threw a cushion at her, half-panicked, half-flustered.
“See?” she laughed. “Knew it. Softie.”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Admit it,” she grinned, biting her popsicle. “You missed me.”
You looked away. “Only sometimes.”
She kicked your leg lightly. “Liar.”
You smiled. “Always.”
Her grin faltered, just for a moment — but then she laughed again, because that’s what both of you did best.
And when she left that night, humming under her breath, the house still smelled faintly of soup and summer.
If you had to describe the kitchen right now, “crime scene” wouldn’t be far off.
There was flour on the ceiling.
How it got there, you would never know.
“Okay—okay wait,” you said, half laughing, half choking as Kotone somehow managed to flick more flour onto your shirt. “How are you this bad at baking?”
“I’m amazing at baking,” she said, indignant, holding a whisk like a weapon. “You’re just in my way.”
“In your way? You threw butter at me, Kotone.”
“I didn’t throw it,” she argued, though she was absolutely lying through her teeth. “It just… slipped aggressively.”
The countertop was a battlefield. A measuring cup had gone missing in action. Sugar coated the floor in a fine layer of crystalline snow. Kotone stood triumphant in the middle of it all, hair tied in a messy bun that was already coming undone, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a smear of chocolate across her cheek.
You were supposed to be making cookies.
You were instead making chaos.
“Stop laughing and help me, oh my god—” Kotone said, attempting to whisk the batter again, only for it to splatter up onto her wrist.
You leaned against the counter, grin spreading wider. “Are you sure you’re not secretly auditioning for a food fight drama?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re talking a lot for someone who mixed salt instead of sugar.”
“That was an experiment!”
“That was a crime!”
You reached for the spatula to defend your honor, only for her to snatch it from your hand and hold it aloft. “Not so fast, traitor!”
“Oh, you’re dead,” you said, lunging forward.
The next thirty seconds could only be described as culinary warfare. Kotone ducked, laughed, tried to dodge your grab for the spatula, and ended up bumping into the counter, sending a small cloud of flour into the air. You caught her wrist at the same time she tried to smear chocolate on your face, and the both of you froze — faces inches apart, eyes wide, breathing too fast.
Then she burst out laughing.
And the moment shattered like sugar glass.
“Okay, okay, truce!” she said between giggles. “Before we destroy your kitchen completely!”
You let go, still smiling despite yourself. “You started it.”
“And you escalated it,” she countered, poking your chest. “Classic you.”
By the time the cookies were finally in the oven, you were both covered in a respectable layer of chaos — flour, sugar, laughter, and unspoken things.
Kotone flopped onto the couch beside you, arms stretched out dramatically. “I think we burned half of them.”
“Half is a win,” you said.
“Half is a tragedy,” she corrected, but her grin gave her away.
She leaned her head back, eyes closed, still smiling. “You know, you’ve been nice lately. Suspiciously nice.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Suspiciously?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head to look at you, smirk soft but playful. “You used to throw flour first. Now you help me bake. What’s up with that?”
“Maybe I just matured,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Kotone snorted. “Yeah, and maybe I’m secretly an astronaut.”
“Would explain the spacey moments.”
“Excuse me?” she said, laughing as she smacked you with a kitchen towel.
You caught it before she could pull it back. “That’s violence, you know.”
“That’s justice.”
You tugged the towel gently, smiling. “You’ve gotten way too bold.”
She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “And you’ve gotten way too soft.”
The words hit a little closer than you expected. You forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m just trying to keep you from burning my kitchen down.”
Kotone giggled, then reached over to steal a sip from your drink. “Sure. You’re totally not just being sweet to me for no reason.”
Kotone laughed so hard she almost dropped the cup. “God, I missed annoying you,” she said, half under her breath.
The sentence was soft enough that you almost didn’t catch it — and she pretended she hadn’t said it. But something in her eyes flickered, a quick, quiet shimmer of something else.
The timer dinged, breaking the air between you.
Kotone jumped up, all cheerful again. “Moment of truth!”
You followed her into the kitchen, both of you crowding around the oven like it held state secrets. The cookies were uneven, some slightly burnt, others weirdly perfect — a reflection of the two of you, maybe. A mess that somehow worked.
“See?” she said, holding one up proudly. “We’re a good team.”
You smiled. “Miraculously.”
Kotone grinned. “You mean thanks to me.”
“Sure,” you said, deadpan, “you and your violent cooking philosophy.”
“I bring the chaos,” she said brightly, “you bring the sarcasm. Balance.”
You handed her a cookie. “Here. Peace offering.”
She accepted it with a dramatic bow, then bit into it — and hummed, eyes lighting up. “Not bad! You actually did something right for once.”
“High praise,” you muttered, but couldn’t help smiling.
For a while, the two of you just ate in companionable silence — that easy rhythm you used to have slipping back like it never left. She talked a bit about the dorms, about how loud Yeonji was, about how Yooyeon kept stealing snacks at midnight. You listened, smiling at every story, every little glimpse into her world.
Then you said, “Hey, can you grab my gloves from the table?”
“Roger that,” she said, marching off.
You turned back to the cookies, humming quietly to yourself — and then heard a thump.
“Uh,” Kotone said from across the room, “your drawer just… declared independence?”
You spun around — and froze.
She was crouched beside your desk, one hand holding a file that had fallen open. Albums, posters, a binder — a whole archive, really — lay spread across the floor.
The binder was the worst part. It was thick, carefully labeled. Pages of her photo cards, some signed, some rare, all pristine.
Kotone blinked at it, then slowly looked up at you, eyes wide with amusement. “…You collect me?”
You immediately felt your soul leave your body. “That’s not— I— It’s not like—”
“Oh my god,” she said, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “This is—this is serious fan behavior. You have the limited edition one!”
You groaned, covering your face. “I can explain.”
“You better,” she teased, flipping through the pages. “Because this? This is intense. You even kept the little pre-order cards!”
You tried to snatch it back. “Stop!”
Kotone giggled, dodging you easily. “I didn’t know you were a stan! Should I start signing your walls? Maybe sell you my used water bottle?”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
She laughed, loud and delighted. “You’re blushing! Oh my god, you’re actually blushing!”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Admit it, you missed me.”
You didn’t answer fast enough.
Kotone’s laughter faded just a little — not gone, just softer, gentler. She glanced down at one of the signed albums, tracing her finger over her name before setting it aside. “You really did keep up with everything, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said quietly, suddenly unsure where to look. “Guess I did.”
There was a pause — small, fragile. Kotone smiled, but there was something behind it, something faint and hidden, like the echo of a thought she didn’t want to finish.
“Then I guess,” she said lightly, “I did something right.”
She stood, brushing off her hands, grin returning. “Anyway. Cookies are gonna burn. You can tell me later about how deep your fandom goes.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the tightness in your chest. “I’m regretting this baking session already.”
Kotone bumped your shoulder on her way past. “Liar.”
And as she reached for another cookie, humming softly under her breath, you realized how right she was.
You didn’t regret it at all.
Not even a little.
It starts with a photo.
Just one blurry photo — you and Kotone walking side by side, her laughter frozen mid-motion, her head tilted toward you beneath the warm blur of streetlights. Your arm brushes hers. The air glows soft and gold, tender in a way that feels like home.
But the internet doesn’t care about warmth. It doesn’t care about tenderness or how ordinary that night was.
It only cares about who she was with.
Within hours, it’s everywhere.
“tripleS Kotone spotted on a date with a non-celebrity.”
“Company refuses to comment.”
“So disappointing. I thought she cared about her fans.”
You scroll until the words blur together. The comments multiply like rot — parasitic, relentless. By noon, her name trends worldwide. Every timeline, every screen, every headline.
Kotone’s phone vibrates nonstop.
Her manager’s name flashes again and again — until she can’t look anymore. She sets it down, face-down on the bed, and the buzzing continues. She presses a pillow over her ears, but the sound keeps finding her.
Another call.
Another message.
Another wave of hate.
When she finally hurls the phone across the room, it bounces, hits the floor, and lights up again — like it refuses to let her rest.
You stand there helpless, watching as she curls up at the far edge of the bed, knees drawn tight, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. Her breaths come in shallow bursts. She’s trying not to cry, but her body shakes with the effort.
The comments keep coming.
“She’s just like the others.”
“Fake.”
“I can’t believe I ever supported her.”
“She ruined everything.”
Every word cuts deeper than the last — and you can do nothing to stop it.
By evening, Kotone locks herself in her room.
You knock once.
Nothing.
You try again, softer. “Kotone. Please.”
Still silence.
You slide down the wall, sitting on the floor, your back pressed to the door. The light under the crack glows faintly, flickering with movement. You rest your hand against it like maybe she’ll feel you there.
“I just want to know you’re okay,” you murmur.
No answer. Only the rain outside, slow and steady.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The world fades until it’s just the two of you — one behind the door, one waiting on the other side.
And then, a sound.
A small, broken sob.
It’s faint, but it feels like the air leaves your lungs.
You knock once more, barely a whisper. “Kotone?”
Nothing — and then the softest sniffle, so quiet you almost imagine it.
“I’m not leaving,” you whisper. “Not until you’re okay.”
And you stay there — long enough for the rain to turn to a downpour, long enough for your back to ache and your throat to burn with words you’ll never say.
Finally — the lock clicks.
The door opens a few inches.
She stands there, eyes red, hair tangled, wearing your old hoodie that hangs too big on her frame. Her hands are buried in the sleeves, trembling. Her lips are cracked from crying.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice raw, like it hurts to speak.
You blink. “Because I was worried.”
She laughs — short, sharp, hollow. “Now you’re worried?”
You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Kotone—”
“No!” Her voice cracks, trembling with the kind of pain that’s been waiting years to escape. “You don’t get to pretend you care now. Not after everything.”
Your chest tightens. “I always cared—”
“Then where were you?” she shouts. “When I was in Korea — when I cried alone in the dorm bathroom, trying to cry softly to hide it from the others. When my manager yelled at me for every mistake. When I begged myself not to break down on camera.”
Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop. “Do you know what it’s like to stand on stage in front of thousands of people and still feel like no one’s looking at you? When the one person who promised they’d never leave — already has?”
Your breath catches. “Kotone—”
“I kept waiting for you!” she shouts again, tears streaming freely now. “Every night. I’d stare at my phone, watching that stupid green dot next to your name. I thought maybe you’d text first. Maybe tonight you’d remember me. But you never did.”
You swallow hard, words dying in your throat.
“Do you know how many times I almost called?” she whispers. “How many messages I typed out and deleted? How many times I told myself you were just busy, that you’d come back when you could?”
Her voice falters. “You promised you’d always be there.”
She looks up, eyes burning. “But you weren’t.”
You close your eyes. “I never stopped caring.”
Her laugh is sharp, pained. “Then why didn’t you show it?”
She steps forward, trembling. “You had binders. Binders, for God’s sake — of us, of me. Every photo, every album, every fan sign. You followed everything.”
You freeze.
Her tears spill faster. “You knew where I was. You watched every step I took. So if you cared so much—” her voice breaks, cracking open the silence between you — “then why didn’t you call?”
You can’t look at her.
“Do you know what that felt like?” she whispers. “To know you were still out there, still watching — but remembering that you didn’t call me? Not even once?”
Her hand hits your chest. Once. Twice. Weak, but it trembles with grief. “You were right there,” she sobs. “And you still let me believe you didn’t care.”
You can’t move.
“I thought you hated me,” she whispers. “I thought I wasn’t worth missing.”
You open your mouth, but she cuts you off — her breath shaking, her eyes wild.
“Why didn’t you tell me you missed me?” she says. “Why didn’t you just say something?”
Her voice cracks, and she lifts something in her hands. A small, worn envelope.
Your stomach drops.
The letter.
Your letter — the one you wrote before she left for Seoul. The one you lost that night she told you she was leaving.
“Kotone…”
Her hands shake as she holds it up. “Do you know how many times I read this?” she asks softly. “Before every show. Every rehearsal. Every time I wanted to give up. You said you believed in me. You told me to chase my dream.”
Tears spill down her cheeks, her lips trembling. “You told me you’d wait.”
She looks up at you, her voice cracking open. “So why?”
You can barely breathe.
“Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” she whispers.
And just like that — the room breaks.
You can’t move. You can’t speak. The storm outside swells, thunder rumbling like the world itself is grieving with her.
Finally, you manage, “Because if I did… I was afraid you’d stay.”
Her eyes widen, confusion flickering into hurt.
You take a shaky breath. “If I told you how I felt, I was afraid you’d give up everything. I didn’t want to be the reason you quit. The reason you regretted your dream. I couldn’t live with that.”
Kotone stares at you, disbelieving. Her lip quivers. “You idiot,” she breathes. “You absolute idiot.”
“I know.”
She lets out a small, broken laugh. “You think I wouldn’t have chosen you?”
Your throat tightens.
“I already did,” she says. Her voice is so soft you almost miss it. “Before I left. That night you wrote this — I already knew.”
Tears fall freely now. “I spent years loving you in silence. Every time I smiled on stage, I thought — maybe you’d see me. Maybe you’d look at me and call me. Maybe you’d remember. But you didn’t need to. You already had me, didn’t you? Trapped in your binders, frozen in pictures, easier that way, wasn’t it?”
You feel your knees go weak.
“I was out there trying to become someone you’d be proud of,” she says, “and all I ever wanted was for you to pick up the phone.”
The rain crashes against the glass, drowning the world outside.
Neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly — brokenly — she says, “You should’ve let me decide what I wanted.”
You look at her. She’s trembling, eyes glassy and distant.
“I would’ve stayed,” she whispers. “Even if it ruined me. Even if I had to start over, or I had to find another way to chase my dreams. I would’ve stayed for you.”
Her voice cracks completely. She sinks to her knees, curling in on herself, her face hidden behind trembling hands.
And you — you sink down beside her, useless and heavy, a thousand apologies caught in your throat.
Thunder rolls in the distance.
Inside, the two of you sit in silence — close enough to touch, but worlds apart.
And for the first time, you realize that loving her quietly might have been the cruelest thing you ever did.
The river was quiet that night—too quiet for a world that kept moving. The current whispered against the stones, soft and steady, like it had all the time in the world to listen. You didn’t. You sat there with your arms wrapped loosely around your knees, staring at your reflection as it wavered and broke with each passing ripple.
You weren’t sure what you were waiting for. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe just a familiar voice to fill the silence.
When it came, it was softer than you remembered.
“Hey.”
You turned. Kotone stood a few steps behind you, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, the wind tugging at her bangs. In her hands were two melon popsicles, the kind the two of you used to buy every summer from the tiny shop near the bus stop.
Without saying anything, she walked over and sat beside you. Close enough that her sleeve brushed yours. She offered one out.
You took it.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You both just sat there, legs dangling near the water, watching the popsicles slowly melt in your hands.
Finally, Kotone broke the silence. “I couldn’t sleep.”
You nodded. “Me neither.”
“Too many thoughts,” she said quietly. “Too many voices.”
Her tone wasn’t bitter—just tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of rest but from being stretched thin for too long.
“I’m sorry,” you said. The words were too small, too late. But they were real.
Kotone didn’t answer right away. She just nudged a pebble into the water with her shoe and watched the ripples bloom outward.
“You know,” she said eventually, “I came here before I left for Korea. Every night the week before. Just… to feel calm.”
You looked at her. “Yeah. I remember.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile. “I thought if I sat here long enough, I’d stop being scared. That I’d find some kind of sign that I was doing the right thing.” She laughed under her breath. “Didn’t work, though. I was still terrified.”
You swallowed. “I was terrified too, and not just of making you not chase your dreams.”
“Then what?”
“That you’d forget me,” you said honestly. “That you’d move on. That one day I’d see you smiling onstage, and you wouldn’t remember the person who used to walk you home.”
Kotone blinked, surprised. “You thought I’d forget you?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
She shook her head, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
She smiled a little, but it faded just as quickly. “I never forgot you. Not even once. Every city I went to, every stage, every new dorm… there was always something that reminded me of you.”
Her voice softened, trembling just slightly. “There’d be nights when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d reread your letter. I must’ve read it a hundred times. Sometimes I’d cry, sometimes I’d laugh, but I always… I always felt like you were still with me, even when you weren’t.”
Your chest tightened. “I didn’t mean to disappear, Kotone. I just—”
“I know,” she said, cutting you off gently. “I wouldn’t have done it, but I know why you did.”
You looked at her, confused.
“You thought you were protecting me,” she continued. “You thought if you stayed away, it’d make it easier for me to focus. To chase my dream without looking back.”
You exhaled slowly. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”
She nodded. “I know. That’s why it hurt so much.”
Her words caught you off guard.
“I never hated you,” she said. “Not once. I was angry, yeah. Sad. I thought maybe I’d said something wrong. But I never hated you. I wanted to. It would have hurt less that way, but I just… missed you so much it hurt.”
You looked down, fingers tightening around the wooden stick of the popsicle. “I missed you too. Every day. Every time I saw you smiling on screen, I’d tell myself you looked happy, that you didn’t need me anymore. But then I’d see it—the same look in your eyes I used to see when you were scared.”
Kotone was quiet for a moment, her gaze on the water. Then, softly, she said, “I wasn’t happy. Not really. I loved what I was doing, but… it always felt like something was missing.”
You turned to her. “What was missing?”
Her eyes met yours. “You.”
You froze. The simplicity of it hit harder than any argument, any outburst could have.
“You were always there in the back of my mind,” she continued, voice trembling. “When the lights went off after a concert, when I was too tired to take off my makeup, when I felt small in a room full of people. I’d think, ‘If I could just call you, it’d be okay.’ But I couldn’t.”
