⊹ ࣪˖ Synopsis - You’ve spent weeks chasing the untouchable Daniela Avanzini at your school, only to be flat-out rejected when you finally ask her out—but then an unexpected incident leaves you hurt and forces her to step in.
As the days pass, she notices her heart racing when you laugh, missing you during the day, and feeling jealous in ways she can’t ignore
⊹ ࣪ ˖ Themes - inspired by the trending Regina George x Rodrick Heffley, daniela is straight (at the start), highschool au , made for this req
The first time you saw Daniela, you knew you were doomed. She wasn’t just popular—she was untouchable. Every step she took through Dream Academy’s halls made it obvious: everyone noticed, everyone followed, and everyone wanted to be her.
Hair perfectly in place, blazer sharp, posture so immaculate it practically demanded attention.
And you? Band bag slung over your shoulder, eyeliner smudged from last night’s practice, hoodie slightly too big, standing against the wall like a storm that no one expected.
It started innocently enough. You noticed her moving through the cafeteria, a wave of whispers trailing in her wake, and somehow your chaotic heart decided she was worth the risk.
You started small: brushing past her locker, dropping a sheet of music “by accident,” standing just slightly too close in the hall. Every glance you stole, every forced coincidence, felt like a tiny victory.
“Hey, wait up!” you called one afternoon, jogging to catch her as she strode past a cluster of freshmen. She turned, eyebrow raised, and smirk tugged at her lips—half amusement, half warning.
“You’re following me,” she said, her voice calm but sharp. Not a question. Just…fact.
“I’m…uh, observing,” you said, blinking innocently. “For research. Totally normal. Band research.”
She rolled her eyes, a soft scoff escaping. “Cute. Most people give up after a day.”
“I like challenges,” you said, grinning, because what else could you do?
Weeks passed. Lunchtime became your battlefield. You claimed the table exactly two away from hers, casually throwing in a joke just loud enough for her to hear.
Sometimes, she’d glance over, roll her eyes, maybe even smirk. You pretended you didn’t notice, but your heart did.
Then there was dance practice. She was in the studio, body moving like liquid silk, every step sharp, every motion controlled. Music thumping, mirrors reflecting her dominance over the floor.
You, of course, waited outside. Leaning against the wall, phone in hand, pretending to scroll, all the while stealing glances at the door. Every once in a while, you’d hum along to the song, just soft enough to be noticed.
Finally, she emerges. Hair tousled slightly from practice, face still smug, like she hadn’t noticed you standing there for the entire forty-five minutes. You catch her eye, smile, and she glances away—pretending she wasn’t waiting for you at all.
“You dance like you’re trying to hypnotize everyone,” you say, voice teasing, trying not to sound too obvious about how long you’ve been waiting.
She snorts, rolling her eyes. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”
Yet, somehow, she lingers. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s something she doesn’t understand herself. You notice it—the pause before she walks, the faint smirk that tugs at her lips despite her words.
Days turn into weeks. You keep finding ways to cross her path: walking past the studio “by accident,” asking for small favors like borrowing a pencil, or teasing her about how seriously she takes her stretching routine.
Every time she snaps back, it’s sharp, biting, sometimes cruel—but she doesn’t push you away.
Somehow, you’re allowed to linger, and every time she notices you noticing her, you can’t help but grin inside.
One afternoon, she’s practicing spins and jumps in the studio again, and you’re stationed outside like some loyal, chaotic shadow.
You lean on the wall, tapping your foot, pretending to be absorbed in your phone. Then, just when you think she’s finally noticed, the music stops.
She steps out, dripping in confidence, hair sticking slightly to her forehead from sweat, eyes narrowing playfully at you.
“Waiting for me?” she asks, voice teasing but with a hint of something else.
“Maybe,” you say, shrugging. “Maybe I just like watching someone be ridiculously good at what they do.”
She huffs, like she wants to be annoyed, but the corners of her lips twitch up. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yet entertaining?” you suggest, voice low enough that you’re not sure she catches it—but she does, because her smirk widens.
You follow her for a little while, pretending to carry her forgotten water bottle, teasing her about overexerting herself, joking about how dramatic she makes everything look.
She shoots back insults, her words sharp and clipped, but every now and then, she hesitates. Maybe it’s a glance, a pause, or that tiny crack in her untouchable facade. You notice. Of course, you notice.
And somehow, she lets you. She doesn’t understand why. Maybe it’s your persistence, maybe it’s your chaotic energy, maybe it’s something else she hasn’t named yet. Either way, she lets you hang around. And that’s enough for now.
That morning, you’ve been buzzing with nerves since the first bell. You checked your hair three times, made sure your eyeliner wasn’t smudged, even rehearsed the words in the mirror—this is it. Today, you’re asking Daniela. No backing out. No excuses.
By third period, your palms are sweaty, your stomach doing drum solos. You pace outside the dance studio, watching her through the glass as she stretches, her focus absolute, her grace untouchable.
You’re trying to act casual, scrolling through your phone, but your eyes never leave her.
When she finally steps out, you inhale, your chest tight. Heart hammering, you step forward.
“Daniela,” you say, voice shaking just enough that you know she’ll notice, trying to sound calm, confident—cool, like you’re not about to have your entire world rejected. “Would you…maybe want to grab lunch sometime? Just us?”
Her smirk hits instantly—sharp, smug, final. There’s a flicker of amusement, but mostly…disgust?
“No.”
“No?” You blink, chest tightening, hoping maybe she’s teasing.
“I said I’m straight,” she says, tossing her hair, turning her nose slightly up. “And, honestly… I don’t date people like you.” There’s a scoff under her breath, like your existence is mildly offensive.
You force a tight smile, shoving down the hurt, muttering, “Okay… no biggie. Got it.”
You walk away, heart bruised, cheeks hot, pride barely intact. Alright. Dream Academy’s untouchable queen beats me. Hope lost. Move on.
After Daniela’s words, you start keeping your distance. Not dramatically, not in a way that screams “I’m hurt,” but enough that it’s noticeable if someone’s paying attention.
You sit a table further away at lunch, laugh a little less loudly when she’s around, and skip your usual antics near the dance studio.
You tell yourself it’s about pride, that you’re just letting the sting fade, but every time you catch her gaze lingering on you—even for a second—you feel it: that tug of wanting to be seen, wanted, understood.
And Daniela notices. Not right away, not in a big, obvious way, but in the way she pauses mid-step while walking past the cafeteria, or how she tilts her head slightly when she spots you avoiding eye contact.
Something about your absence of chaos feels… off. Uncomfortable, almost, like there’s a quiet space that shouldn’t exist in her perfectly ordered world. She doesn’t understand why it bothers her, but it does.
You’ve been living in the band room lately. Not sleeping there exactly, but it’s close enough — lunch breaks, free periods, after class.
You bury yourself in riffs and half-written songs, the sound of Beomgyu’s guitar and Yunjin’s voice filling the space where your thoughts should be.
Beomgyu’s slouched against the amp, strumming lazily. “You’ve been acting extra emo lately,” he says, smirking. “Like, even for you.”
“Must be the eyeliner fumes,” you mutter, not looking up from your sheet music.
Yunjin raises a brow, sitting cross-legged on the desk. “Or maybe it’s her.”
You freeze for half a second. “Who?”
“Daniela.” Yunjin’s grin is all teeth, sharp but soft around the edges. “You haven’t followed her around in, what, a week? It’s almost weirdly peaceful.”
You shrug, keeping your eyes on the scribbles in front of you. “Didn’t know I was her personal bodyguard. She said she’s straight anyway.” You try to make it sound light, but it comes out heavier than intended.
Taehyun, who’s been quietly tuning his bass, glances up. “If you keep moping like that,” he says dryly, “you’re gonna turn into Chappell Roan by next week.”
Beomgyu snorts. “Lowkey? I’d pay to see that.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re all annoying.” But they’re right — you have been off. You tell yourself you’re fine, that Daniela’s rejection didn’t mess with your head, that you’re just tired. It’s easier than admitting that some part of you still looks for her in every hallway.
Practice ends, and the three of you wander out into the courtyard, instruments slung over shoulders.
You’re laughing at something Beomgyu says when it happens — a cluster of jocks near the fountain, loud and bored, spot your little crew instantly.
“Hey, emo band!” one of them calls out, fake enthusiasm dripping from his voice. “Play us a sad song about rejection!”
Beomgyu mutters something under his breath, Yunjin glares, and you roll your eyes, picking up your pace. But they’re not done.
Another one sticks out a foot as you walk past. It happens fast — your boot catches, your balance slips, and your entire weight goes forward. Your instrument case hits the ground with a crack, and you hit the pavement right after. Pain shoots up your wrist.
For a second, everything goes quiet.
Then the laughter starts.
“Watch where you’re going, Hot Topic,” someone snickers.
You bite down hard, trying not to show it hurts, both physically and otherwise. Yunjin kneels to help you up, Beomgyu’s already snapping, and you’re trying to laugh it off when the sound cuts through the courtyard like a blade:
“What’s your problem?”
Daniela’s voice.
You glance up. She’s standing a few meters away, gym bag slung over her shoulder, hair pulled back, expression sharp enough to slice through the group of jocks instantly.