The silence that followed was fragile. You could hear the sound of the water, the faint echo of traffic from the bridge nearby, the small cracks in both of your hearts trying to mend themselves in real time.
“I thought you stopped caring,” she whispered.
“I never did,” you said. “I just thought… I didn’t deserve to. To risk ruining your dreams for my own selfishness”
She turned toward you then, eyes wet but steady. “That was my choice, not yours.”
Neither of you spoke after that for a while. The night was heavy but softer somehow, like it had finally loosened its grip.
After a long pause, Kotone leaned her head against your shoulder. It was tentative at first, like testing whether she still had permission. When you didn’t move, she relaxed, her hair brushing against your arm.
You let out a shaky breath. “You still like the green part?”
She smiled faintly, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Yeah. Always have.”
You smiled too, just barely. “Guess some things don’t change.”
“Some do,” she murmured.
You turned to her, but she didn’t lift her head. “Like what?”
“This,” she said simply. “Being here again. Talking. Not pretending anymore.”
You felt her hand brush yours then—accidental, maybe, but it lingered just a moment too long to be nothing.
The cicadas hummed louder, the river shimmered under the moonlight, and in that quiet, you realized something. Maybe this wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe it was something better—understanding.
A beginning, not an ending.
Kotone sighed softly. “I don’t know what’s next,” she said. “But… if you’re here, I think I’ll be okay.”
You turned to look at her then, really look—her tired eyes, her faint smile, the girl you loved who somehow still looked at you like you were worth the wait.
You reached out, hesitated, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly.
She laughed softly. “Good. Took you long enough.”
And then she leaned in just a little closer, her voice barely a whisper. “You know, I think I started loving you before I even realized it.”
You smiled. “Funny. I think I did too.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The air between you felt warmer somehow, softer, like all the sharp edges had dulled a little.
Kotone nudged you with her shoulder. “You owe me a lot of ice cream,” she muttered.
You blinked. “What?”
“For emotional damages,” she said, taking another bite of her popsicle. “And for every time you didn’t text back.”
You laughed again, and this time, it reached your eyes. “That’s gonna be expensive.”
“I’m worth it,” she said, grinning faintly, and for a second—just a second—you saw the old Kotone again, the one who smiled with her whole face.
You both sat there until the sky went fully dark, the streetlights reflecting on the water like stars that had fallen too close.
At some point, she leaned her head against your shoulder. You froze at first—then relaxed, letting your head tilt slightly toward hers.
The cold from the popsicles had long since faded, replaced by the warmth of her against you.
“Don’t disappear again,” she murmured.
You nodded. “Only if you don’t run.”
She smiled faintly. “Deal.”
The river moved quietly beside you, carrying away the last of the hurt, the last of the silence.
And under the moonlight, with sticky fingers and hearts still piecing themselves back together, you and Kotone stayed there—two broken halves, finally remembering how to fit.
The sun hung low, spilling gold over the river and turning everything soft and drowsy. The air smelled faintly of summer rain, and Kotone sat on your porch steps with her knees pulled to her chest, a half-melted popsicle dripping onto her wrist. You’d both spent the day doing absolutely nothing — wandering through town, bickering in shops, pretending the clock wasn’t ticking down to her flight.
Now, it was just you two, sitting in the hush between cicada calls, pretending you weren’t counting how many hours you had left.
“Your porch still creaks in the same places,” Kotone said, rocking slightly, her voice light. “You should fix it.”
You smiled. “If I did, you wouldn’t know where to step.”
She laughed — that bright, melodic laugh that still made your chest ache. “Right. Can’t ruin the nostalgia.”
You leaned back against the railing, eyes on the fading sky. It was so easy again. Too easy. The space between you felt charged, like the seconds before a storm — not the kind that destroys, but the kind that drenches you and makes you remember what warmth feels like after.
When she turned to look at you, the light caught in her hair, and you thought — just for a second — that she didn’t look like the idol everyone else saw. She looked like your Kotone. The girl who used to race you down the hill behind your school. The girl who used to steal your snacks and then act offended when you noticed. The girl who never really left, even when she did.
“You’re staring,” she said, tilting her head with a teasing grin.
“I’m not,” you lied.
Kotone raised a brow. “Oh? Then what are you looking at?”
“Someone who doesn’t know how to eat a popsicle without it melting all over her.”
She gasped, smacking your arm lightly. “You’re such a brat.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
You grinned, swiping a drip of syrup off her hand before she could. “You’re hopeless.”
The touch lingered longer than it should’ve. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Her eyes flickered down to your hand, then up again — and suddenly the air felt too thick, too heavy. You both laughed it off, too quick, too practiced.
She shifted closer, the distance shrinking, until her shoulder brushed yours. “You really didn’t change much,” she murmured, softer this time. “Still the same you.”
You turned to her. “You think that’s a good thing?”
Kotone smiled faintly. “Yeah. It is.”
Silence followed — comfortable, but fragile. You could hear the river murmuring in the distance, the sound of home, of summers that used to feel endless.
“I used to think,” she said after a while, “that maybe we’d never get back here. Not like this.”
You looked down at your hands. “Yeah. Me too.”
“I’m glad we did.” Her voice trembled just a little. “Even if it’s just for now.”
You swallowed hard. The words you’d been holding for years pressed against your tongue, desperate and heavy. But you didn’t say them — not yet. Maybe because you were scared. Maybe because she was leaving.
“Do you ever think about—” you began, but she interrupted with a small, knowing smile.
“All the time,” she said.
That stopped you.
“Whatever you were about to ask,” she added, “yes. I think about it all the time.”
You exhaled a shaky laugh. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“I do.”
You turned to face her fully now. The world seemed to narrow to just her — her lips curved in a small smile, her eyes glinting with something that looked too much like everything you’d ever wanted.
“Kotone,” you said quietly.
She leaned in just a little, enough for your breath to catch. “Hmm?”
You hesitated. The words hovered there — I love you, don’t go, stay — but you couldn’t ruin it. Not yet. The world already took enough from her.
“Thank you,” you said instead. “For coming back. For everything.”
Her smile faltered, softened. She looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours like she was trying to read all the words you weren’t saying. Then she whispered, “Always.”
The word hung between you, as soft as the evening breeze, as fragile as the fading light.
You both sat there until the stars came out — your shoulders pressed together, laughter spilling quietly between the silences, the unspoken confession resting somewhere in the warmth of her hand against yours.
Neither of you said it out loud. But it didn’t matter.
Because in that small, fleeting summer night, you both knew.
You always had.
Kotone left on a Tuesday.
The morning after felt like a hangover — not from alcohol, but from all the feelings you didn’t say. Her mug still sat in your sink, half-rinsed. A hair tie you didn’t remember her taking off clung to your wrist. Everything looked normal, and yet, everything didn’t.
You told yourself you wouldn’t expect her to text first. She had schedules, practices, interviews — a life that didn’t have room for waiting.
So you didn’t expect it.
But she texted anyway.
✉️ Kotone [9:47 PM]: landed safe :)
✉️ Kotone [9:48 PM]: i miss the creaky porch already
✉️ You [9:50 PM]: wow that was fast
✉️ You [9:50 PM]: didn’t even get a dramatic “goodbye forever” at the airport
✉️ Kotone [9:51 PM]: sorry, i didn’t want to cry in front of the paparazzi lol
✉️ You [9:51 PM]: fair
✉️ Kotone [9:52 PM]: …but i did cry a little in the cab
✉️ You [9:52 PM]: loser
✉️ Kotone [9:53 PM]: says the one who kept my mug hostage
You smiled at your phone like an idiot.
That became your new rhythm — little texts between long hours. You learned that Kotone was the type to message at the oddest times. 2:16 AM, after a rehearsal. 11:03 AM, when she was half-asleep on the studio floor. Her texts were little windows into her world — messy, honest, sometimes half-coherent.
✉️ Kotone [2:16 AM]: rehearsal done. my feet hate me. send comfort.
✉️ You [2:17 AM]: comfort is on the way. ETA: 0.2 seconds. imagine me patting your head.
✉️ Kotone [2:18 AM]: not the same. need actual headpats.
✉️ You [2:19 AM]: okay now you sound like a cat
✉️ Kotone [2:20 AM]: maybe i am
And sometimes, it was voice calls.
Soft, late-night calls that felt like secrets.
You’d hear her breathing before she spoke, the faint rustle of sheets as she lay in her dorm bed. The city outside her window hummed faintly, and her voice — tired but alive — filled your ears.
“How’s Seoul?” you’d ask.
“Busy,” she’d say. “Loud. The coffee here’s good though.”
“You always talk about coffee.”
“Because it’s the only thing keeping me functioning.”
“Besides me,” you teased.
There’d be a pause, then a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Besides you.”
Some nights she’d tell you about rehearsals — how her groupmates teased her about being distracted lately. How she smiled more on set. How the fans noticed it, too.
And you’d wonder if she told them why.
Other nights, you didn’t talk much. You’d just exist together. You, listening to the hum of her world; her, listening to the silence of yours.
“Are you still there?” she’d whisper sometimes.
“Yeah,” you’d murmur. “Still here.”
And she’d sigh — a small, content sound, like she was trying to memorize what it felt like to be found again.
Weeks turned into months. You got used to the time difference, the way she’d send photos of cloudy Seoul mornings or half-finished drinks with captions like “thinking of you, kinda.”
You’d reply with something stupid — a selfie of you holding her forgotten mug, or a shot of the riverbank at sunset. And every time, she’d say the same thing:
✉️ Kotone [7:12 PM]: stop sending me pictures that make me miss home :(
✉️ You [7:13 PM]: maybe that’s the point
✉️ Kotone [7:14 PM]: then you’re mean
✉️ You [7:14 PM]: you love it
✉️ Kotone [7:15 PM]: …yeah. i kinda do.
One night, during a call, she said softly, “You know, it feels different this time.”
You turned in your bed. “What does?”
“This. Us.”
Her voice was tired but warm — the kind of tired that comes after laughter. “Last time I left, it felt like goodbye. This time… it doesn’t.”
You swallowed, heart stuttering. “Maybe because it isn’t.”
There was a silence then. Not awkward, just heavy — the kind that holds everything words can’t carry.
“You’re gonna make me cry again,” she murmured.
“Then don’t,” you said gently. “Just… stay on the call.”
She did. For hours. Neither of you hung up. Sometimes you’d hear her breathing, slow and even, and you’d realize she’d fallen asleep. You didn’t end the call. You just listened.
Days passed like that — one message, one call at a time.
The distance stayed the same. But somehow, it didn’t feel so far anymore.
And every time the phone rang, your heart would skip, because you knew it was her.
Every time she laughed through the speaker, your room felt less empty.
It started as a ridiculous idea.
You’d been talking to Kotone daily — texts, calls, memes, late-night voice notes — the whole rhythm of being close, but still far. And yet, the thought kept creeping into your mind: what if you didn’t have to be far? What if you could see her, surprise her, and finally show her, without words that might fumble the moment, how much she meant to you?
The problem? You were in your hometown. Seoul was… a universe away. But then, you remembered Nien.
You’d never forgotten that chaotic, brilliant, unhinged personality on the other end of that one fancall. The way she had given you advice about Kotone, the way she had lectured you on trust, on small gestures, on paying attention to the heart behind the binder and the letters. Nien was your only link to Kotone’s world without it being suspicious.
So you contacted her again, with the help of a very rich mutual on Twitter — a generous, slightly wealthy fan who owed you a favor after a ridiculous chain of DMs. Somehow, that led to another fancall with Nien.
Nien: “WHO IS THIS HUMAN?!” she yelled the moment she appeared. Her hair was still chaotic, earbuds dangling, dorm sounds echoing in the background. “You again! You’re normal again, huh? Safe? Too safe! This is suspicious!”
You laughed nervously. “Nien… I need a favor.”
She froze mid-spin. “FAVOR. DANGER. THRILL. EXPLAIN.”
You explained everything, carefully, but quickly. How you and Kotone had… history. How you’d made mistakes. How you’d promised to be there, and how you finally wanted to show her you had always meant it.
You explained the surprise you were planning, your only chance to make it unforgettable.
She stared at you for a moment, eyes narrowing, then her grin split her face in half. “OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH. I LOVE THIS. CHAOS. EMOTIONAL CHAOS. ROMANCE. OMG. THIS IS SO EXCITING.”
You held up your hands. “It’s not chaos. I’m trying to be organized for once.”
“LIES,” she said instantly, giggling. “Fine. Fine. I’m in. I will help you orchestrate the perfect surprise. No mistakes. No disasters. But… you owe me everything, okay? EVERYTHING. Dorm snacks, selfies, weird dances — EVERYTHING.”
There’s a long, quiet beat.
Then she says, voice soft, “Wait.”
You blink. “Wait?”
She leans closer to the screen. “You said… letter.”
Your heart skips. “Yeah.”
Her eyes dart side to side, like she’s trying to connect invisible dots. “You said it was old — yellowed — and you gave it to her before she left.”
You nod slowly. “That’s right.”
She gasps — a sharp, audible sound. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
She covers her mouth with her hand, eyes wide. “No freaking way.”
“What?” you repeat, alarmed now.
“Oh my god, oh my god.” She laughs — a mix of disbelief and secondhand guilt. “That letter. The one she wouldn’t stop talking about for weeks. The one I accidentally… kind of… stole.”
“I didn’t know it was from you!” Nien waves her hands frantically, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I thought it was, like, a fan thing — or something she wrote to herself, I don’t know! She was so mad when she found out I took it.”
You can’t help it — you laugh. A real, tired, almost disbelieving laugh. The story she had told you. “You stole my letter.”
“Oh my god,” Nien groans, burying her face in her hands. “I stole your letter.”
The two of you laugh until the tension dissolves into something easier — something lighter.
Then she looks back at you, eyes soft but serious. “You really love her, don’t you?”
You nod. “Yeah. Always have.”
Nien smiles, but it’s the quiet kind — the knowing kind. “Then come here,” she says. “I’ll help. I’ll talk to the manager, I’ll figure something out. You just get on that plane.”
“Really? That easy?” You asked, almost incredulous.
“Yeah, well, the writer, you know, the one that keeps calling me a lesbian, poor guy probably got lazy and couldn’t think of another way for you to get into contact and make this all happen, so, contrivances. Now, back from our 4th wall break for our regularly scheduled program.”
You don’t know how to thank her — so you just whisper, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she grins. “Just… make her happy. She deserves that.”
You nod again, and this time your voice doesn’t shake. “I will.”
For the next week, Nien became your clandestine partner-in-crime. She shared tips about the dorm layout, the best times to avoid security, how to leave little teasers without tipping Kotone off. She teased you relentlessly, but also sent updates on Kotone’s schedule — all anonymized so Kotone would never know you had infiltrated her life via her most chaotic ally.
Finally, the day arrived.
You stood near the dorm, heart hammering like a drum. The city smelled like rain on asphalt, a comforting scent that reminded you of the last time Kotone had been in your hometown. And now… you were here, in her city, breathing the same air, waiting for her to come out, unaware that you’d flown across the sea to see her.
You heard the familiar click of her shoes against the pavement before you saw her.
That sound alone was enough to make your heart race — light, rhythmic, a melody you hadn’t realized you’d memorized.
Kotone appeared a second later — laughing at something one of her groupmates had said, phone in hand, her hair bouncing with every step. The evening sun caught in it, making her glow gold.
The world seemed brighter, faster, lighter — and your stomach was a tangled knot of nerves.
You took one hesitant step forward.
“Kotone,” you said softly.
She froze mid-step.
The laughter died instantly. Her head turned toward you, eyes scanning your face like she couldn’t quite trust what she was seeing.
Shock. Disbelief. Then — slowly, achingly — recognition.
“Wait…” she whispered. “No way.”
You swallowed hard, holding up a small envelope — a simple, creased note. The same kind of envelope you’d used for the letter all those years ago.
“I had help,” you managed, your voice trembling. “But I’m here. I just… I wanted to see you. In person. To see you smile — not through a screen, not in a video. Just you. Right here.”
For a moment, Kotone just stared — eyes wide, lips parted — like the world had stopped spinning. Then her hands flew to her mouth.
“You…” Her voice broke into a laugh, somewhere between disbelief and pure joy. “You’re here? You’re actually—”
Before you could even nod, she moved.
It wasn’t just a run — it was a blur. A sprint that turned into a jump, high and sudden, all momentum and emotion. You barely had time to brace yourself before she collided with you, arms thrown around your neck, legs nearly lifting off the ground.
You stumbled back a few steps, laughing helplessly as you caught her, the force of her joy nearly knocking you both over.
She buried her face into your shoulder, shaking with laughter and tears all at once. “You idiot!” she said between hiccupped breaths. “You absolute idiot! You actually came!”
“I told you I would,” you murmured into her hair, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.
She leaned back, still clinging to you, eyes shining so bright it felt like the whole city had dimmed to make room for her. “You—how did you even—”
“I had help,” you said again, laughing through the adrenaline. “Nien. Twitter. Maybe fate, I don’t know.”
“Nien helped you?” she gasped, incredulous.
“Yeah. Turns out she’s better at logistics than she is at keeping secrets.”
Kotone laughed — loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh you hadn’t heard in person for years. She swatted your shoulder lightly. “You’re insane,” she said, voice trembling with affection.
“Maybe,” you admitted. “But I’m your kind of insane, and I’ll be here, forever. Guess who’s your new neighbour?”
She stared at you for a heartbeat — and then, softly, her smile changed.
Less laughter now, more something tender. Something full.