“Don’t you idiots have anything better to do?” she adds, stepping closer. Her tone isn’t loud, but it’s enough to make them hesitate, shuffle backward, mumble excuses before scattering.
For a second, it’s just you and her.
She kneels down slightly, eyes flicking to your wrist. “You okay?” she asks quietly, not meeting your eyes.
You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah. Totally fine. Just… tripped.”
She scoffs softly, but there’s no venom in it. “You should be more careful.”
“Didn’t realize you cared,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself.
Her gaze meets yours — steady, unreadable — and something flickers there. Something that makes her throat tighten before she stands abruptly. “Whatever,” she mutters. “Just—get it checked.”
And she walks off, but you see it: the way her hand lingers by her side, the tension in her shoulders, the quick glance back before she disappears around the corner.
You don’t know it yet, but for the first time, she does. That weird, fluttery feeling sitting just under her ribs — the one she can’t name — it’s starting to unravel everything she thought she knew about herself.
-
Daniela's not in love. Right?
She’s untouchable, she’s flawless, and she definitely doesn’t get flustered over the chaos that follows the emo band girl who keeps showing up in her life. That’s ridiculous. Completely absurd.
And yet… she can’t stop thinking about the way your wrist hit the ground, the way your brow furrowed even as you tried to brush off the pain.
The way your lips pressed together, pretending it didn’t sting. She shakes her head. She’s not in love. She couldn’t possibly be.
Then she sees you. Across the courtyard, laughing. And not just laughing — the kind of full-throated, reckless laugh that makes her stomach twist.
Only this time, you’re laughing with someone else. A girl she hasn’t noticed before — Manon Bannerman. Piercings, dyed hair that’s somehow messy in a perfect way, and she’s funny. Really funny in your eyes, she guessed.
Manon makes some ridiculous comment, and you nearly spit out your drink laughing, hair falling in front of your eyes, eyes sparkling like… like she’s the only person in the world who gets it.
Daniela’s chest tightens before she can stop it. She didn’t know it could feel like that — watching someone else make you laugh and realizing your absence of ownership over that laugh makes her feel… territorial?
No. Stop. She’s not jealous. She’s not.
But then, Manon makes a joke at your expense — playful, not mean — and you roll your eyes, laughing anyway, nudging her lightly.
Daniela’s heart lurches, and she realizes she’s imagining… imagining being the one nudging you, making you laugh like that.
No. Definitely not in love.
Except, when you catch her glance, something shifts. That flutter she felt when steadying you earlier? It’s back. Louder. Hotter.
And maybe… maybe it’s not just concern. Maybe it’s something more. Something that scares her a little.
Daniela takes a deep breath, pretending to adjust her bag, trying to appear unaffected. She’s not in love. Not yet.
But she can’t stop looking.
One day turns into two, and suddenly Daniela’s eyes start tracking you before her brain even realizes she’s doing it.
She sees you in the hallway between classes, sitting at the back of the cafeteria with Beomgyu and Yunjin, legs crossed, laughing like the world hasn’t crushed you yet.
She tells herself it’s just curiosity. She just wants to make sure you’re okay after the fall, that’s all.
Except she keeps catching herself staring a little too long.
She’ll be mid-conversation with her friends — Sophia, Lara, whoever — and her attention will drift. Like static, like her focus is being tugged toward you.
The worst part? You’ve stopped looking at her. The girl who used to follow her around, cracking jokes and tossing smirks, doesn’t even glance her way anymore. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t.
But it does.
And it doesn't help that you’ve been hanging out with Manon a lot lately — the alt girl with that bold eyeliner and the “I don’t care” attitude that somehow makes everyone care.
Daniela sees you two sitting on the steps outside the art room, sharing fries, earphones split between you. It’s ridiculous how much that sight bothers her.
She tells herself she doesn’t care. That it’s fine. That maybe she just doesn’t like Manon’s energy — she’s too loud, too… close. But every time she sees you smile at Manon the way you used to smile at her, Daniela feels her chest twist into something she can’t name.
Once, she overhears Beomgyu teasing you — something about how “Manon’s totally into you.” You laugh, shaking your head, brushing it off. But your smile lingers. Daniela feels her pulse jump, her throat tighten.
That night, during dance practice, she can’t focus. Every step feels offbeat, every turn mistimed. Her instructor snaps, “Daniela, you’re distracted today.” She just nods, wipes her sweat, and lies through her teeth.
“I’m fine.”
But she’s not. Because every time she blinks, she sees you — that messy hair, those smudged black nails tapping along to a song she doesn’t know, the way your grin starts small and takes over your whole face when something’s actually funny.