Her hands slipped from your shoulders to cup your face, thumbs brushing your jaw. “You really moved here,” she whispered.
You nodded. “Yeah. For good.”
Her eyes glistened, but this time, there were no tears. Just warmth. “You have no idea how much I wanted this.”
And before you could even think — before the world could start moving again — she leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t perfect — it was messy and breathless and half-laughing, the kind of kiss that tasted like years of missed chances and all the things you’d both been too afraid to say.
When you finally pulled apart, she was still close enough that her breath brushed your skin.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, smiling against your lips.
“I know.”
“I love that about you,” she said, and this time, she didn’t look away.
You laughed softly, forehead resting against hers. “Good,” you murmured. “Because I think I’ve always loved that about you too.”
She grinned, eyes bright and unguarded, and tugged you by the wrist toward the dorm entrance. “Come on,” she said, voice lilting with happiness. “You’re telling me everything.”
You let her pull you inside, your hand still wrapped in hers — a perfect fit, like it always had been.
Pairing: Julie x Male!Reader
Tags: basically just tsundere julie, fluff
You’ve always been okay with being average.
Average grades. Average clothes. Average everything. You’re not the guy people whisper about in class, or the one professors remember. You’re the one people point to and go, “Wait, he’s in this class?” halfway through the semester.
It’s fine. You like it that way.
Until today — when you accidentally turn yourself into the main character of a bad romantic comedy.
It starts with a sound. Not dramatic music, not a crash — just laughter. The wrong kind. Loud. Pushy. The kind that fills a courtyard like pollution.
You look up from unlocking your bike and see them — three guys, all swagger and cheap aftershave, crowding around someone near the fountain. You’re about to look away, because you mind your business, until you see who they’re talking to.
Julie.
Even from twenty feet away, she looks like she doesn’t belong here — not in this humid Tuesday morning, not surrounded by three morons with too much hair gel. She’s got that quiet kind of beauty that seems allergic to chaos. Long dark hair, clean lines, clothes that somehow look designer even if they’re not.
She’s standing there, perfectly still, her expression unreadable — like someone who’s too tired to care and too proud to show it.
The three guys keep talking.
One’s saying something about how she “should smile more.” Another’s trying to guess what music she’s listening to. The third — the bravest idiot of them all — leans closer.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her head a little, eyes cool and steady.
“Are you done?” she asks.
Her voice is low, calm, but it hits like ice water. You’d think that would shut them up, but no. One of them grins, says, “Come on, we’re just being friendly.”
And that’s the moment something in you snaps.
You’re not sure what compels you — adrenaline, boredom, divine stupidity — but your mouth moves before your brain catches up.
“Babe!”
It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that makes heads turn. Including hers.
Julie looks at you like you’ve just crawled out of a bush and declared yourself the messiah.
The three guys turn too, frowning.
You’re walking toward them, bike in hand, smiling like you’ve done this before. You haven’t.
“Sorry I’m late,” you say, breathless, like you’ve been running. “You ready to go?”
Julie blinks once. Her eyebrows lift, slow and precise, and for a horrible, suspended second, you think she’s going to completely destroy you with one sentence.
But instead, she exhales softly through her nose — a sound that might be amusement if she ever allowed herself to feel it.
“Oh,” she says flatly, “there you are.”
The guys look between you, confused. One asks, “Wait, this is your boyfriend?”
Julie’s lips twitch. “Obviously.”
You’ve never seen someone lie so effortlessly. Her tone is clipped, cool, and faintly bored, but her hand brushes your arm just enough to sell the illusion.
The guys instantly back off, muttering apologies like it’s a fire drill.
You’re not sure what’s scarier — how fast they scatter, or how unbothered she looks when they do.
As soon as they’re gone, she drops her hand, sighs, and crosses her arms. “You,” she says, her tone level, “are unbelievably stupid.”
You blink. “You’re welcome?”
Her gaze cuts to you — sharp enough to slice through the awkwardness. “Did I ask you to play knight in shining denim?”
“No, but—”
“But what?” she interrupts. “You decided the best way to help was to yell across the courtyard like we’re in a bad Netflix movie?”
You open your mouth. Close it.
“Technically,” you say, “it worked.”
She stares at you. For a long, dangerous second, you think she’s going to walk away. But then her mouth twitches, barely, like she’s fighting a smile.
“Technically,” she says, “you’re an idiot.”
“Maybe,” you admit, “but a useful idiot.”
That earns you a quiet exhale — not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your heart trip.
Julie shakes her head and adjusts her jacket, her expression sliding back into cool neutrality. “Next time you try to ‘rescue’ someone, maybe don’t shout babe in public. It’s giving secondhand embarrassment.”
You nod solemnly. “Duly noted. No babe. Maybe just—‘hey you’?”
Her lips curve, the ghost of amusement flickering there. “Don’t push it, hero.”
She turns to leave, already pulling her headphones back over her ears. You think that’s the end of it, but halfway across the courtyard she stops and glances back at you.
“Nice bike, by the way,” she says, voice deceptively casual. “Do you polish it before every rescue mission?”
You grin. “Only on weekends.”
Her eyes linger on you for a beat, like she’s debating whether you’re worth the effort of a comeback. Finally, she just smirks — the kind of smirk that feels like it could melt steel if she wanted it to — and says,
“See you around, Bike Boy.”
“Bike Boy?” you echo.
“You showed up on one. You saved me with it. It fits.”
You’re about to protest, but she’s already walking away, one hand raised lazily in a wave. “Don’t worry,” she calls back, “I won’t tell anyone your secret identity.”
You stand there for a full minute, surrounded by the faint smell of wet pavement and her shampoo — sharp, clean, citrus and something floral underneath.
“Bike Boy,” you mutter under your breath, groaning. “Fantastic.”
You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just a weird coincidence. A one-off moment in the middle of an average day.
But somehow, that afternoon, you catch yourself smiling — and you don’t even realize it’s the start of something that’s about to make your very average life a lot less boring.
The next morning, the universe has a sense of humor.
You’re trudging into Modern Communication Studies, a class that could very well be subtitled Death by PowerPoint. You take your usual seat near the middle—low profile, invisible to the professor, which is basically your superpower.
You’re not expecting anything to happen. Yesterday’s ridiculous bike rescue? That was a one-off. A blip. A cosmic joke. Julie would go back to being untouchable, untalked-to, untamed.
Right.
You hear a voice behind you—low, sharp, amused, impossible to ignore.
“Bike Boy.”
Your spine straightens. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. Julie. Ice queen herself. She’s sitting in her usual spot, hood down this time, earbuds dangling, the picture of effortless calm. But her eyes are on you.
You swivel in your seat. “Uh… me?”
“No, the other guy called Bike Boy. Yes, you. Come here.”
She gestures toward the empty seat next to her, one eyebrow raised in that “don’t even think about protesting” way she does.
“Why?” you ask cautiously.
“I don’t want to stare at the board alone,” she says, perfectly calm. “You’re fine background noise.”
You blink. “Background… noise?”
She tilts her head like you’re missing the obvious. “Yes. Noise. Do not overthink it, Bike Boy.”
And then, without giving you a chance to reply, she leans over her desk and starts arranging her notebook and pens like she owns the entire universe.
You sit down. The second your butt hits the chair, you realize she’s already judging your posture. Perfectly still, not smiling, but that faint smirk at the corner of her lips betrays amusement—just enough that you can feel it, and your stomach twists a little.
The professor starts droning immediately about “communication synergy,” a phrase that has somehow survived this many semesters without being outlawed. You try to pay attention, but the chair next to Julie is a strange kind of magnetic.
After five minutes, she mutters under her breath, “This class is painful.”
“I thought you liked pain,” you whisper back.
Her pen pauses mid-scribble. She glances at you out of the corner of her eye, expression unreadable. “You’re annoying,” she says, softly.
“You’re smirking,” you whisper, grinning.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t hide it. That faint twitch at the corner of her mouth is all the acknowledgment you need.
From there, a rhythm forms. You whisper occasional sarcastic commentary about the professor: “Did he just say synergy again?” and she whispers back: “If he says ‘synergy’ one more time, I’m charging him rent.”
Somehow, it works. Sitting next to her doesn’t feel tense. It’s… easy. Comfortable. Dangerous.
When she slides her notebook toward you, you notice a doodle—a stick figure version of the professor wearing a crown labeled “King of Synergy”. You stifle a laugh.
“You’re doing art now?” you murmur.
“I’m a critic,” she says, tapping the notebook. “This deserves it.”
“And me?”
She gives you a sidelong glance. “You’re… tolerable. For now.”
You grin. “Tolerable, huh? That’s almost a promotion from yesterday’s heroic bike savior.”
She hums, clearly unimpressed. “I already decided yesterday that you were Bike Boy. That’s your official title now. Use it wisely.”
“Wise use of Bike Boy: ride you somewhere, save you from terrible flirting. Check and check,” you whisper.
Julie leans back slightly, smirking faintly, as if she’s indulging you in a private little joke only she understands. “Don’t let it go to your head, Bike Boy.”
Class drags on, every minute of “paradigm shifts” and “digital synergy” offset by your quiet back-and-forth, each whispered jab or joke earning that small, controlled smirk of hers. And for some reason, it makes the professor’s droning slightly less deadly.
When the lecture ends, Julie packs her things slowly, deliberately, making it clear that she’s in control. You linger, trying not to look too eager.
She finally stands, tossing her bag over her shoulder. “You free after this?”
“Uh… yeah,” you manage, still caught somewhere between excitement and disbelief.
“Good,” she says. “You’re giving me a ride. Don’t make me change my mind, Bike Boy.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Ride where?”
“Wherever I need to go,” she says, already walking away. The faint smirk returns as she glances over her shoulder. “And yes, you will hold the handlebar steady. I’ve seen your technique. It’s… charming.”
You grab your bike and follow, marveling at how someone so effortlessly composed can still command this much attention—even from you, a guy whose life is usually perfectly average.
As she climbs on behind you, her hands brushing your jacket lightly, she says in that calm, measured tone: “Try not to crash. I have things to do.”
“I’ll do my best,” you say.
She leans back slightly, tapping your shoulder. “If you fall, Bike Boy, don’t expect me to help. You volunteered for this.”
You swallow, but your grin is unstoppable. Somehow, the ice queen herself has made you a part of her world. Not invited, not officially, but accepted enough that sitting next to her or giving her a ride feels… natural.
It passes faster than you expect.
Julie hops off the bike, turning to give you a glance you couldn’t quite decipher.
“Thanks for the ride Bike Boy”
It’s been three days since the “ rescue incident,” and you’ve spent all of them trying not to overthink it.
You did the right thing, you tell yourself. That’s all. You didn’t save Julie, you just… provided an exit. On wheels.
Totally normal.
So when you feel a sharp tug on your backpack strap as you’re leaving campus, you half-expect it to be karma coming to collect.
“Study session at my place, Bike Boy.”
You turn—and there she is. Julie. Same unreadable face. Same perfectly controlled tone that somehow sounds both like a command and a dare.
“Study session?” you ask. “Like… actual studying?”
Her eyebrow lifts. “Unless you thought I invited you for interpretive dance.”
“Not ruling it out,” you mutter.
Her lips twitch, almost smiling. Almost. “Don’t make me change my mind.”
She gestures toward your bike like it’s obvious. “You’re driving. Let’s go, Bike Boy.”
And that’s that.
She hops on the back of your bike again like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You start pedaling, and even though she’s silent for most of the ride, there’s something different this time—something quiet but noticeable. Her arms wrap around your waist again, and when you hit a bump, she holds on a little tighter than she really has to. You don’t say anything, because if you do, she’ll probably deny it with that calm, slicing tone of hers. But still—your chest feels suspiciously warm for the cool evening air.
When you pull up to her apartment building, you brace yourself for a night of textbooks, highlighters, and intense, judgmental stares over your questionable handwriting.
Instead, as soon as she unlocks the door, a burst of funky music floods out like the place itself is in a good mood.
Julie just steps inside, tosses her bag on the couch, and says, “Don’t touch anything fragile.”
Before you can even ask what that means, chaos incarnate walks in.
Natty’s the first—grinning like she’s been waiting for you. “Ohhh, so this is the Legendary Bike Boy. Julie’s been telling us about you. Takes a special person to make our dear Miss Han swoon.”
Julie’s expression doesn’t change. “No one said that.”
Haneul pokes her head in from the kitchen. “Yeah she did. You did, like, three times.”
Julie shoots her a sharp look, the kind that could freeze lava. “Delusion.”
Belle waves from the table, holding up a plate. “Do you like snacks that may or may not be edible?”
You blink. “Define edible?”
“Perfect,” she says, handing you something vaguely suspicious but smelling way too good to refuse.
Julie sighs, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and tossing it to you. “Drink this. Just in case Belle poisons you.”
“Hey,” Belle protests.
Julie smirks, taking a sip of her own drink. “Relax. He’s sturdy.”
You catch it—the faintest note of warmth in her voice. Teasing, but protective. It’s like her version of affection, hidden under the armor of her deadpan delivery.
Then, without warning, Haneul calls out, “Dance break!” and the room turns into a living, breathing meme.
Natty cranks up the music. Belle starts swaying with her suspicious snack in hand. You—frozen at first—end up being pulled into the middle by Haneul, who insists that “Bike Boy energy must be tested through movement.”
Julie watches from the couch, unimpressed—or pretending to be. You stumble through what could barely be called dancing, trying to keep up with Haneul’s chaotic rhythm.
“Wow,” Julie says eventually, leaning back with her arms crossed. “Your coordination’s breathtaking.”
“Thanks,” you pant, “I aim to underwhelm.”
That earns you a tiny laugh—soft, quick, and so unexpected you almost miss it. She covers it up immediately with a fake cough, pretending to be interested in her phone, but it’s too late. You heard it.
“Was that—”
“No,” she says flatly. “You imagined it.”
Natty grins. “He’s getting to you, isn’t he?”
Julie flicks a piece of popcorn at her. “He’s getting on my nerves.”
But later, when everyone’s talking and you’re sitting on the floor beside her couch, Julie’s foot lightly nudges your side. You look up, and she pretends to be focused on her phone again.
“Not bad,” she says quietly.
“What’s not bad?”
Her eyes flick toward you for a half-second, like she’s checking to make sure you won’t make fun of her. “You. For a Bike Boy.”
You grin. “High praise.”
“It wasn’t praise,” she says automatically—but she doesn’t pull her foot away this time.
And when you leave later that night—after Belle’s questionable snacks, Haneul’s failed dance-off rematch, and Natty loudly teasing Julie about her “study session” turned hangout—Julie walks you to the door.
“Next time,” she says coolly, “try not to look so lost.”
“Next time?” you echo.
She pauses for half a second, eyes softening before she looks away. “You heard nothing.”
And then she shuts the door.
But as you walk back to your bike, you can’t help grinning. Because “next time” sounded a lot like I’ll see you soon.
It starts with a text that feels like a summons.
bring your notes. don’t be late.
That’s it. No punctuation, no emoji, no explanation. Just the cold, clipped efficiency of someone who doesn’t need to say more to get what she wants.
Still, you show up. Of course you do.
You tell yourself it’s for “academic purposes,” but your brain doesn’t even believe that.
You knock twice, and when the door swings open, Julie’s standing there barefoot, hair tied up messily, wearing an oversized gray hoodie that absolutely does not fit the image of “ice queen Julie.”
Her eyes flick down to the two drinks in your hands. “Is one of those for me?”
You nod. “I didn’t know what you like, so I got the one that felt like it might silently judge me.”
She takes it, inspecting it like she’s debating whether to accept the peace offering. Then she hums, just barely audible. “Good choice, Bike Boy.”
You grin. “I studied the ancient art of not messing up.”
“Keep studying,” she says, but there’s a small, traitorous smile tugging at her lips as she turns and walks deeper inside.
The apartment looks different without the chaos of her friends. It’s quieter, warmer. Still neat, but lived-in, a few art prints on the wall, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, a cat-shaped mug on the counter. The music playing in the background is faintly jazzy and weirdly upbeat for someone like her.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the couch as if she’s granting permission.
You sit. She sits beside you, not too close, but not far enough to be impersonal either. The kind of distance that says I don’t do this often, but you’re… an exception.
She glances at your notes, flipping through them with her usual surgical precision.
“You write like you’re trying to communicate with future archaeologists,” she says.
You groan. “Wow, I was going for ‘enigmatic intellectual.’”
“More like ‘illiterate cryptid.’”
You snort, and she hides her own laugh behind a sip of iced coffee.
For the next half hour, she pretends to quiz you, but you can tell her attention keeps drifting — not just from the subject, but to you. Her eyes linger a little too long when you’re talking, and when you crack a small joke, she looks down quickly, like she’s caught herself enjoying it.
“Hungry?” she says suddenly.
You blink. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
She gets up without waiting for an answer and disappears into the kitchen. There’s the sound of cabinets opening, something clattering, and then—
Julie returns with a bowl of cereal. And chopsticks.
You stare. “You’re… seriously eating cereal with chopsticks?”
She doesn’t even look up. “It’s effective.”
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
“Then use a better one,” she says, calmly plucking a cornflake with a level of precision that would make surgeons jealous.
You’re half in awe, half terrified. “Why?”
“It slows me down,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Makes me appreciate the texture.”
“Julie, it’s cereal. It’s 99% texture.”
“Exactly,” she says, completely serious.
You can’t help but laugh. It bursts out before you can stop it.
She narrows her eyes, chopsticks poised midair. “What?”
“Nothing. You’re just… kind of ridiculous.”
She lifts her chin. “Ridiculous people don’t have perfect cereal control.”
“Okay,” you say, grinning, “but only you would make breakfast sound like a martial art.”
She gives you a look that’s pure Julie: flat, unimpressed, but not entirely real. Because she’s fighting a smile. You can see it, faint but growing.
Then, in the smallest act of either kindness or calculated embarrassment, she pushes the bowl toward you. “Try it.”
“What?”
“You can’t mock it until you do it.”
You hesitate. She arches an eyebrow. “Don’t be a coward, Bike Boy.”
You take the chopsticks. Attempt a cornflake. Miss. Try again. Miss worse. On the third attempt, you actually manage to catch one—just as it crumbles back into the milk.
Julie laughs. Fully, audibly.
The sound is short, light, like she wasn’t expecting it either. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you forget every reason you were nervous about coming here.
When she finally catches her breath, she says, “Wow. You’re hopeless.”
“You’re the one turning breakfast into a philosophy course,” you reply.
She leans back, crossing her arms, still smiling. “Maybe you just need more practice.”
“With chopsticks?”
“With me,” she says before realizing how that sounded. Her eyes flick up—then away. “That’s not—just—forget it.”
You don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.
You end up not studying at all. Instead, she puts on music and starts talking about the most random things imaginable — how she alphabetizes her playlists, why she names her potted plants after Greek philosophers (“Aristotle’s a diva”), how she once tried to learn Morse code “for fun” and now can’t unhear patterns in car blinkers.
You tell her about your bike breaking down in the rain once, and how you duct-taped the seat because you didn’t have money for repairs. She hums thoughtfully, then says, “That’s very you.”
“Very me?”
“Quiet. Practical. A little sad,” she says, looking down at her cereal. “But still kind of… nice.”
Your heart does something traitorous.
When you finally check the time, it’s late. You stand, reluctantly, and start gathering your things. Julie watches you, chin resting on her hand.
“Don’t forget your coffee,” she says softly.
You nod. “Thanks for the… study session?”
“You learned something.”
“About cereal?”
Her smile is almost unnoticeable, but real. “About me.”
You meet her gaze. “Yeah. I did.”
She looks away quickly, reaching for her chopsticks again like she needs something to do with her hands. “Don’t get used to it, Bike Boy.”
“Sure,” you say, smiling as you head to the door. “See you soon?”
“Maybe,” she says, too casually.
But when you leave, you hear the faint sound of her laugh again—small, quiet, almost hidden under the clink of her chopsticks.
And somehow, that sound stays with you all the way home.
By now, Julie isn’t just the cold, mysterious girl from your class anymore.
She’s… something else.
Still effortlessly cool, still intimidatingly pretty — but now you know that behind all that, she’s weird.
Like, endearingly, beautifully weird.
She’s the kind of person who’ll stare down the universe with a straight face and then giggle at a meme about a dancing banana.
And somehow, you keep ending up in her orbit.
It starts on a Friday afternoon in the library, a place that’s supposed to be quiet and serious — which makes it the perfect stage for chaos.
You’re pretending to study when Julie slides her phone across the table without looking at you.
“Here,” she says.
You glance at the screen. It’s a playlist titled “Songs for Bike Boy.”
You blink. “This is real?”
She shrugs, eyes still on her notes. “Don’t overthink it.”
“You… made me a playlist?”
“Technically, I compiled data and organized it by vibes. It’s very scientific.”
You hit play.
The first song is Take On Me.
The third is Careless Whisper.
The second is… a 30-second TikTok remix of a frog.
You choke out a laugh. “Julie, this playlist is unhinged.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
She finally looks up, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “You’ll still listen to it.”
“I— yeah. Obviously.”
“Good,” she says, like she just won something.
You try to get back to studying, but the moment’s too distracting. Julie sitting across from you, focused and quiet, pretending not to notice that you’re still smiling at your screen.
For a moment, she looks up, catches your grin, and rolls her eyes. “Stop looking at me like that, Bike Boy. I’ll revoke your playlist privileges.”
You grin wider. “You’d never.”
Her lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “…Maybe not.”
The next day, you end up at Belle’s apartment again — against your will.
Julie texts you out of nowhere:
emergency. need a second opinion. come over.
You show up thinking it’s something serious. Turns out, the “emergency” is Belle’s cooking.
Belle greets you like a cartoon character, holding a frying pan suspiciously close to the smoke alarm.
“It’s banana pepper tuna crunch 2.0!” she declares.
You blink. “There was a 1.0?”
“Don’t ask,” Julie mutters, arms crossed.
Ten minutes later, you’re sitting at the counter with a plate that looks like a science experiment gone rogue. Julie watches you like she’s hosting a cooking show called Fear Factor: Boyfriend Edition.
“Go on,” she says sweetly. “Be brave, Bike Boy.” Sweet like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
You take a bite. Regret follows instantly. “It’s… complex.”
Belle beams. “Complex is good!”
Julie tilts her head, studying your face. “Complex like trauma, or complex like art?”
“Somewhere between,” you wheeze.
When Belle turns away, Julie slides you a glass of water. “Here,” she says, like she’s doing you a massive favor.
“You enjoy watching me suffer,” you say.
Her eyes sparkle. “You make funny faces when you’re in pain.”
“That’s—evil.”
“Thank you.”
And when Belle proudly offers seconds, Julie casually places a hand over your plate. “He’s full,” she says. “Let him live another day.”
You blink at her.
She doesn’t look at you. But her lips curve slightly — that small, secret smile that makes your chest ache a little.
In lectures, she’s still the master of pretending not to care.
But lately, her sarcasm comes with softer edges.
The professor says “synergy” for the fourth time in ten minutes, because the amount of words this professor knows caps off at his IQ, apparently, and Julie leans in, muttering, “If I hear that word again, I’m transferring to interpretive dance.”
You laugh under your breath. “You’d be good at it.”
She blinks. “What, dancing?”
“Being dramatic.”
Julie tilts her head, mock-offended. “Bike Boy, are you calling me dramatic?”
“Statistically speaking, yes.”
She glares. You grin. And then — for just a moment — she breaks. A tiny giggle escapes before she covers her mouth, pretending to cough.
When you catch her, she mutters, “Shut up.”
You lean in. “You laughed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did.”
Her cheeks pink slightly. “Bike Boy, I swear—”
“Cute,” you say without thinking.
She freezes. Then, quietly, “Stop flattering me.”
But she doesn’t deny it.
A few days later, you’re walking her home. The evening is soft and golden, the kind of light that makes everything look like a movie.
You’re pushing your bike alongside you, matching her pace. She’s pretending to scroll through her phone, but she keeps glancing up every few seconds — like she’s checking that you’re still there.
“You’re awfully quiet,” you tease.
She shrugs. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“Whether I should block you or buy you coffee tomorrow.”
You laugh. “That’s a pretty extreme range of options.”
“That’s life with me,” she says, deadpan — but there’s something warm in her voice.
When you reach her building, she pauses at the steps. “Don’t crash on your way home,” she says.
“I won’t.”
“You say that every time, and yet.”
You grin. “You care.”
“Don’t push it,” she says automatically — but then, after a beat, “Text me when you get home. Just… so I know you didn’t die.”
You can’t help but smile. “Okay, Julie.”
You start to leave, but she calls out, “Hey.”
You turn.
She’s standing there, hair catching the light, trying very hard not to look like she’s blushing.
“Don’t listen to track seven,” she says.
“Why?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
You grin. “Now I have to.”
“Bike Boy—”
Too late. You’re already cycling off, the wind in your face, her playlist in your ears.
Track seven starts playing.
It’s a sappy love song — overly dramatic, romantic and beautiful.
You don’t stop smiling the whole way home.
And when you finally text her that you made it back safely, her reply comes fast:
good.
delete track seven.
also, bring better snacks next time.
You laugh into your phone, typing back:
yes, ma’am.
There’s a pause. Then her next message arrives:
goodnight, bike boy.
Just three words — simple, casual, typed like it’s nothing.
But you swear you can feel her smiling behind them.
When Julie texts you, it’s never a question. It’s an order dressed up like an invitation.
come over.
bring snacks.
we’re “studying.”
Quotation marks included.
You stare at your phone for a second before texting back, You mean, we’re “not studying,” right?
Her reply comes instantly:
semantics, bike boy.
And just like that, you’re packing your bag — which somehow includes a couple of instant noodles, two sodas, and a packet of cookies because Julie’s kitchen is the Wild West.
When you get to her apartment, she opens the door barefoot, hair up in a messy bun that looks like it fought for its life. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie (you suspect it isn’t hers, and it looks awfully familiar)
Her first words are not “hi.”
“Wow, you actually came. Brave.”
“I brought snacks,” you offer, holding up the bag.
Her eyes flicker down, unimpressed. “You think chips can bribe me?”
“Yes?”
“…You’re not wrong. Come in.”
You notice the soft hum of music playing — her Songs for Bike Boy playlist.
“Are you listening to my playlist again?” you tease, dropping your bag by the couch.
She crosses her arms, feigning indifference. “It’s not your playlist. It’s… a test playlist.”
“For what?”
“For… determining if you have taste.”
You grin. “Julie, you made the playlist”
Julie looks at you for a moment, then shrugs, trying not to smile. “Semantics”
You settle on the couch beside her. For about five minutes, she pretends to study — flipping through her notes, highlighting random lines, underlining a doodle of a cat wearing sunglasses.
Then she sighs dramatically, drops her pen, and declares, “I hate academia.”
“Because?” you ask.
“Because it’s boring, and I’m allergic to boredom.”
You grin. “What are your symptoms?”
“Severe sarcasm, chronic distraction, and the sudden urge to make questionable snacks.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Within minutes, you’re in the kitchen, and Julie’s rummaging through cupboards like a scientist with no ethical limits.
She pulls out bread, instant noodles, peanut butter, and a banana.
“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”
She turns, eyes glinting. “Trust the process.”
“You said that last time, and I’m still recovering from the marshmallow-soy sauce incident.”
“This one’s better. Promise.”
You watch as she fries the noodles, adds peanut butter, and slices bananas over it with terrifying precision.
“This looks illegal.”
She smirks. “It’s revolutionary.”
You sigh. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Julie scoops a bite and holds it out with a chopstick. “If you die, at least you’ll die cultured.”
You hesitate. “You’re really committed to this bit, huh?”
Her lips twitch. “You’re cute when you’re scared.”
That distracts you just long enough for her to shove the bite into your mouth.
You blink. It’s… weirdly good. Sweet, nutty, a little spicy.
Julie grins like she’s just conquered the world. “See? I’m a genius.”
You laugh. “You’re something.”
Her voice softens — barely. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not. It’s perfect.” You quietly reassure her.
“Just like you.” You don’t say that last part
You end up eating together at the counter, her feet resting on the chair rung, hair falling into her eyes as she chatters about random things.
She tells you she names all her older plants after historical villains “because it keeps them alive out of spite.”
She shows you a keychain collection she’s “accidentally” started — all of them tiny food items with faces.
She has a weird talent for balancing utensils on her nose, which she proceeded to demonstrate.
You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts.
Julie’s grinning too, chin resting on her palm as she watches you try (and fail) to mimic her spoon-balancing trick.
“You’re hopeless,” she says fondly.
“You’re terrible at teaching.”
“Excuse me, I’m a great teacher. My student’s just a disaster.”
You glance at her, and she looks away too quickly.
Back in the living room, she flops onto the couch, tossing you a throw pillow like a challenge.
“You look too comfortable,” she says. “That’s suspicious.”
“Sorry for existing comfortably?”
She huffs. “I didn’t say stop.”
You smirk. “You like having me here.”
Julie glares — the kind of glare that would scare anyone else. “Shut up.”
But her cheeks are pink.
You lean back beside her. “Admit it.”
She crosses her arms. “I tolerate you.”
“Sure.”
There’s a pause, and then — so softly you almost miss it — she adds, “A lot.”
Your heart skips. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “You imagined it.”
A little later, you’re both lying on the couch — her with her head resting on your thigh, scrolling through her phone.
She shows you a video of a cat and a vacuum attacking a dog. “That’s you when someone says something dumb in class.”
You laugh. “And you’re the vacuum?”
She smirks. “Always cleaning up after you, bike boy.”
You roll your eyes. “You love it.”
Julie opens her mouth to deny it but stops — like she’s too tired to pretend. Instead, she sighs, sets her phone down, and closes her eyes.
“Maybe I do,” she murmurs. “Don’t get used to it.”
You smile. “Too late.”
You stay like that for a while — her half-asleep, you quietly scrolling through your phone. Every few minutes, she shifts closer, until her hand ends up resting over yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When she speaks again, her voice is soft, sleepy, unguarded.
“You’re comfy, you know that?”
You chuckle. “You’ve mentioned it before.”
“I stand by it, you’re nice to hold” she mumbles.
You look down at her — her relaxed face, the faint smile tugging at her lips. She looks nothing like the aloof girl from class.
She looks like someone who finally feels safe.
It’s nearly midnight when you finally get up to leave. She walks you to the door, arms crossed but smile tugging at her mouth.
“Don’t make this weird,” she says.
“I wasn’t.”
“Good.” A pause. “You’re coming over again tomorrow.”
You blink. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’m… teaching you how to fold dumplings.”
“I didn’t know you knew how to fold dumplings.”
“I don’t,” she says, completely serious. “We’ll learn together. It’ll be chaotic.”
You laugh. “You mean disastrous.”
She grins. “Exactly.”
You’re still laughing when she grabs your sleeve, stops you just before you step out. Her hand lingers for half a second too long.
Then, softly: “Hey, bike boy.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not being boring.”
And just like that, she closes the door, leaving you on the other side with a heart that feels way too full for someone who just spent an evening eating peanut butter noodles and laughing at cat videos.
You’re midway through your sacred Saturday routine — the one that involves a blanket, bad TV, and a deep, philosophical relationship with your couch — when the doorbell rings.
You shuffle to the door, expecting a delivery or maybe divine punishment for not doing laundry again.
Instead, it’s Julie.
Julie, standing there in an oversized hoodie, hair in a messy bun that’s held together by sheer defiance, holding a grocery bag and a hand mixer like a weapon.
“Hi,” you manage, still blinking sleep out of your eyes.
“Hi,” she mimics, stepping past you like she pays rent. “We’re baking cookies. Your kitchen’s less tragic than mine.”
You blink. “Wait— what— why?”
Your brain catches up roughly three seconds later.
“Wait—Julie—how do you even know where I live?”
She’s already setting the grocery bags on your counter, scanning the place like a general surveying a battlefield.
“Google,” she says without missing a beat.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “And Belle. Don’t ask.”
You really want to ask, but there’s something about Julie’s tone — the mix of mischief and authority — that convinces you not to.
She shrugs, setting her bag on the counter. “Also, I was bored. You didn’t text back. So now you’re my sous-chef, Bike Boy.”
You open your mouth to protest, but she’s already preheating the oven and tying your apron around her waist.
It’s your apron.
It says “Kiss the Cook.”
You don’t know if she noticed, but she smirks when she catches your expression — so yeah, she definitely noticed.
Your kitchen, normally a quiet place reserved for instant noodles and existential thoughts, is suddenly alive.
Julie hums — off-key — as she measures flour, tapping the measuring cup against the bowl.
“You actually bake?” you ask, leaning against the counter.
“Define bake,” she says, squinting at the sugar.
“Like, making edible things.”
“Oh. Then… no.”
You laugh, and she rolls her eyes but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips.
The first half hour is pure chaos. Julie insists she knows what she’s doing, but she’s reading the recipe off her phone upside down. You try to correct her once — once — and she glares like you just insulted her ancestors.
“Don’t question the process, Bike Boy,” she says, stirring way too aggressively.
“The process looks like a disaster.”
“That’s the artistic touch.”
She hands you the whisk, and you almost drop it because she’s somehow managed to get butter on everything. The counter, the mixer, your sleeve, your soul.
At some point, Julie finds your music speaker and connects her phone. The kitchen fills with music — her chaotic mix of 80s love ballads, meme songs, and what sounds suspiciously like a cat remix of “Take On Me.”
“You put this on the playlist,” you say.
“It’s a cultural masterpiece,” she argues. “Don’t be rude.”
You laugh so hard you nearly spill the bowl.
Julie flicks flour at you in retaliation.
You gasp.
It’s on.
Like Donkey Kong(sorry I had to)
Soon, there’s a flour war in full swing.
Julie hides behind the fridge door for cover. You try to sneak up on her, but she pops out like a villain in a romcom, smearing flour across your face.
“Truce!” you yell, hands raised.
She grins, victorious. “Say it. Say I’m the baking queen.”
“Never.”
Flour. Everywhere.
When it’s finally over, the kitchen looks like a snowstorm hit it.
You’re both laughing so hard you can’t breathe.
Julie has flour in her hair, across her hoodie, on her cheek — and she doesn’t even notice.
“You have—” you start, reaching forward to wipe a streak off her face.
She freezes for half a second, eyes flicking to yours.
Then she blinks, grabs your wrist, and smears flour on your nose instead.
“Now we match,” she says softly, and it’s impossible not to smile.
Somehow, against all odds, the cookies actually make it into the oven.
You both collapse on the floor, leaning against the counter while you wait for them to bake.
Julie’s scrolling through her phone, but she keeps glancing at you — quick little looks, like she’s checking if you’re still there.
“So,” you say, “this is how you usually spend your Saturdays?”
“Not usually,” she replies, without looking up. Then, quieter, “This is… nicer.”
You glance at her. She’s pretending to be busy on her phone, but the tips of her ears are pink.