She doesn’t understand it. You’re not even her type. You never were. You’re loud, messy, unpredictable — the opposite of the clean, perfect image she’s always curated. You drive her insane.
And yet, when she catches you yawning during homeroom, hoodie pulled tight around you, sleepy grin half-hidden, Daniela finds herself smiling. Softly. Without meaning to .She looks away fast, cheeks warm.
No. No, she’s not in love.
She’s Daniela. She doesn’t fall for girls — especially not you.
But lately, every time she hears your laugh, her heart doesn’t ask for her permission.
You tell yourself you’re over it.
Daniela’s not your problem anymore. She made that clear — the rejection, the distance, the silence that followed like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.
So yeah, you moved on. Or at least, you tried to.
Which is why you’re out here with Manon — sitting on the low brick wall near the fountain, talking nonsense, laughing at her stupid impressions of your music teacher. Manon’s easy to be around. Loud. Funny. She doesn’t make your heart clench every five seconds.
And for a while, it actually feels normal again.
Until it doesn’t.
Because suddenly, Daniela’s there.
You see her before she speaks — all perfect posture and clipped steps, like she’s on her way to war. Her hair’s still damp from dance practice, her expression unreadable, but her eyes— her eyes are locked straight on you.
“Having fun?”
You freeze.
You’d know that tone anywhere — soft but sharp, like she’s trying not to sound mad but totally is.
You look up and— yeah. There she is. Still in her dance uniform, hair tied up, eyes locked straight on you like you just committed a crime.
“Uh,” you start, “yeah? We’re just hanging out.”
Manon leans back on her hands, all fake casual. “Didn’t know we needed her majesty’s approval to sit here.”
You sigh. “Manon—”
Daniela’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “No one said that.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Manon mutters under her breath.
Daniela’s gaze flicks between you two, like she’s trying to figure out if this is a joke.
Then she looks right at you. “Didn’t think you’d hang out with… this crowd.”
You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she says too fast, crossing her arms. “Just surprised, that’s all.”
“Right,” you say flatly. “Because heaven forbid I sit with someone who isn’t on your level.”
Her jaw tightens — just slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”
You can feel the heat creeping up your neck.
“Then what did you mean?”
For a second, she doesn’t answer. She just looks at you — that same look she gets when she’s about to say something real, and then kills it before it can escape.
Finally, she exhales, her voice coming out low and steady.
“Whatever,” she says, shaking her head. “Do what you want.”
And just like that, she turns and walks off — all poise, all denial, like she didn’t just nearly start a war over a lunch break.
You’re still watching her go when Manon snorts beside you.
“I told you it would work.”
You blink. “What?”
Manon grins, biting into her straw. “She got jealous. Like, full-on jealous. I saw it in her eyes, bro. Y’all about to be one of them Wattpad fanfics.”
You stare at her. “You— what did you do?”
“Nothing!” she says innocently, though her grin says otherwise. “Just made a little bet with Beomgyu. He said she’s as straight as her eyeliner. I said no way — she’s fruity for you.”
You groan. “Manon—”
“What?” she says, laughing. “I’m gonna win that bet, I swear. Did you see her face? She looked like she was two seconds from throwing hands and confessing at the same time.”
You roll your eyes but can’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips.
“Yeah, right. She’s not jealous.”
Manon shrugs. “Sure. And I’m pregnant.”
You try to brush it off, go back to your drink, but your eyes drift — back to where Daniela walked away.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. That Manon’s just messing around.
But deep down, you know what you saw.
That flash in Daniela’s eyes — confusion, anger… and something else she’s not ready to name.
Daniela’s been pretending everything’s normal for a week now.
Normal as in ignoring you in the hallways, rolling her eyes whenever someone mentions your name, and totally not stalking your band’s Instagram page at midnight.
Totally fine.
She’s halfway through convincing herself when someone taps her shoulder.
“Girl, you’re being obvious.”
Daniela jumps a little. Yunjin’s sliding into the seat across from her, tray clattering down, grin already forming.
“I’m not doing anything,” Daniela mutters.
“Yeah, except burning a hole through Manon’s skull with your eyes,” Yunjin says, popping a fry into her mouth. “You’re so jealous it’s practically radiating off you.”
Daniela scoffs. “Jealous? Of Manon?”
“Mhmm.” Yunjin leans in, lowering her voice. “Listen, Dani, I love you, but you’ve got it bad. You act all high and mighty, but every time they laugh at someone else’s joke, you look ready to dropkick the person."
Daniela opens her mouth, then shuts it, looking away. “You’re annoying.”
And you’re in denial,” Yunjin says cheerfully. “Look, if you’re gonna keep pretending you don’t care, fine. But maybe shoot your shot before someone else does.”
Daniela scoffs, “There’s nothing to shoot.”
Yunjin says, taking a munch of her Sandwich. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t care about her?”
Daniela crosses her arms. “There’s nothing to care about.”
“Uh-huh.” Yunjin’s grin widens. “Cool, then you won’t mind that she’s performing tonight. With the rest of our band. Small gig, off-campus. But you probably don’t want to come. Wouldn’t want people thinking you actually like her or something.”
Daniela’s pulse trips.
“You’re performing… where?”
“Tiny pub near the station,” Yunjin says casually. “Doors at eight. If you’re ready to stop lying to yourself, you’ll show up.”
Daniela tells herself she’s only going because she’s bored.
She repeats it over and over on the way there—just bored, not curious, not nervous.
Inside, it’s warm and crowded, neon lights casting everyone in soft pink and blue.
And then she sees you.
Behind the drum kit.
Head down, hair sticking to your forehead, eyes half-closed as you move with the beat.
It’s not the usual school-hall energy — it’s raw, loud, magnetic. You look alive in a way Daniela’s never seen before.
Something in her chest stutters, then starts to ache.
You toss your head back mid-song, grinning at Beomgyu across the stage, and she swears the whole room blurs around you.
Every denial, every excuse, every “I’m straight” she’s ever said feels suddenly ridiculous — crumbling under the weight of whatever this is pounding through her.
By the time the set ends, she’s still standing there, frozen in the crowd, hands shaking slightly.
Yunjin spots her from the stage, smirks, and mouths, Told you so.
Daniela exhales, almost laughing, almost crying.
When you hop offstage, flushed and smiling, talking to Taehyun, she finally gets it.
The pub’s still humming after your last set — half the crowd still cheering, the other half yelling drink orders over the music. You’re halfway through packing your sticks when Yunjin nudges you, smirking like she just won the lottery.
“She’s here,” she says, tilting her chin toward the back of the room.
You pause. “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Yunjin teases. “Daniela. The queen bee herself. Been standing there since the second song, trying not to smile whenever you looked her way.”
You follow her gaze — and there she is. Daniela Avanzini, leaning against the wall, pretending to scroll through her phone while absolutely failing to look casual.
Your heart does this stupid flip. “You invited her?”
“Yup,” Yunjin grins. “You might wanna go talk to her before I start announcing your love story onstage.”
You roll your eyes, but your face is hot, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re weaving through the crowd toward her.
When she looks up, her eyes widen just a bit — caught.
“So,” you say, trying to sound cool, “you came.”
Daniela crosses her arms, shrugging like her heart isn’t about to beat out of her chest. “Yunjin practically threatened me. Said I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
You smile, teasing. “And do you?”
There’s a pause — one heartbeat, two. “Not yet,” she says softly.
Something shifts in her tone, something raw that makes your chest tighten. You open your mouth to respond, but she’s already saying, “Come with me.”
Before you can ask where, she takes your wrist — not rough, just certain — and leads you out the side door into the cool night air.
The noise fades, replaced by the quiet thrum of traffic and your own pulse in your ears. You lean against the wall beside her, arms folded.
“So what’s this about?” you ask, watching her struggle to find words — which, for Daniela, is rare.
She sighs, glancing up at the flickering streetlight. “I don’t… do this. Talking about feelings. Or admitting when I’m wrong.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. So this is serious.”
Daniela huffs out a nervous laugh. “I said some things before. About you. About what I felt — or didn’t.” She hesitates, biting her lip. “But seeing you tonight, up there… I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.”
Your chest feels too tight. “Dani—”
“I like you,” she blurts out, voice low but sure. “Like, really like you. And I don’t care if it makes me look stupid or soft or whatever. I was wrong. About being straight. About… everything.”
She finally meets your eyes — the queen bee of Dream Academy, looking terrified for once.
You don’t answer right away. You just step closer, close enough that she can hear your heartbeat over the faint music inside.
“Finally,” you whisper, smiling. “Took you long enough.”
Daniela lets out a breath that sounds half-laugh, half-relief, and before she can stop herself, she leans in — forehead brushing yours, just barely.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Guess I’m a little slow sometimes.”
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪Synopsis - You never thought you’d care about debating, let alone actually study for it — until Sophia Laforteza, the untouchable queen bee of the circuit, casually dismisses you with a single cutting remark. Fueled by irritation and a burning desire to prove her wrong, you dive into prep like never before, obsessively dissecting arguments, memorizing strategies.