When the cookies come out, they’re… well, “unique” would be kind.
Some are perfectly round. Some look like continents. One somehow folded in on itself.
Julie takes a bite of the weirdest-looking one and hums approvingly.
“Not bad,” she says through a mouthful of cookie.
“Not bad? That’s high praise from the ice queen.”
She elbows you, glaring, but she’s grinning too. “Don’t push it, Bike Boy.”
Later, she’s curled up on your couch, one knee tucked under her, sipping milk from a mug she found in your cupboard.
Your cat (who usually hates everyone) is sitting in her lap, purring.
Julie scratches behind its ear absentmindedly.
“Your cat likes me,” she says.
“She likes chaos. So yeah, makes sense.”
Julie smirks. “Then we understand each other.”
You laugh softly, watching her — the soft hair falling into her eyes, the relaxed way she’s sitting, the faint smile that doesn’t look rehearsed at all.
She looks up suddenly, catching you staring.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Just… didn’t expect you to like cookies this much.”
“I didn’t expect you to be this bad at baking,” she fires back, but her tone’s gentle. Then, after a pause, “Still… thanks.”
“For what?”
“For letting me invade your kitchen. And… for not making me feel weird for it.”
Her voice drops to almost a whisper.
You smile. “Julie?”
“Yeah?”
“You can invade my kitchen anytime.”
She groans, hiding her face behind her mug. “Don’t say things like that, Bike Boy.”
But she’s laughing. And blushing.
And when she leaves later — hoodie dusted with flour, cookies in a Tupperware, your cat glaring at you like you let its new favorite person leave — you find a sticky note on your counter.
In Julie’s messy handwriting, it says:
“You make chaos fun. — J”
You smile for the rest of the night, the faint scent of cookies and laughter still lingering in your kitchen.
The next day, way too late for surprises, it starts with a knock that sounds more like a plea for help than an actual knock.
When you open the door, Julie is standing there — completely soaked, hoodie clinging to her like she’s just crawled out of a sad indie music video. Her hair’s dripping, her eyeliner is somehow still perfect, and she’s holding a grocery bag like it personally betrayed her.
“Your neighborhood,” she announces flatly, “is cursed.”
You blink, taking in the puddle forming beneath her shoes. “Julie—what are you doing here?”
She points at the sky. “It rained.”
“It rained everywhere.”
“Yeah, but it chose me,” she mutters darkly, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. “My apartment’s roof is leaking. Natty’s out of town. Belle’s busy hexing her ex with slippers under the bridge, don’t ask. And Haneul’s filming something called ‘Cereal Soup: The Documentary.’”
You can’t help but laugh. “So naturally, you came to me.”
She nods, dead serious. “You have a roof. And snacks. I checked your pantry last time.”
You blink. “…You what?”
But she’s already stepping inside, her sneakers squeaking against your floor like small, soggy betrayals.
Ten minutes later, Julie is wearing your hoodie — the one that’s a little too big even on you — and glaring at your towel like it personally offended her. Her socks and sneakers since abandoned, Julie now roaming around your house barefoot.
She stands in the middle of your living room, hair still damp, looking like she fell out of a “Hot Girl Has Bad Day” Pinterest board.
“You can sit, you know,” you offer.
“I’m drying,” she says, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable reason to stand dramatically in your living room.
You shrug. “Suit yourself.”
She finally sits. Cross-legged. Wrapped up in your hoodie, sleeves dangling past her hands like oversized mittens.
You’re pretty sure your heart actually hiccups.
The day turns into chaos almost immediately.
Julie insists she can “totally handle” making instant noodles. Ten minutes later, you’re fanning the smoke alarm while she stares into the pot like it betrayed her family.
“I followed the instructions,” she says indignantly.
“You poured the seasoning before the water,” you remind her.
“Details, Bike Boy. Details.”
“Julie, it’s literally step one.”
She points her chopsticks at you. “If you mock me, you’re eating them.”
You do. They’re terrible. You still eat them.
She watches you the whole time, like she’s waiting for you to spit them out — but when you don’t, when you grin and say, “Honestly, not that bad,” she just stares for a second, then mutters, “You’re such an idiot.”
But she’s smiling.
After the meal (if you can even call it that), you end up on the couch watching the most random documentary Netflix could find.
“Pigeons Aren’t Real: The Untold Truth,” the title declares.
You expect her to mock it.
Instead, Julie is invested.
“Look at that footage,” she whispers, leaning forward. “That’s a government drone if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Julie, that’s a dove release at a wedding.”
“Exactly. Cover story.”
You glance at her — eyes wide, hair messy, blanket draped over her like she’s the world’s most fashionable conspiracy theorist — and you realize she’s completely, adorably unhinged.
And you wouldn’t change a thing.
Outside, thunder cracks loud enough to make the windows shake.
Julie jumps — just a little — and immediately pretends she didn’t.
“That didn’t scare me,” she says.
“Of course not,” you say gently, fighting a smile.
She crosses her arms and scoots a little closer. Not much. Just enough that her shoulder brushes yours.
“Cold?” you ask.
“I’m conserving heat,” she replies, deadpan.
You cover her with half the blanket anyway. She doesn’t say thank you, but she doesn’t move away either.
By the time the storm fades, the documentary has ended, replaced by a baking competition show where everyone’s crying over burnt meringues.
Julie’s head is resting on your shoulder. You didn’t even notice when it happened.
“You’re comfy,” she murmurs, half-asleep.
“You’re drooling,” you reply softly.
“I’m—what?!” she jerks upright, cheeks pink. “You’re lying.”
You grin. “A little.”
She glares, smacking your arm. “You’re insufferable, Bike Boy.”
“Yet somehow you keep showing up.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then shuts it again. “…Don’t read into it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But she’s smiling, and you swear her voice is softer when she adds, “You’re not the worst company, I guess.”
The next morning, you wake up to the smell of burning.
You rush to the kitchen to find Julie, in your hoodie, flipping pancakes with the enthusiasm of someone who has no idea what they’re doing.
“Julie.”
“Don’t.”
“Julie, that one’s on fire.”
“I said don’t!”
You grab the spatula from her and rescue the last pancake from a fiery demise. She crosses her arms. “You ruined my artistic process.”
“You were about to summon a demon via smoke alarm.”
She pouts — actually pouts — and mutters, “I was trying to make breakfast for you.”
You freeze. “Wait, for me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make it weird. I was bored.”
You smile. “Sure. Bored.”
She throws a pancake at you. You catch it. Barely.
You end up baking together instead, because “cookies are easier,” according to her. (They are not.)
The kitchen becomes chaos — flour everywhere, butter on the counter, Julie dancing badly to your playlist as she tries to measure sugar.
At one point, she smudges flour on your cheek just to laugh when you try to wipe it off.
When the cookies finally come out, they’re lumpy but edible. You both take a bite at the same time.
“…These are terrible,” you say.
“They taste like regret,” she agrees.
Then, after a pause, “But like… good regret?”
You nod. “Yeah. Cozy regret.”
Julie grins, leaning against the counter, hair messy and eyes bright.
And just for a second, her walls — the cool, distant ice queen thing — are completely gone.
When she finally gets ready to leave, she lingers by the door, hoodie sleeves half-covering her hands.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she says.
“What, the cookies or the sleepover?”
“Either. It’ll ruin my brand.”
You smirk. “Mysterious loner girl turned domestic menace?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Exactly.”
Then, quieter — barely audible — she adds, “You make being around people less… exhausting.”
You blink. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, turning away. “I said your kitchen’s exhausting.”
“Sure you did, Julie.”
She gives you one last look, trying to suppress a smile. “See you around, Bike Boy.”
And when she leaves, there’s a little sticky note on your fridge.
“Next time: less fire, more cookies.
— J”
You stare at it for a moment, grinning.
Your kitchen’s a mess. Your heart’s worse.
And somehow, both feel perfect.
The café is alive tonight — too alive for a place that normally smells like burnt espresso and existential dread. Strings of fairy lights hang across the ceiling like low-hanging constellations, mismatched lamps flicker in soft amber hues, and a disco ball—God knows where they found it—throws shards of light across the walls. Someone’s playlist of retro hits hums through the speakers, full of synths, keytars, and confidence.
It’s Retro Rewind Night, apparently. The poster out front promised “a night of nostalgia, neon, and questionable rhythm.” You hadn’t planned to go—until Julie texted you.
“Café LaLune. Be here in 10. Dress like regret.”
It wasn’t a request. It never is, when it’s Julie.
You showed up fifteen minutes later, on your bike, obviously, still wearing your hoodie and jeans and a neon sweatband Natty forced on you at some point in the past week. You thought about turning back twice. Then you saw her.
Julie.
She’s impossible to miss — leaning against the counter like she owns the place, a picture of confidence and chaos wrapped in black lace and silver shimmer. She’s got eyeliner sharp enough to end you and hair that catches the disco ball light in every movement. Everyone else in the café is trying too hard; Julie doesn’t have to.
When she spots you, her lips twitch — the faintest smile, but real.
“You,” she says, looking you up and down. “… what is that on your head?”
You touch the sweatband self-consciously. “Natty said it makes me look athletic.”
“You look good. It makes you look like a middle-aged man having a midlife crisis.”
You grin. “Perfect. That’s the theme, right?”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a soft huff of amusement she can’t quite hide. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” you say, “you invited me.”
Julie’s about to respond when the host — some guy wearing bell bottoms and too much confidence — yells into the mic: “Dance contest, people! Grab a partner!”
You turn to leave. “Nope. Not doing that.”
Julie catches your wrist. “Oh yes, you are.”
“I have two left feet,” you say.
“Good,” she smirks. “Then you’ll make me look even better.”
Before you can argue, you’re being dragged to the middle of the café. The crowd parts around you, clapping in rhythm to a synthy beat that sounds like a soda commercial from 1986.
Julie moves like she was born in music videos — sharp, smooth, effortlessly confident. You, on the other hand, look like you’re being electrocuted in rhythm.
She starts laughing — really laughing — doubling over mid-spin. You’ve never seen her like this before. The Julie from school, the quiet, unreadable one who barely talks to anyone, is gone. In her place is this version of her — loose, carefree, radiant.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, “what are you doing?”
“Expressing myself,” you pant, dramatically moonwalking into a chair.
The crowd loses it. Belle’s filming, Natty’s wheezing into her drink, and Haneul’s pretending to rate your moves with imaginary scorecards. Julie tries to regain composure, but every time she looks at you, she bursts into laughter again.
And it’s infectious — the kind of laughter that lights up her whole face, not just her mouth but her eyes too. The kind that feels private, like it’s meant just for you.
By the end of the song, both of you collapse onto the floor, out of breath and dizzy. She’s sprawled on her back, staring at the ceiling, her hair a halo of chaos around her. You’re beside her, grinning like an idiot.
“You’re,” she starts, still catching her breath, “a menace, bike boy.”
“Thank you,” you say, “I try my best.”
She rolls her head toward you, eyes shining, and for the first time, she doesn’t hide it — the way she’s smiling, the way her guard’s gone soft around you.
Then someone calls out from the counter. “Hey! Did Julie just laugh?”
Julie sits up immediately, scowling. “No.”
Natty’s already grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Oh, she laughed. Big, loud, embarrassing laughter. I knew it.”
Belle groans, pulling out her wallet. Haneul sighs and follows suit, slapping some bills into Natty’s waiting palm.
Julie blinks. “Wait—what are you doing?”
“Settling a bet,” Natty says cheerfully. “I said it’d happen by the end of the month. Belle said midterms. Haneul said never.”
Julie’s jaw drops. “You bet on me?”
“On you dropping the ice queen act for him, yeah.” Natty jerks a thumb toward you. “And look—ta-da! You did.”
Julie’s cheeks go pink. “I didn’t—! This—he’s just—!”
But the sentence dies somewhere between her flustered words and the soft, sheepish smile tugging at her lips. You meet her eyes, trying (and failing) to hide how fond you feel.
“Sounds like you owe Natty dinner,” you say.
Julie turns to you with mock severity, but there’s no bite behind it. “Don’t get cocky, bike boy.”
“Too late,” you grin. “You already danced with me.”
She exhales, shoulders relaxing, a smile flickering that she doesn’t bother suppressing this time.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says softly.
“And yet you like me,” you reply, half-joking, half-hoping.
Julie doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she reaches over, tugs lightly at your hoodie sleeve, and mutters, “Don’t make me say it.”
But her hand lingers.
Her friends watch from afar, whispering, grinning, nudging each other like they can’t believe what they’re seeing — Julie Han, the girl who can freeze a room with a glance, sitting on a café floor, laughing with a boy who still smells faintly like bike grease and bad coffee.
You lean back against the counter, looking up at the fairy lights, and catch her watching you. When your eyes meet, she quickly looks away, pretending to study her nails — but the faint smile she’s wearing betrays her.
And in that tiny moment, with music still humming and laughter filling the air, you realize something:
Julie doesn’t laugh like this for anyone else.
She doesn’t drop her guard for anyone else.
But with you — she does.
And as she stands, brushing off her skirt, she mumbles, “Come on, bike boy. Let’s get out of here before they start betting on whether I’ll hold your hand next.”
You stand too, grinning. “Would you?”
She glares at you playfully — but then, just before heading toward the door, she reaches out and grabs your wrist.
Not your hand — not quite. But close enough.
And as the two of you step into the cool night, laughter still trailing behind you, you think maybe — just maybe — the ice queen has melted a little more.
Just for you.
The night air is soft — the kind that feels like velvet against your skin, warm but threaded with a breeze. The café lights fade behind you, replaced by the quiet hum of streetlamps and the gentle click of your bike wheels rolling beside you. Julie walks next to you, arms crossed, pretending she’s cold just so she has an excuse to tug your hoodie sleeve and make you slow down.
“Don’t say anything,” she says.
You blink. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“About what?”
“That whole—” she waves a hand vaguely, “—café situation. The dancing. The laughing. Natty’s stupid bet. Whatever that was.”
You grin. “Whatever that was looked a lot like fun.”
Julie shoots you a glare, but her lips twitch. “You looked like a dad at a wedding trying to stay relevant.”
“And yet you couldn’t stop laughing.”
“Shut up, bike boy.”
Her voice is sharp, but her eyes aren’t. You’ve learned to read the difference. This isn’t the Julie who keeps everyone at arm’s length. This is the one who lets you in — the one who texts you pictures of cursed recipes at 2 a.m., who shows up uninvited to your place and takes over your kitchen, who steals your hoodie when she thinks you’re not looking.
She’s in your kitchen before you even set your bike down. “We’re making cookies.”
“It’s 10:30 p.m.”
“Then we’re making night cookies,” she says with the kind of logic that sounds unbeatable coming from her.
You give up trying to argue. There’s no point. With Julie, there never is.
Flour dusts her fingers, her hair falls over her face, and she’s humming under her breath, not caring how off-key she is.
You watch her from the counter, leaning on your elbows. She’s different here — softer, realer. The edges blur a little.
When she catches you staring, she points the spatula at you. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bike boy,” she warns.
“You look… happy,” you say, because it slips out before you can stop it.
Her expression falters for half a second. She glances down at the dough, shoulders rising and falling. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” you say quietly. “But I like seeing it.”
Julie doesn’t answer, but her cheeks turn pink — the exact shade of the icing Belle once made that no one would eat, because you’re pretty sure it was at least in some portion, blood.
She rolls her eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but the next thing you know she’s flicking flour at you.
“Hey—!”
You grab a handful back, and before long, the kitchen looks like a snowstorm hit it. Julie’s laughter rings through the room, loud and unguarded. She’s got flour in her hair, icing on her cheek, and the kind of smile that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
You’re both leaning against the counter, trying to catch your breath, when she quietly says, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” you say automatically.
She bumps your shoulder with hers, still looking at the half-burnt cookies on the tray. “You know…” She pauses, almost shy now, which is something you never thought you’d see from her. “I don’t really… hang out with people like this.”
You tilt your head. “People like me?”
“People. Period, even with the girls it’s different, but…,” she says. Then softer: “But you’re tolerable.”
You grin. “Wow. My best review yet.”
Julie laughs, shaking her head. But then she turns to face you, and for once, she doesn’t look away when your eyes meet.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says quietly. “But I like being here. With you.”
It’s a small confession, tucked between the smell of sugar and the soft buzz of the fridge, but it lands heavy and warm.
“I won’t tell,” you promise.
She hums, pretending not to care, but when you hand her a cookie — half-crumbled, misshapen, probably raw in the middle — she takes it, bites, and says through a mouthful, “This is disgusting.”
“You made it.”
“And?” she deadpans. “You’re still eating it too.”
She’s right. You are.
The rest of the night is quiet chaos. Julie steals your blanket to wrap herself in while the two of you sit on the couch, a half-empty cookie tray between you. She scrolls through her phone, finds some random song, and hums along, voice low and lazy.
You don’t say much. You don’t need to.
At some point, she leans her head against your shoulder. It’s subtle, almost hesitant — like she’s testing if she’s allowed to.
And when you don’t move, she lets herself stay.
“Don’t read too much into this,” she murmurs, eyes already half-shut.
“Of course not,” you whisper back. “You just wanted to make sure I didn’t eat all your cookies.”
“Exactly,” she mumbles, a sleepy smile on her lips.
But when you glance down, she’s already fallen asleep — curled up against you, completely at peace for once.
And that’s when it hits you: Julie’s facade isn’t slipping anymore.
It’s gone — melted away in the warmth of cookie dough, soft music, and the way she fits perfectly beside you.
It’s almost funny, how life seems to be running on reruns, or maybe the shit author is out of ideas and decided to recycle a scene.