As you push each other to your limits, the rivalry shifts from antagonism to something dangerously magnetic, culminating in a heated inter-school debate where victory tastes sweet and near-confessions hang in the air. Between unspoken tension, fleeting gestures, and the thrill of competition, you realize you didn’t become better to dethrone her — you became better because Sophia made you want to.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪Themes - debate setting! sophia x fem reader, academic rivals, yeonjun, chaewon, nd yunjin mentioned !! reader is lowk a try hard...
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪w.c - 5k
You really shouldn’t be here.
By all laws of the universe, by the rules you’ve lived by since the dawn of your academic career, by every instinct in your soul—you should be in your bedroom right now, curled up in front of your computer, headset on, fingers clicking away at your keyboard, absolutely destroying strangers in a valorant lobby.
That is where you belong.
Not… here.
The long rectangular table in front of you is crowded with students who actually look like they woke up excited for this. They’re flipping through thick binders, highlighting passages, discussing fiscal policy like it’s the latest game update. Meanwhile, the only document you’ve willingly read this month is patch notes.
Your uniform doesn’t help either. It feels wrong today—too stiff, too tight, like the fabric itself is judging you for being hauled into this academic battlefield without consent.
And at the front of the room, the adviser keeps talking in that droning voice that somehow turns every sentence into one stretched-out lecture nobody asked for. Something about collaboration, future leadership, inter-school synergy… all of which sound like euphemisms for “you’re stuck here, deal with it.”
Every word sinks into your skull like a slow, suffocating fog, and you swear you can feel your brain begging for respawn.
You shouldn’t be here because you didn’t sign up for this.
Your teacher did.
Behind your back.
And only told you this morning.
You were halfway through your breakfast when your phone buzzed with a notification, the kind that already feels like bad news before you even look at it. The message preview showed your teacher’s name and that ominous, overly formal typing style that adults use when they’re about to ruin your day.
“Oh, by the way,” the message read—by the way, as if he was casually reminding you to bring an umbrella—“I listed you as a representative for the debate program. Meeting is at ten. Don’t be late.”
You stared at your phone, choked on your food, then stared at your phone again, because surely he didn’t just drop life-changing information between emojis and a reminder to submit missing requirements.
You typed out a very long paragraph demanding answers, but he replied with a single thumbs-up emoji.
Which brings you to this moment.
Sitting stiffly, clutching a pen you haven't used in weeks, staring at a stack of papers you haven’t even flipped through. Your skin prickles with the unfamiliar pressure of responsibility. You should be home. Your PC should be humming softly beside you. Your biggest worry should be your rank decreasing—not whatever political, economic, or philosophical nightmare these documents contain.
You sigh, trying to quietly absorb the chaos of this room. Everyone talks in low but confident voices. They all seem to know why they’re here. They came prepared, dressed neatly, holding thick binders filled with notes.
And then there’s you, whose only binder is the empty one in your backpack because you thought it made you look studious.
You tell yourself it’ll be fine.
You tell yourself you’ll just sit quietly, pretend to understand, and leave without making eye contact.
But then the temperature in the room shifts.
A soft click of heels echoes across the floor.
And every head—including yours—turns.
Sophia Laforteza enters like she owns the building.
Of course she does. She owns everything she touches: gradebooks, competitions, trophies, judges’ hearts, the school’s collective admiration. Her uniform is perfectly ironed, her hair tied in a smooth ponytail, her binder thick with notes and highlighted tabs. Everything about her radiates unbearable competence.
She glides into the seat directly across from you with the ease of someone who’s been reigning over this academic kingdom for years.
Your stomach twists.
Great.
The queen bee herself.
You straighten instinctively, even though she doesn’t spare you a single glance. She flips through her binder, every movement efficient, elegant, almost intimidatingly graceful. Her nails are neat. Her pen glides effortlessly. She reads with focus that borders on inhuman.
Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure your pen is upside down.
The adviser clears his throat and begins the meeting, launching into updates and reminders. You try to listen. You really do. But the words keep slipping out of your brain like oil on water.
Because the entire time, you’re hyper-aware of the girl sitting across from you.
Sophia finally lifts her eyes, scanning the room—and when they land on you, her brows lift a fraction. Her gaze flickers down to your blank papers, then back to your face.
You can practically hear her thoughts.
Unprepared. Lost. Probably here by accident.
And then—there it is.
The smallest, softest, most infuriating smile.
You look away so quickly your neck almost snaps.
You don’t know it yet, but this moment will ruin everything. It will dig into your ribs, burrow into your spine, and settle in your thoughts like a splinter that refuses to be ignored.
Because for the first time in your life, someone looked at your chaos and called you out without saying a single word.
And unfortunately for you?