Same courtyard. Same afternoon sun dripping gold across the pavement.
Same girl — Julie Han, queen of the unbothered, standing near the gates with her arms crossed and her resting-glare face perfectly in place.
And, of course, the same trio of guys trying (and failing spectacularly) to flirt with her.
You can practically hear the lines from here.
Something about her “vibe.” Something about “coffee sometime.” Something about how she “looks lonely.”
You sigh, adjusting your bag. Here we go again. The sequel to Bike Boy and the Three Dorks.
You’re halfway through rehearsing your classic move — the fake boyfriend routine, the charming “Hey, babe—” — when Julie looks up, locks eyes with you, and beats you to it.
“There you are!”
It’s so loud that two pigeons actually take off from a nearby bench.
Three heads whip around to stare at you.
Julie strides toward you with all the grace of someone who’s been planning this her whole life. “You’re late.”
You blink. “For what?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Our date.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
You can practically feel the shock radiating off the three guys still standing there, jaws unhinged.
“Oh. Right. Our… date.” You nod solemnly. “My bad. Traffic was insane.”
Julie slips her hand into yours like she’s been doing it forever. Her palm is cool, her grip firm. You’re too stunned to say anything until she tugs you a little closer.
“Let’s go, before you embarrass yourself further,” she says, completely straight-faced.
You’re ninety percent sure she means you, but the little twitch of her lips says otherwise.
You pass the three rejected suitors — one looks confused, another looks heartbroken, and the third looks like he’s reconsidering his entire life.
“Later, fellas,” you say as Julie drags you away.
Once you’re out of earshot, you can’t help it. You laugh. “Wow. That was—”
“Necessary,” she cuts in, tone clipped.
“I was going to say dramatic.”
Julie scoffs. “I was saving myself from another conversation about someone’s crypto portfolio. In a way that didn’t get me in police station”
You grin. “Ah yes, the modern plague.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, but she’s smiling now — just barely, just enough for you to see it before she turns away.
When you reach your bike, she finally exhales, as though she’s been holding her breath the whole time.
You swing a leg over the seat, watching her from the corner of your eye.
“Thanks,” she says quietly.
“For what?”
“For… I don’t know. Showing up, I guess.”
You tilt your head. “I wasn’t aware I was invited.”
She frowns, arms crossing again. “You were supposed to know.”
“Oh, psychic communication. My bad, must’ve missed the telepathic memo.”
She rolls her eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall out. “Bike boy, I swear—”
You grin. “Ah, there it is. The nickname of affection.”
“Affection?” she repeats, deadpan. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
And yet her ears — the tips of them — are turning pink.
You hop on your bike, patting the back seat. “Come on, ‘not-affectionate’ Julie. Let’s get out of here before someone else with a tragic pick-up line shows up.”
She huffs but climbs on, settling in behind you. Her hands find your waist automatically, fingers curling lightly around your hoodie.
Halfway down the street, she leans forward and says, “You didn’t have to come save me again, you know.”
“Technically, you saved yourself,” you point out. “I didn’t even get to say my line.”
“What line?”
“The ‘hey babe’ one. It’s my signature move.”
Julie snorts — actually snorts. “Signature move? You mean that fake boyfriend act you pulled the first time?”
“It worked,” you protest.
“I had a panic response,” she says. “You just benefited from it.”
You glance over your shoulder with a grin. “You can admit it. You liked it.”
“I liked not being talked at by three walking examples of male overconfidence.”
“But if I recall correctly,” you tease, “you grabbed my hand again just now.”
“That was strategy,” she says firmly. “Pure survival instinct.”
“Sure, strategy that involves calling me your boyfriend and holding my hand.”
Her hands tighten slightly against your sides. “Bike boy, do you ever shut up?”
“Not when you’re blushing, apparently.”
“I’m not blushing,” she says, voice just a touch too high-pitched to sell it.
You slow at a stoplight, catching her reflection in your rearview mirror — cheeks warm, eyes soft, lips trying and failing to hide a smile.
“Okay,” you say lightly. “Then what do you call this whole thing?”
She hesitates for a moment, the world humming around the two of you — the faint buzz of cars, the rustle of trees, the steady rhythm of your heart threatening to drown it all out.
Then, in the smallest voice, she says, “I call it… being comfortable.”
You turn slightly. “Comfortable?”
“With you,” she adds quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “It’s annoying.”
“Annoying,” you repeat, trying not to laugh. “Right. Got it.”
“I mean it,” she mutters. “I don’t do this with people. Any of it. The talking, the… baking, the playlists, the late nights, the—”
“Dates?”
Her hand slaps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t push it.”
You grin, letting the moment linger. The wind picks up as you pedal again, the late afternoon sunlight stretching long and lazy across the street.
After a while, Julie’s voice drifts through the air again — softer this time, almost shy. “Hey, bike boy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad those 3 hit on me that day. You’re fun to be around.”
You pretend to gasp. “Julie Han said something nice about me. I think the earth just tilted.”
She laughs, shoving your shoulder. “You ruin everything.”
And yet she’s still holding onto you. Tight.
By the time you reach her street, her head’s resting lightly against your back, and you can feel the rhythm of her breathing sync with yours.
You stop at a corner, glance over your shoulder, and ask quietly, “So… was this a real date then, or part of your survival strategy?”
Julie looks at you for a long second, then smirks. “You tell me.”
And you do — not in words, but in the small, knowing smile you give her before pedaling forward again.
Because now you know: she might never say it outright, but she doesn’t have to.
The hand on your waist, the laughter she tries to hide, the way she leans just a little closer every time you ride — that’s her confession.
a/n: This is a fem reader fic, but all are welcome. Reader's gender doesn't really have a bearing on the story. also, @songsofvenus, i did it.
WC:9761
Full Moon: The “First” meet
“The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”
The tavern always smells like honey and smoke.
It’s the kind of place that feels like it’s been there longer than memory — walls stained with laughter, ceiling beams holding whispers of too many winters. Outside, the night hums with music and the low buzz of insects. The moon hangs heavy above the hills, full, swollen and silver, the kind that looks close enough to touch if you reached just high enough.
You push the door open and step inside. Warmth greets you first, then noise. Someone’s playing a fiddle near the hearth, a tune bright enough to lift the heart but old enough to sound like it’s been carried through generations.
You find a seat at the counter, halfway between solitude and company. You don’t know why you came here tonight — only that something pulled you, a quiet gravity that feels older than reason.
Elias, the barkeep, wipes his hands on a linen rag and gives you a look that sits somewhere between surprise and something else entirely. It’s brief, fleeting.
“Evening,” he says simply, voice gravelly from years of laughter and smoke. “Haven’t seen you around before.”
You smile, shaking your head. “Just passing through.”
He studies you for a moment longer, like he’s looking for a detail he can’t quite find. Then he nods, turning to pour you a drink. “Travelers always come after the full moon,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.
You blink. “Sorry?”
“Nothing.” He slides a tankard across the counter, golden mead sloshing softly against its sides. “Sweetest we’ve got. Bit too much honey, if you ask me.”
Before you can answer, a voice rings out from behind you — smooth, lilting, carrying laughter even before the words take shape.
“You say that every time, Elias, and you’re still wrong. There’s no such thing as too much honey.”
You turn — and the rest of the tavern seems to fade.
She’s standing by the doorway, framed by moonlight and the chatter of the room, and for a heartbeat, you forget how to breathe.
Her hair catches the firelight like strands of gold spun thin. Her smile is wicked and bright, and her eyes — God, her eyes — gleam with the sort of knowing that makes you feel seen, even when you don’t want to be.
Sophia.
You don’t know her yet, not by name, but she already feels like a memory you should’ve kept.
She glides toward you with the ease of someone who belongs everywhere. Elias groans softly under his breath, but there’s fondness beneath it, a tired affection that sounds like routine.
“Here to argue with me about my mead again?” he asks.
“It’s tradition,” she says, slipping onto the stool beside you. “You can’t have a full moon without our monthly debate.”
You chuckle, glancing between them. “Do you two know each other?”
“Unfortunately,” Elias says.
“Tragically,” Sophia corrects with a grin. “He’s my favorite person to annoy.”
There’s something magnetic about her. She speaks in a rhythm that makes you lean closer without realizing. Every word dances. Every laugh feels like it was meant for you, even when it’s not.
You raise your tankard. “So, you’re the local expert on honey content, then?”
“Only when it comes to mead,” she says, turning her gaze toward you, sharp and playful. “Everything else, I’m still figuring out.”
You smile, already lost.
There’s no other way to describe it — you fall for her right then. Not slowly, not carefully. Instantly. Like you’d been walking a familiar path and suddenly realized the stars were brighter because she was standing under them.
She tells you about the town — the festivals, the flower stalls in the square, the way the cobblestones glisten after the rain. She speaks in colors, and somehow you can see every one. You tell her bits about yourself, small things — your travels, the people you’ve met, the way the forest looked when you arrived at dusk.
She listens like it’s all facinating, but her eyes flicker, just for a second, a glint of something you can’t decipher.
The tavern grows louder, but your world narrows until it’s just her voice, her laugh, her fingers tracing circles on the rim of her glass. She leans in, her shoulder brushing yours, and something electric hums between you.
“Do you always charm strangers this easily?” you ask, trying to sound playful instead of awestruck, or lovestruck.
“Only the interesting ones,” she says softly.
Elias passes by again, shaking his head. He catches Sophia’s eye — and for an instant, his expression softens. Then he’s gone, moving down the bar, refilling drinks, pretending not to look back.
You don’t see it. You’re too busy watching Sophia tilt her head back to drink, the firelight catching her throat, her smile curving like a secret.
Time slips strangely when you’re around her. One minute, you’re strangers. The next, you’re laughing like old friends, knees brushing beneath the counter.
When the crowd begins to thin, she looks toward the door. “Come on,” she says, standing. “You can’t waste a full moon indoors.”
You follow her out without question.
Outside, the night is soft and golden. The moon rests low above the horizon, enormous and impossibly bright. The air smells like clover and pine and the faint sweetness of mead still on your breath.
You walk side by side down the dirt road, your hands brushing every so often. The silence between you feels easy — not empty, just waiting to be filled.
When you turn back, she’s already watching you. There’s something in her gaze — a glimmer of affection, but something else too, something you can’t quite name.
It doesn’t matter. Not tonight.
All you know is that the world feels right beside her. That maybe you were supposed to walk into that tavern tonight. That maybe you were supposed to meet her.
And so you smile, and she smiles back — that wide, luminous grin that could outshine the moon itself.
Later, when she says goodnight, you think of something stupid like fate.
You fall asleep with her laughter still echoing in your head.
And when you dream, you dream of the same tavern, the same moonlight, the same laugh
Waning Gibbous: The “First” picnic
You wake to sunlight and the faint scent of honey still clinging to your sleeves — a sweet reminder of the night before. The tavern, the laughter, the way Sophia said your name like she was tasting it. You’ve been replaying every moment since, like a song you can’t get out of your head.
You don’t expect to see her again.
That’s what makes the knock at your door so startling.
“Good morning!”
Her voice is unmistakable — warm and lilting, with that soft musicality that makes your heart do something stupid. You open the door to find Sophia standing there in the early light, holding a picnic basket and smiling like she’s been waiting for you all along.
She’s wearing a light dress the color of cream and sunlight, and her hair’s tied up with a ribbon that catches the breeze.
You blink, still trying to wake up. “Sophia?”
“Do you know any other Sophias who bring you breakfast at ungodly hours?” she asks, pretending to frown.
“It’s not that early,” you say automatically, even though it definitely is.
Her grin widens. “See? You’re already defending me. That’s a good sign.”
You can’t help but laugh. “So, breakfast, huh?”
“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “technically lunch. But breakfast sounds more romantic.”
You don’t even hesitate when she gestures for you to come along. Somehow, following Sophia feels as natural as breathing.
The two of you walk out of town and into the fields, where the grass bends in soft waves and the air smells faintly of clover. Sophia talks as she walks, hands moving animatedly — about the best pastries in the market, or about how Elias still doesn’t know how to pour mead without spilling some.
You mostly listen, stealing glances when you think she’s not looking. Her words come easily, full of color and rhythm — and every so often, she glances your way as if to make sure you’re still smiling.
You are. You can’t not.
When you reach the meadow, Sophia spreads out a checkered blanket and unpacks the basket with a flourish.
“Behold,” she declares, dramatically lifting a jar, “my greatest weakness: strawberry jam.”
“Your greatest weakness?” you tease. “Not bad dancing? Or too much talking? Or that thing you do with your nose?”
“Excuse me,” she says, pretending to be offended. “I am an excellent dancer and a delightful conversationalist. Also, I’ll have you know that my nose is adorable.”
“Debatable.”
She gasps, hand over her chest. “You wound me.”
You grin. “Maybe I’ll make it up to you with a compliment.”
She perks up. “Go on.”
You pause, pretending to think. “You have a nice… basket.”
Sophia groans, throwing a grape at you. You catch it midair — barely — and she claps, laughing.
“Fine,” she says. “You get partial redemption.”
The picnic is simple but perfect — flaky bread, cheese, strawberries, and the jam she swears could solve wars. You eat until you’re full, and then some, talking about nothing and everything: the weather, favorite colors, childhood dreams.
She tells you she used to sneak onto the roof to look at stars, because she liked pretending they could hear her.
You tell her you used to name every stray cat in your neighborhood.
“Every single one?”
“Even the mean ones.”
She laughs softly. “That’s very you.”
You raise a brow. “What does that mean?”
“It means you look at things like they’re worth loving,” she says, voice lighter than air — but there’s a softness in her gaze that makes your chest ache a little.
After lunch, she convinces you to play a dice game she claims is “incredibly simple.”
It’s not.
Ten minutes later, she’s giggling so hard she can’t even roll straight.
“Wait, wait,” you protest, pointing at her cup. “You’re making up rules as we go!”
“Am not!”
“Then explain how I just lost twenty points because my dice rolled an even number.”
“It’s a bonus penalty,” she says, completely deadpan.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
You groan. “You’re insufferable.”
Sophia beams. “And you’re adorable when you’re losing.”
Your face heats instantly, which only makes her laugh harder. “You know,” she adds, grinning, “you make this too easy.”
You lie back on the blanket in mock defeat. “You’re evil.”
She flops down beside you, her hair brushing your shoulder. “Maybe. But at least I’m cute about it.”
You can’t argue with that.
For a while, the two of you just lie there, watching clouds drift lazily across the sky.
Sophia hums — a tune you swear you’ve heard before, though you can’t place it. It feels like how sunlight sounds.
“Do you ever think,” she says quietly, “that maybe the sky’s too big for one person to look at alone?”
You glance over. She’s smiling, eyes closed, face tilted toward the warmth.
“Then it’s a good thing you invited me,” you say softly.
She opens one eye, looking at you, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the world narrows down to that one look — the little spark in her gaze, the quiet recognition of something she won’t name yet.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It is.”
Later, she kicks off her shoes and wanders barefoot into the stream that runs along the edge of the meadow. The water sparkles around her ankles, catching sunlight in little bursts.
“Come on!” she calls. “It’s not cold!”
“It looks cold.”
“It’s refreshing,” she insists, splashing water toward you.
You yelp as it hits your arm. “Sophia!”
She laughs so hard she almost falls. You chase her in, splashing back until both of you are soaked, breathless, laughing like children.
When you finally stumble back onto the grass, dripping and exhausted, she sits beside you and hands you a towel from the basket like she knew this would happen.
“You planned this,” you accuse.
“Maybe,” she admits, grin mischievous. “You always smile more when you’re caught off guard.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not fooling anyone.
By the time the sun dips low, painting everything in gold, you’re both stretched out on the blanket again. The air is still warm, the world quiet except for the hum of cicadas.
Sophia props herself up on one elbow, watching you. Her eyes catch the last of the light, glowing amber.
“What?” you ask, suddenly shy.
“Nothing,” she says softly. “Just thinking that you look exactly how today feels.”
You blink. “What does that mean?”
She smiles. “Like sunshine. Like something I don’t want to forget.”
You don’t realize how close she’s leaned until you can see the tiny flecks of light in her irises.
Your heart stumbles over itself.
“Then don’t forget,” you say quietly.
Her smile falters — not in sadness, but in that way people do when they’re feeling too much, when feeling overwhelms in a tidal wave. “I’ll try not to,” she whispers.
You walk back together as the sky deepens to violet. The road is lined with fireflies, and she catches one in her hands, letting it glow between her fingers.
“See?” she says. “Even the little lights follow us home.”
Elias is sweeping outside the tavern when you arrive. He gives Sophia a long, unreadable look, and she offers him a cheerful wave.
“Evening, Elias!”
He nods slowly. “Evening, Sophia. At the waterfalls again?”
Sophia just smiles. “You always remember, don’t you?”
“Hard to Forget.”
You frown, not understanding, but Sophia just squeezes your arm gently. “Ignore him,” she says lightly.
And then she’s looking at you again, eyes soft, almost hopeful. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” you promise.
When you finally lie down that night, the scent of wildflowers still clings to your clothes, and you fall asleep smiling, the sound of her laughter echoing in your mind.
You dream of sunlight and honey and the way Sophia looked at you — like she already knew you’d follow her anywhere.
Third Quarter: The “First” Date
The sun was just beginning to sink when you saw her again. It was a daily occurrence by now, Sophia seemed to always know where to find you, spending at least a little of every day with you.
The sky had turned gold around the edges, a warm sort of light that made everything feel softer—the cobblestones, the chatter spilling from market stalls, even the wind. You were helping old Mr. Brehn at the bakery when you caught sight of her through the open doorway. Sophia, standing there like she’d stepped straight out of a dream you’d been too afraid to admit you were having.
She was laughing at something the flower vendor said, a ribbon of sound that wrapped around you, bright and unhurried. Her hair caught the last of the sunlight, haloed in gold, and she wore a soft cream dress this time, with her sleeves tied up and a faint dusting of flour smudged across her wrist—as though she’d been somewhere else, busy being radiant.
“Don’t stare too long,” Brehn said, elbowing you with a grin. “You’ll burn your bread.”
You pretended to focus on the dough. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You were absolutely staring.”
You were.
And when she spotted you through the doorway, her smile widened like she’d just remembered your name after a long time. “There you are,” she said, stepping inside.
“Me?”
“You,” she confirmed, tapping your chest lightly with one flour-dusted finger. “I thought I might find you here.”
“You were looking for me?” you tried to sound casual, but the words tripped over each other on their way out.
Sophia tilted her head, pretending to think. “Maybe. Or maybe I was just following the smell of cinnamon. But either way…” she smiled, bright as a sunrise. “I’m glad it led me to you.”
Brehn made a sound behind you—something between a chuckle and a sigh—and muttered, “Young love, gods save them,” before shuffling to the back room.
Sophia leaned against the counter, eyes glinting. “Walk with me?”
You nodded before you even realized she’d asked.
The streets were quieter by the time you left the square. Lanterns had begun to bloom open one by one, their light flickering gently across the cobblestones. Sophia led you along the river path, the air full of late-summer sweetness and distant music from the town’s open-air musicians.
She carried a small satchel slung across her shoulder, and halfway down the path, she stopped and spread a blanket beneath a willow tree, right where the moonlight dripped onto the grass like silver ink.
“Sit,” she said, patting the space beside her.
You sat.
Out came a small collection of pastries, wrapped in parchment, and a flask that smelled faintly of honey and berries. There was even a single daisy tucked in a glass bottle of water—slightly wilted, but clearly chosen with care.
You smiled. “You’ve thought this through.”
She looked pleased. “It’s called preparation. You should try it sometime.”
“Oh, is that what this is? Preparation? For what?”
“For me charming you,” she said matter-of-factly, handing you a pastry. “Obviously.”
You almost choked laughing, and she grinned like she’d been waiting for exactly that.
The evening unfolded like it had been written in the stars. She talked, and you listened, though sometimes it was hard to tell which one of you was doing more of the talking. Sophia had a way of pulling the world closer with her words—stories about constellations that guided travelers, about a lake that froze into glass once every hundred years, about a child who swore they saw the moon blink.
You didn’t know how much of it was true, but the way she spoke made truth feel like a secondary concern.
At one point, a gentle breeze lifted her hair, and she pressed her hand to her chest dramatically. “The wind adores me,” she said.
“Can you blame it?” you replied before you could stop yourself.
Her grin faltered just long enough for color to rise in her cheeks. “That was smooth.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t take it back,” she interrupted, nudging your shoulder. “It was good. I’ll allow it.”
You both laughed then, your shoulders brushing, and for a moment the world seemed to tilt slightly, like it was holding its breath for you.
When the laughter faded, Sophia leaned her head against your shoulder. The movement was so natural you didn’t even flinch. You just breathed in—the faint scent of wildflowers and honey clinging to her hair.
“You smell like cinnamon,” she murmured.
“You told me to bring something that makes me happy,” you said softly.
Her head lifted slightly, and she blinked at you. “And you brought… roasted chestnuts?”
You hesitated, smiling. “No. I brought myself.”
There was a pause—long enough for the crickets to fill it—before Sophia laughed, the sound bubbling up warm and real. “That’s terrible,” she said, but she was smiling so hard her nose crinkled.
“It made you laugh, didn’t it?”
She pretended to pout. “Barely.”
“You laughed.”
“Only a little. But not because the joke was funny, only because you’re cute.”
“Still counts.”
Sophia giggled again, the kind of sound that made your ribs ache with happiness. And then she reached for your hand—casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world—and kept it there, fingers intertwined.
You watched the moonlight play over her face, turning her eyes to molten silver. “You know,” she said quietly, “the moon’s at the third Quarter tonight.”
“Is that bad luck?” you asked.
“Maybe.” She smiled softly. “Or maybe it means there’s more to come.”
Her thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly, tracing slow circles. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was tender, something that filled the air instead of breaking it.
When it grew late, she walked you home. You passed the fountain where children played during the day, now quiet under the silver light. Every now and then, she’d nudge you with her shoulder, like she was checking to make sure you were still beside her.
At your door, she stopped. The world was hushed—just you, her, and the sound of the river in the distance.
“The moon’s changing,” she said softly. “It always does.”
You nodded, not really knowing what to say.
Sophia looked up, eyes reflecting the stars, and for a moment you swore you saw something flicker behind them—a shadow of sorrow quickly tucked away. But then she smiled again, bright and certain.
“Promise me you’ll meet me again tomorrow?”
“As long as the moon’s still there,” you said, half-joking.
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then I suppose we’ll never run out of tomorrows.”
And before you could reply, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. Just a whisper of a thing—light, fleeting—but it stole the air right out of your lungs.
Then she was gone, her cloak sweeping behind her, laughter echoing faintly down the lantern-lit street.
You stood there long after she disappeared, staring at the moon, heart racing in a way that didn’t feel entirely new—but you couldn’t understand why.
All you knew was that you were smiling, and the night felt like it had been waiting for you both.
Waning Crescent: The “First” dance
The town was unrecognizable that night.
Every month, the streets were dressed in silk banners and candlelight, the smell of roasted chestnuts and honey cakes drifting through the air. But this time—it all felt different. Maybe it was because you’d spent the whole day with Sophia, helping her carry lanterns for the children to hang by the river. Maybe it was because every time you looked up, you found her already looking back, smiling that secret, knowing smile that made your pulse stutter.
The moon hung low and sharp in the sky, a silver sickle slicing through the dark. The Waxing Crescent. A sliver of light that promised something was coming, though neither of you knew what it would take to get there.
Sophia was impossible not to notice that night.
She wore blue. Not the kind of blue that faded into the background, but the kind that shimmered when the lanterns caught it—like the reflection of moonlight on still water. Her hair was braided loosely down her back, the braid unraveling every time she turned to laugh at something someone said.
You’d barely stepped into the square when she found you. She didn’t even say hello. She just grinned, eyes bright, and grabbed your hand.
“There you are,” she said breathlessly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” you echoed, startled by her choice of word.
“Mm,” she hummed. “That you promised to dance with me.”
“I don’t remember promising that.”
She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Then maybe it was a dream.” Her fingers tightened around yours. “But if it was, I’m glad you showed up anyway.”
You laughed—because that was the thing about Sophia. She could say something utterly ridiculous, and yet somehow, you’d still want to believe every word of it.
The musicians struck up their first tune—a lively reel that sent the crowd spinning and clapping. Sophia pulled you straight into the chaos before you could even protest.
“I can’t dance,” you said, nearly tripping over your own boots.
“You’ll learn,” she replied, her laughter spilling into the music. “Just follow me.”
“I’ll step on your toes.”
“You say that like you haven’t already.”
Her teasing was quick and light, and soon your nerves melted under the sound of her joy. You moved the way she told you to—left, right, spin—and somehow, between her laughter and your stumbling, the rhythm began to find you both.
At one point, she twirled away from you, her skirt flaring, and the world blurred around her. When she turned back, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes soft with something you couldn’t quite name.
The music slowed. Couples began to draw closer.
Sophia stepped into your space, one hand resting lightly against your chest, the other still holding yours. You could feel her heartbeat through your fingers, quick but steady, like it had been waiting for this.
“See?” she whispered. “You’re not terrible at it.”
“Because you’re doing all the work,” you said quietly.
“Maybe,” she said, smiling up at you. “But you’re trying. That’s what counts.”
For a while, neither of you spoke. You just moved together, slow and quiet, surrounded by laughter and candlelight. Every now and then, you’d catch her looking at you—not in the playful way she usually did, but like she was memorizing the lines of your face.
It should have felt strange, but instead it felt like something inside you recognized her gaze. Like you’d been waiting for it.
Later that night, when most of the lanterns had dimmed and the music softened into something slow and wistful, Sophia led you away from the square.
“Where are we going?” you asked, but she only smiled and said, “You’ll see.”
You walked in companionable silence through the narrow streets until you reached the riverbank. The water shimmered under the crescent moon, scattered with reflections of floating lanterns. Sophia crouched down beside one, tracing her fingers through the rippling light.
“Every month,” she said softly, “they say the lanterns carry wishes upstream. Toward the moon.”
You knelt beside her. “Do you believe that?”
She hesitated, then shook her head lightly. “No. I think the moon already knows what we wish for. It just doesn’t always give it to us. Not in the way we think, at least.”
There was something in the way she said it—tender, almost mournful—but when you turned to look at her, she was smiling again.
“Come on,” she said, reaching into her satchel. She pulled out a small paper lantern, its edges faintly golden from the firelight. “Write something.”
You blinked. “What should I write?”
“Anything.” She grinned. “A wish. A secret. A bad poem.”
You laughed under your breath but took the quill she offered. You hesitated for a long time before writing, the ink pooling at the edge of each letter:
I hope this lasts.
When you handed the lantern back, Sophia didn’t ask what you wrote. She simply leaned closer and whispered, “It will. It’ll last forever”
And for that moment, you believed her.
Together, you set the lantern afloat. It drifted gently down the river, joining the countless others—small, trembling lights on a sea of silver.
Sophia leaned her head against your shoulder, watching it fade into the distance. “The moon looks happy tonight,” she murmured.
“Does it?”
“Mm. Maybe it likes seeing us like this.”
You smiled, eyes on the water. “Then let’s make sure we give it a reason every night.”
Sophia didn’t answer. She just squeezed your hand, her thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, fleeting pattern—one you didn’t yet recognize.
When she finally walked you home, the moon had risen higher, its curve gleaming pale against the dark. You turned at your door, about to thank her for the night, but she spoke first.
“Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Remember this,” she said quietly. “Even if… you don’t remember me.”
You blinked, startled. “What?”
Sophia smiled quickly, brushing it off with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I mean—just promise you won’t forget how perfect tonight was.”
“Oh.” You smiled back, still a little dazed. “That, I can do.”
And when she leaned in, her lips brushed your cheek, softer than moonlight.
When you closed your eyes that night, her laughter still echoed behind your ribs. You didn’t know what you were falling into—only that you were already in too deep.
New Moon: The “First” Sign
The night of the new moon was darker than it had any right to be. Not the kind of dark that feels empty, but the kind that hums with quiet life—the kind where every candle flicker feels like it’s standing guard against something vast and unseen. The sky was a blank sheet above the town, the stars trembling faintly against it, and as you climbed the path to Sophia’s cottage, the world felt softer, slower.
Her house sat on the crest of the hill, its windows glowing amber against the blue-black night. You could smell the lilac before you reached the door—the scent that seemed to follow her everywhere. Inside, she’d said, there would be dinner waiting. “Something sweet,” she’d promised, “but not too sweet. Balance is everything.”
When you knocked, she opened the door before you could even lower your hand.
“You’re early,” she teased, stepping aside to let you in. “Or maybe I’m late. I never know anymore.”
The cottage was just as you’d imagined—small and a little chaotic, but warm in a way that made your chest ache. Books were stacked in uneven piles along the walls, spilling over tables and chairs. Dried flowers hung from ceiling beams, their stems brittle but still fragrant. A cat-shaped teapot steamed quietly on the stove, and the fire snapped in the hearth like it was trying to keep up with her.
And then there was Sophia.
Her hair was loose tonight, falling in soft waves that caught the firelight. Her dress looked borrowed from the sunlight itself—simple linen, tied loosely at the waist, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she stirred something golden in a small pot.
You leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “You’re glowing.”
She laughed, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s the honey. I spill it on myself every time. I’m half sugar at this point.”
You grinned. “Elias told me you still argue with him about how much he puts in his mead.”
Sophia groaned, lowering her head dramatically. “Because he refuses to understand proportions! A spoon too little and it ruins everything.”
“Seems like you’d know all about balance.”
She turned, brow lifting, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Are you calling me sweet?”
“I didn’t say that,” you said, fighting a smile.
Her laugh was soft, easy—the kind that slipped under your ribs and stayed there. “You didn’t have to.”
While she worked, you wandered around the room, drawn by the clutter. Everything in her house seemed touched by memory: old glass bottles filled with dried petals, pressed leaves, maps with little red Xs marked in corners. It was the kind of home that told stories, one without a single empty surface.
Then something on the mantle caught your eye.
A small object, half-hidden behind a stack of worn books—a wooden sculpture of a hand. Its size was odd, its surface darkened with age. You leaned closer, realizing it was shaped like a monkey’s paw, its fingers curled unnaturally. Four were outstretched, and one—just one—was half drawn toward its palm.
You stared for a moment. The wood looked smooth, as though it had been touched too many times, worn down by time or memory.
Before you could look closer, Sophia’s voice floated from behind you—gentle, but firm in a way you hadn’t heard before.
“Careful with that.”
You turned, caught off guard. She was standing a few feet away, wiping her hands on a towel, her tone casual—but her eyes were fixed on you, sharp and unreadable.
“Sorry,” you said quickly. “Didn’t mean to snoop. What is it?”
Sophia hesitated for a breath too long. Then she smiled, light and easy again, slipping past you to place herself between you and the mantle.
“Something old,” she said simply, brushing a bit of dust from the wood before setting a candle in front of it, as if to hide it behind the flame. “A keepsake. Useless thing, really.”
Her voice softened again, playful, warm. “Now, are you going to stand there staring at my shelves, or are you going to taste the soup I nearly burned waiting for you?”
You blinked, disarmed by how quickly the moment shifted. “You? Burn soup? I thought you were perfect.”
She snorted, leading you toward the small table by the hearth. “Perfect people don’t spill honey on themselves every night. Sit down.”
You did. She served you a bowl of something golden and fragrant—it shimmered faintly when it caught the light, like sunlight trapped in broth. She sat across from you, chin resting on her hand as she watched you take the first bite.
“It’s amazing,” you said immediately. “What did you put in this?”
“Trade secret,” she said with a sly grin. “If I told you, you’d never come back.”
“Maybe I’d come back anyway.”
That earned a pause. Her smile faltered for just a second, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she shook her head and laughed softly, reaching over to nudge your bowl. “Eat before I get sentimental.”
You stayed late that night, talking about nothing in particular. She told you about her garden—how she couldn’t keep lavender alive but her thyme grew too fast. You told her about your walks through the woods and how sometimes you thought you heard your name carried in the wind. She laughed, told you that meant the forest liked you.
At some point, she sat on the floor in front of the fire, humming quietly as you leaned against the wall beside her. Her head found your shoulder naturally, like it had always belonged there.
You thought about how every time you saw her, the rest of the world blurred a little. How you felt like you could live your entire life in that cottage, in that small pool of firelight, with her fingers tracing idle circles on your wrist.
When you finally stood to leave, she followed you to the door.
“Stay,” she said softly, just as you reached for the handle.
You turned. “You want me to?”
She smiled faintly. “I always do.”
Her voice had a strange echo to it then—a quiet longing that made something in your chest twist. But before you could ask, she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to your cheek, feather-light.
“Go on,” she whispered. “It’s late. The moon’s gone tonight, remember?”
As you stepped outside, you glanced back once more.
She was standing by the hearth, her silhouette painted gold by the firelight. And though her expression was soft, her gaze flicked, just once, toward the mantle—toward that strange little hand you’d nearly touched.
The candle she’d set before it burned lower, wax pooling at its base. The wooden fingers hadn’t moved, but you could’ve sworn that one of them, the curled one, cast a slightly longer shadow than before.
Waxing Crescent: The “First” tears
You wake before dawn to a sound too fragile to belong to the world outside. It takes you a few seconds to realize it’s coming from Sophia.
The fire has gone out sometime in the night, leaving only faint embers pulsing in the hearth like slow, dying hearts. The light that fills the room is the silver kind that arrives before sunrise—the light that belongs to ghosts and memories. It spills across the wooden floorboards, across the table with its half-melted candles, and finally across Sophia’s face.
She’s turned toward the window, half-hidden by her hair. Her lips are parted. A tear slips quietly down her cheek.
You’ve seen her in so many forms before—mischievous, stubborn, tired, luminous—but never like this. There’s something ancient about the way she looks now, like a statue that has seen centuries pass in silence. The sight makes your chest ache.
You almost don’t move. She seems so still, so fragile, that even breathing too loud feels like it would break the spell. But when another tear traces its way down, something in you decides for you.
You reach out, your fingers brushing lightly against her cheek.
Sophia startles. Her eyes fly open, deep and dark and uncertain. She looks at you like she’s not sure if she’s dreaming—or if she’s still inside whatever dream she just left. Then she exhales, softly, and whispers your name as if remembering where she is.
“Hey,” you murmur. “You were crying.”
Her lashes flutter. She blinks once, twice, and looks away, toward the dying embers. Her voice, when it comes, is soft—gentle enough to almost make you forget it’s avoidance.
“Was I?”
You nod. “Yeah. You were.”
She pushes herself up slowly, her hair falling over her face as she rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. The motion is too casual, too deliberate. “I must’ve been dreaming,” she says. “It happens sometimes.”
“Bad dream?”
Sophia hums, as if she’s deciding how much of the truth she’s willing to share. Finally, she says, “Not bad. Just… too familiar.”