Her name is Sophia Laforteza.
The adviser clears their throat, and the room finally shifts its attention away from you long enough for you to breathe again.
Their laptop clicks, a projector whirs to life, and suddenly the whiteboard behind them is filled with names you absolutely did not expect to see today. You lean forward out of instinct, even though your brain is still echoing with the same question on loop: Why am I here?
Your name is listed in bold beside Yeonjun and Chaewon—two people who actually know how to speak in front of a crowd without sweating through their shirts.
Meanwhile, the opposing column glows like it was designed purely to ruin your morning: Sophia at the top, followed by Yunjin and Daniela. The holy trinity of confidence, charisma, and chaos. Together. In one team. Against you.
A ripple of whispers runs across the table, the kind that makes your stomach curl. Yeonjun glances at you with an expression halfway between amusement and oh, you’re so screwed. Chaewon just gives a small nod, neat and composed as always, as if this matchup is nothing she hasn’t already predicted five steps ahead.
You keep your eyes glued to the board, as if staring long enough will make your name crawl off and escape. Being matched against Sophia alone is enough to make anyone question their decisions in life, but being thrown against her entire entourage? That feels personal. You didn’t sign up for this. Literally.
You feel your fingers tighten around the edge of the table as you remember your teacher’s casual, breezy message earlier. “Oh, I forgot to tell you—your name was submitted for the debate program. Great opportunity! Good luck!” Great opportunity, your ass.
Sophia shifts in her seat across the room, and it’s impossible not to notice her. She’s leaning back like she owns the chairs, the table, the school—her perfectly manicured nails tapping a light rhythm as if today’s announcement is nothing but entertainment.
Yunjin hides a smile behind her hand. Daniela just scratches her eyebrow, her eyes lifting toward you with that unreadable expression that somehow feels like a smirk even when it isn’t.
The adviser starts explaining the format of the upcoming inter-school event, but the words slide over you like static. Your pulse thumps louder than their voice. Questions pile in your head faster than you can unpack them.
Why your teacher picked you now, of all times. Why you’re grouped with people way out of your league. Why your opponents look like they’re actually excited to go against you.
Yeonjun nudges you with his elbow, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. “Hey,” he whispers, grinning, “at least your opponents are hot.”
You stare at him.
Chaewon doesn’t even glance your way as she mutters, “Ignore him. He thinks he’s being supportive.”
But her eyes flick toward Sophia’s table for half a second, sharp and assessing, and that tiny flicker alone is enough to tell you one thing: this is going to be war.
And you’re not sure if you were drafted… or sacrificed.
The adviser barely finishes explaining the agenda when the room shifts into small-group discussions. You, Chaewon, and Yeonjun pull your chairs together, forming an awkward little triangle of last-minute recruits and varying levels of panic.
Across from you, Sophia slides gracefully into the seat beside Yunjin and Daniela like she’s taking her rightful place on a throne.
She doesn’t even look your way at first. She just smooths a hand over her already-perfect notes, flips open a thick binder, and starts assigning tasks to her teammates with that calm, crisp, terrifying efficiency only the academically blessed possess.
Meanwhile, Chaewon whispers, “Do we… even have a binder?”
Yeonjun shakes his head. “I don’t even have a pen.”
You pretend not to hear any of that. You’re already insecure enough without the audio commentary.
The adviser calls for each group to share their initial stance on the topic, and of course fate — evil, merciless fate — picks your table to speak first. Chaewon nudges you forward. Yeonjun mutters, “You got this,” with the confidence of a man who absolutely believes you do not got this.
You clear your throat and give the world’s vaguest, half-constructed opening statement. It’s not terrible, but it’s definitely something you came up with on the spot while silently begging the universe to spare you.
When you finish, there’s a polite smattering of nods.
And then Sophia speaks.
“Well,” she says, folding her hands neatly over her notes. “That was… spontaneous.”
The group chuckles lightly. You feel your eye twitch.
Sophia tilts her head just a little, her ponytail swaying like it’s mocking you too. “If you’d read the material beforehand, you could’ve made a stronger argument.” Her tone isn’t harsh, but God, it’s sharp. “You’d actually be decent if you tried preparing. Just a thought.”
Her teammates smile. Yours look like they want to melt into the carpet.
You sit there, heat rising under your skin, throat tightening with a mix of embarrassment and something hotter, sharper.
She didn’t yell. She didn’t insult you. She didn’t even change the tone of her voice. What she did was so much worse — she dismissed you without hesitation, like flicking lint off her sleeve. Casual. Effortless.
As if your effort, your words, your entire presence in this room were barely worth acknowledging. When she looked back down at her binder, already moving on from you, the sting hit sharper than any direct insult could’ve.