You tilt your head. “Familiar how?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she pulls the blanket tighter around herself and turns her gaze toward the window, where the last sliver of moon hangs low. “There are some things,” she says after a long silence, “that stay with you even when you’ve left them behind. Places. People. Promises.”
There’s a weight in her tone that feels older than her. Something unspoken but heavy, like the echo of prayer still clinging to a ruined temple.
You reach for her hand. “You make it sound like you used to belong to something.”
Her lips twitch into a faint smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe I did.”
“Like a church?” you tease gently.
Her smile flickers at that. For a heartbeat, she looks almost wistful. “Something like that,” she murmurs. “Once.”
There’s a quiet in the room after that—an unspoken understanding that you’ve brushed against something she doesn’t talk about. Not because she can’t, but because it hurts to.
You don’t push further. You just keep your hand where it is, your thumb tracing small circles against her skin until her breathing steadies again.
When morning finally arrives, you wake to the scent of smoke and lavender. The hearth burns again, a pot bubbling softly above it. Sophia is at the counter, barefoot and wrapped in her shawl, humming an unfamiliar melody that sounds too structured, too reverent to be a simple tune.
It sounds like a hymn.
You sit up and watch her for a while, the early light washing her in gold. There’s something graceful about the way she moves—a rhythm too deliberate to be casual. Her gestures are small and precise, like she’s performing a ritual she’s forgotten she knows.
When she notices you watching, she smiles. “You should eat,” she says lightly, placing a plate in front of you. “I made something warm.”
You grin, still half-dazed. “You always wake up first. Do you ever sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“You said that like it’s optional.”
She laughs, but it’s quieter than usual. “Old habits,” she says, and you catch the faintest trace of something else beneath her tone—something that sounds almost like confession.
“What kind of habits?”
She glances at you, eyes glimmering. “Ones you don’t need to worry about.”
You chuckle, even as curiosity tugs at you. “You talk like you used to be someone important.”
Sophia’s hand stills on the spoon. For a moment, you think you’ve crossed a line—but then she smiles again, softer this time. “I used to be someone obedient,” she corrects. “That’s not quite the same thing.”
Her words linger in the air, strange and heavy.
You take a bite of the food she’s made, but your eyes drift toward the shelf above the hearth—where something small sits in shadow. A wooden trinket, its surface dark and uneven. You frown, leaning forward just slightly.
It’s a totem. Carved, old, and curled inward.
The sight sends a faint chill crawling down your spine, but you don’t know why.
“What’s that?” you ask.
Sophia’s voice changes so subtly that if you weren’t listening for it, you might have missed it—the note of quiet alarm she hides beneath her calm. “That?” she says, turning toward you, her smile immediate and easy. “Just a keepsake.”
You raise an eyebrow. “From where?”
“From a long time ago.”
“Looks… strange.”
“Most old things do,” she says lightly, and then—before you can ask again—she crosses the room and sets a cup of tea in front of you, her body perfectly positioned between you and the shelf. “Drink before it gets cold.”
Her tone is kind, but her eyes flicker toward the totem for the briefest moment, sharp and assessing, before she looks back at you.
The message is subtle but unmistakable.
She doesn’t want you near it.
You decide not to press. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever that object is—it isn’t just decoration. And the way Sophia stands there, smiling like she’s trying not to betray something, makes you think she’s guarding it.
After breakfast, you both step outside. The world is gray and soft, mist curling low across the valley. Sophia tilts her face to the sky, eyes half-closed, as though listening for something distant.
“You really do like mornings,” you say, watching her.
“They’re the quietest part of the day,” she answers. “Before the world remembers its noise.”
You smile. “You sound like someone giving a sermon.”
She turns to you, sunlight catching her eyes, and for a heartbeat she looks almost ethereal. “Maybe I’ve given one before,” she says with a small shrug.
You laugh, thinking she’s joking. But she doesn’t laugh with you.
Instead, she looks at you for a long, unreadable moment, her expression caught somewhere between affection and sorrow. Then she smiles—a small, fleeting thing—and whispers, “Eat well today, alright? I want you strong.”
You nod, a little confused, but the way she says it makes something warm stir in your chest.
When you leave her cottage that afternoon, the clouds begin to roll in. You turn once, just to wave goodbye. She’s still at the window, hand resting lightly on the frame.
You tell yourself it’s just a trick of the light. But when Sophia’s gaze meets yours through the glass, there’s something there you can’t quite name.
Not fear. Not guilt.
Something older.
Something that feels like prayer.
First Quarter: The “First” Kiss
The night hums soft and low, the way summer nights do when the world decides to be kind for a while. The air smells like wet grass and river stones, touched with the faint sweetness of lilies. You follow the path by memory—past the crooked willow that leans too far, past the old fence where the wood gives way beneath your palm. The moon is fractured tonight, its light scattered in the rippling current below, breaking into pieces every time the water moves.
Sophia stands in the shallows barefoot, her skirt hiked to her knees, hem damp where it brushes the water. The pale gleam of moonlight turns her hair silver. Around her neck, the small pendant you’ve seen a dozen times before glows faintly, like it’s catching more light than it should.
For a moment, you just watch her—how she lifts her hand and lets the cold river thread through her fingers, how she looks like she belongs more to the moonlight than to the ground.
“Hey,” you call softly.
She turns, and her smile hits you like warmth after rain. “You found me.”
“You’re easy to find,” you say. “You glow.”
She laughs, quiet and embarrassed. “That’s the moon, not me.”
You shake your head, stepping closer. “No. It’s definitely you.”
The words come out before you can stop them, as natural as breathing. Lately, everything with her feels like that—instinctive, inevitable. She fills the silence so easily that you forget what life sounded like before her voice existed in it.
She looks down at the water, but not fast enough to hide the color rising in her cheeks. “You always say things like that,” she murmurs.
You grin. “Can’t help it.”
Her eyes flicker up at you—blue in the moonlight, uncertain, searching. You wade in until you’re close enough to see the tremor in her hands. The river folds around your legs, cold and alive, tugging gently at your balance.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” you say.
“Neither should you,” she replies, and then—her smile softens—“but I’m glad you are.”
For a while, neither of you speaks. The current hushes against your ankles. Fireflies blink in the reeds, the kind of quiet magic you only notice when someone else is beside you. Sophia tips her head back to look at the broken moon, and the pendant against her chest flares again—just faintly, like it’s reacting to something unseen.
You catch yourself staring. “That necklace,” you say. “It’s different tonight.”
Her fingers brush over it protectively. “It always shines brightest when the moon’s in pieces,” she says softly, eyes still skyward. “Like it’s trying to put it back together.”
You smile. “You talk about it like it’s alive.”
“Maybe it is,” she whispers, then glances at you. “Everything that remembers love is, a little.”
You don’t understand what she means, but the way she says it—quiet, reverent—makes you want to.
When she looks at you again, her expression has changed. Her eyes are glassy, rimmed with tears that catch the moonlight.
“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head quickly, as if that could undo the tears. “Nothing,” she says, laughing weakly. “You always ask that.”
“Always?”
Her breath catches—just barely—but then she smiles again. “It doesn’t matter.”
You want to press, but something about her tone tells you not to. So instead, you lift your hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. She doesn’t move away. If anything, she leans into your touch, her eyes fluttering shut.
Her skin is cool from the river, but her pulse beneath your fingertips is racing.
“I love you,” you say.
You don’t plan to, but the words come out anyway, honest and heavy and too full. Because it’s true—because somehow it feels like it’s always been true, like you were already in love with her before you even knew her name.
Sophia’s hands tremble as they rise to your face. Her touch is feather-light at first, then surer, her thumbs tracing the edge of your jaw as if she’s memorizing you. Her voice breaks when she whispers, “You always do.”
You frown, confused. “What do you mean?”
But she only smiles—a sad, radiant smile that feels like the end of something. “You always mean it.”
And before you can ask again, she leans in.
The kiss is soft, hesitant, the kind that feels like both a beginning and an apology. Her lips taste faintly of riverwater and honey, salt from her tears mixing with the sweetness of her breath. You feel her tremble, feel the way her fingers slide up into your hair as though she’s trying to anchor herself to this one perfect moment.
You kiss her back like you’ve been waiting a lifetime for it. Maybe you have.
When you finally pull away, she presses her forehead to yours, breathing you in. Her hands are still on your face, still shaking.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first night,” you whisper.
Her answering laugh is quiet, wet with tears. “You did,” she says softly.
You open your mouth to ask what she means, but she leans in again, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth before you can speak. “Don’t ruin it,” she murmurs. “Just let it be.”
You do. You let the silence hold you both.
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain and riverweed. You shiver a little, and Sophia steps back just enough to study you, her gaze catching on the edge of your shirt where it’s come loose. Her eyes flicker—something sharp and sad passing through them—before she reaches out and gently pulls the fabric back into place.
“What?” you ask.
She shakes her head quickly, forcing a smile. “Nothing. You’ll catch cold if you keep standing there.”
You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “You sound like my mother.”
“Then she must have been wise.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m an idiot?”
Sophia grins—really grins—and you realize how much you’ve missed that look, even though it’s only been hours. “Maybe a little.”
You grin back. The two of you linger by the river until the moon slips lower, until her pendant dims to nothing. And when you finally walk her home, hand in hand, you can still feel the ghost of her kiss against your lips.
It isn’t until later—when you’re washing the river mud from your skin, the lamplight stretching long and soft across your back—that you notice the old scar.
A line, thin and pale, running across your back. You’ve never thought much of it, never remembered where it came from. But tonight, for some reason, when your fingers trace it, your heart stutters—like something inside you is almost remembering.
Outside, the river keeps singing. And somewhere not far away, Sophia stands at her window, watching the moon vanish behind clouds.
Her fingers touch her lips, then her pendant.
Waxing Gibbous: The “First” Goodbye
The night before the full moon was too still — the kind of stillness that felt like holding your breath before something breaks. The air shimmered faintly with silver light, soft and sharp all at once. The meadow was washed in it, all color drained away until even Sophia looked ghostlike, standing in the tall grass with her white dress brushing her knees, her hair unbound and dark as ink.
You thought she was beautiful. You always did.
She turned when she heard your footsteps, her expression soft but unreadable, eyes glimmering with something that wasn’t quite sadness and wasn’t quite peace. Behind her, the moon hung swollen, almost full — a blade of light suspended in the sky.
You smiled when you reached her. “You found our spot again.”
Sophia’s lips lifted, but it wasn’t a smile. “You always say that.”
Her tone was gentle, affectionate even, but there was something underneath it — something so quiet you could almost miss it if not for the way her fingers curled into her palms.
You stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve been distant,” you murmured. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Sophia hesitated, the way she always did when she was deciding whether to tell you the truth or protect you from it. Her gaze drifted upward, to the almost-full moon, and for a moment her face was lit like a painting — every line carved by sorrow and devotion.
“Do you know what tomorrow is?” she asked softly.
You grinned, thinking you knew the answer. “A lunar cycle since we first met?”
She laughed faintly, but it was hollow. “No. Not that.”
You frowned, tilting your head. “Then what?”
Her eyes met yours, and for a heartbeat, she looked like she might tell you everything. Then she looked away again. “Do you remember the first time you came here?”
“Of course I do,” you said. “You dragged me here to see fireflies.”
Sophia’s shoulders trembled, though she smiled. “You always say that too.”
You reached for her hand, and she let you take it. Her fingers were cold. When she finally spoke again, her voice was low and careful, like a prayer she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say.
“I used to be a priestess,” she said.
You blinked. “You?”
Her lips curved faintly. “Surprised?”
“A little. You don’t really strike me as the… temple type.”
She laughed softly at that, but it faded quickly. “Maybe I wasn’t very good at it. I thought I understood what faith meant. I thought if I prayed hard enough, the moon would listen.”
You squeezed her hand gently. “Did she?”
Sophia’s eyes filled, not with tears yet, but with something like exhaustion — the kind that comes from carrying the same pain too many times. “She did,” she whispered. “And that’s the problem.”
The wind stirred around you, cool and sweet. You could hear the river beyond the meadow, a steady hush. It should’ve been peaceful. Instead, it felt fragile.
Sophia stepped closer until your foreheads touched. Her breath trembled against your skin. “You were dying,” she said, her words breaking apart as she spoke them. “There was blood, and I… I couldn’t lose you.”
You froze, your pulse stuttering. “Sophia—”
“I begged her,” she continued, voice shaking. “I begged the moon to save you. I didn’t care what it cost. And she heard me. She always hears her priestesses.”
Her thumb brushed your cheek, tender and reverent, as if she were memorizing you again.
“She gave you back,” Sophia whispered. “But she didn’t give you whole.”
You stared at her, confused. “What are you saying?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Every time the moon wanes, you forget. And when she waxes, you return. The curse renews itself.”
You blinked, the words sinking like stones you couldn’t hold onto. “That’s not possible.”
Sophia smiled through her tears, shaking her head. “You always say that, too.”
Her hands moved to your shoulders, tracing down your arms until she found the edge of your shirt. She hesitated, then gently slid it aside, her fingertips brushing the long scar across your back — a pale, jagged line that you never remembered earning.
“This,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “This is where it started. You fell in my arms that night. I thought the moon saved you.” Her hand trembled against your skin. “But all she did was make sure I’d lose you over and over again.”
You swallowed hard, words caught in your throat. You wanted to tell her she was wrong, that you’d never forget her, that you’d always find her again — but there was a weight building in your chest, something heavy and cold. The world around you seemed to hum faintly, a vibration you could feel in your bones.
Sophia’s expression broke. She cupped your face in her hands, desperate now. “Please, stay,” she whispered. “Just this once, stay.”
“I’m here,” you said, trying to sound steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You always say that,” she repeated, a tear slipping down her cheek. “And then the next night, you look at me like I’m just some curious stranger.”
Your vision blurred. “Sophia…”
“Shh,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to yours. “Don’t fight it. It hurts more when you do.”
You tried to focus on her face — her eyes, her trembling smile, the scent of her hair. You wanted to memorize her, but everything was already slipping, fogging at the edges.
“I’ll remember,” you swore, your voice trembling. “I’ll remember you.”
Sophia let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You said that the first time. And every time after.”
Sophia’s hands cupped your face, trembling so hard it was a wonder she didn’t drop you. Her fingers pressed against your jaw, desperate, worshipful. “No, no, no,” she breathed, voice cracking. “Stay with me. Please—just a little longer.”
You tried to focus on her — the shape of her face in the moonlight, the streaks of tears shining silver down her cheeks — but the world was tilting, spinning away from you. Her voice was soft but distant now, like it came through water.
“Sophia,” you gasped, your breath hitching, your heart tripping over itself. “What’s happening to me?”
Her breath broke on a sob. “Shh,” she whispered, dragging you against her chest, clutching you so tightly you could feel her pulse shuddering against your skin. “It’s okay, love. You’re okay. Just breathe, please—breathe with me.”
You tried. You really did. But every inhale came shorter, shallower. The air refused to stay in your lungs.
“I don’t—” your voice faltered, trembling. “I don’t understand—”
“I know,” she said, brushing your hair back, her hand shaking violently. Her thumb traced the curve of your cheek as though memorizing it. “You don’t have to understand. Just listen to me. Please.”
Your body jerked with another uneven breath. Her forehead pressed against yours, her skin fever-warm, her tears dripping down to mingle with your own.
“It’s just the curse,” she whispered, though her voice broke halfway through. “It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault.”
Her words hit something inside you — something ancient and frightened. You reached for her hand, fingers weak, trembling. You could barely see now; the moon’s glow blurred and fractured, the edges of the world fading to white.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Don’t go yet.”
You clung to her, your grip slipping. “Sophia…”
She made a sound — something between a sob and a prayer — and pressed her lips to your temple, again and again, her tears falling like rain. “You always love me,” she whispered, voice cracking. “And I never stop.”
You wanted to tell her you weren’t leaving, that you’d stay this time, that you could fight it. But your voice was gone, your mouth barely moving.
“S-Sophia…”
Her name broke apart in your throat.
Sophia’s arms tightened around you as if she could anchor you to this world by sheer will. “I’m here,” she whispered, her breath catching. “I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
But she wasn’t calm anymore — she was breaking. You felt her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs, her body trembling as though the grief itself might tear her open. Still, she forced her voice steady for you, even as it shattered. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, my love. You can rest now.”
You wanted to say something — anything — but all that came was a breath. You exhaled, slow and final.
Your body stilled.
The night went utterly silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The moon hung swollen and merciless above, lighting the meadow in cruel silver.
Sophia didn’t move. She just held you, your head cradled to her chest, her fingers tangled in your hair. Her lips brushed your crown, your cheek, your closed eyelids. Each kiss was a plea the heavens wouldn’t hear.
When her voice finally came, it was raw — scraped hollow from crying too long, from praying too hard. “You promised you’d remember,” she whispered into your skin. “You always promise.”
Her tears stained your collar, her breath hitching like her lungs refused to let her go on. “And I always let you.”
She tilted your face toward hers, brushing one last tear from your cheek. The moon painted her in white fire — the priestess she once was, the lover she could never stop being.
Her voice broke as she said it — the words she always used when she could say nothing else.
no it’s not 😸 and i am quite literally afraid of walking home at night for that reason cause it’s just 4 blocks of homeless people and there are hundreds of them and my apartment isn’t really walking distance it’s about 30 minute walk maybe more and i shouldn’t have to worry about my safety every night after work 😭 im already on so many homeless people’s shit list man
oh it is 😆😆 i love my job just a bunch of homeless people with big ass knives coming into stores with said knives acting like they are above basic store policies
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