Chaewon leans in and whispers, “Don’t listen to her,” but it’s pointless. You are listening. Every syllable Sophia dropped floats around your head like a storm cloud you can’t outrun. You’d be decent if you actually tried. The audacity of it sinks deeper the more you replay it. As if she knows your work habits.
That’s the part that burns.
Sophia Laforteza, queen bee of the debate circuit, didn’t issue a challenge. She pulled a pin, dropped it at your feet, and walked away expecting you not to notice the explosion.
But you do.
For the first time in a very, very long while, something hot and restless unfurls inside you. It’s not for the trophy. It’s not to impress your teammates. It’s definitely not for the teacher who dragged you into this disaster.
No — this spark is entirely, painfully, infuriatingly because of her. Because you want to see her expression change. Because you want to wipe that smug, unbothered look off her face. Because she thinks she already knows how this story ends.
You straighten in your seat, suddenly alert. Your hand closes around your pen with a new sense of purpose. Somewhere in your chest, a tiny flame flickers to life, fragile but real.
It isn’t love. Not even close.
It’s the sharp, undeniable urge to ruin Sophia Laforteza’s day by becoming better — just to watch her reaction when you do.
You don’t start studying right away. Of course you don’t. That would be too logical, too healthy, too unlike you. Instead, you spend the rest of the meeting quietly stewing, refusing to look in Sophia’s direction while simultaneously being hyper-aware of every time she speaks, moves, or breathes.
Every comment she makes, every confident flick of her wrist as she turns a page, feels like a reminder that she thinks she’s leagues above you.
The annoyance settles deep enough that even Yeonjun notices. “You okay?” he asks as you walk out of the room.
“I’m fine,” you mutter, shoving your papers into your bag with a little too much force.
Chaewon raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because you look like you’re about to set the auditorium on fire.”
She’s not wrong. Something in you is blazing — irritation, embarrassment, competitiveness, maybe all three. You go home still replaying Sophia’s voice in your head, especially that one line: You’d be decent if you actually tried.
You hate that it keeps echoing. You hate that it bothers you. And you really hate that a part of you wants to prove her wrong.
You flop onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to will the thought away. But it clings to you like static. Even your games don’t help — you catch yourself zoning out during matches, thinking about counterarguments instead of cooldowns.
At some point, you groan, shove your headset off, and sit up. The debate packet your teacher emailed you sits on your desk, untouched, glowing like a cursed relic.
You glare at it.
It glares back.
Finally, with the heaviest sigh known to humanity, you drag yourself to the desk and open the file.
At first, you skim out of spite. But then you slow down. You actually start reading. You reread parts you don’t understand. You watch a few debate videos thinking it’ll be five minutes — and then suddenly, it’s almost midnight.
Somewhere along the way, curiosity sneaks in. You pause one of Sophia’s old debate clips, staring at the way she structures her points — clean, confident, deliberate. She transitions between ideas like she’s gliding on ice.
She doesn’t just argue; she cuts. Watching her work feels like taking a punch and then realizing you want to learn how to throw one back.
You rewind and take notes.
You… take notes.
It feels wrong. It feels illegal. It feels like your personality is undergoing an unsupervised renovation.
At one point, your friend messages you asking to play. You type out a whole explanation about being busy, delete it, and send a simple “can’t.” They immediately reply: Who are you and what have you done with the real you?
You roll your eyes and deny everything, but you can’t deny the truth: you’re motivated. Begrudgingly. Pettily. Entirely because Sophia Laforteza pushed your buttons in exactly the right way.
You start reading case files, highlighting key sections, muttering counterarguments under your breath like a lunatic. You pace around your room while practicing openings. You even open a Google Doc. You feel the universe tremble.
And every time you feel yourself getting tired, irritated, or bored, her voice resurfaces: You’d be decent if you actually tried.
Your jaw clenches.
Fine. You’ll try.
You’ll try so hard that she’ll regret ever assuming you wouldn’t.
Little do you know, someone has noticed the shift already. She catches the way you stay after meetings, the way you actually raise your hand to ask clarification questions. She watches all of it with quiet, careful eyes — the kind that linger a little too long before looking away.
Not that you notice.
You’re too busy plotting her downfall.
The next week, the adviser calls everyone back into the conference room, but this time it’s different. There’s a buzz of urgency in the air — the inter-school competition is only a week away, and everyone knows it. Papers are stacked, laptops are open, and every team is assigned a captain to coordinate preparations.
You, to your horror, realize that Sophia has been paired with you. Not for practice matches or light collaboration, but as a formal study partner under the adviser’s direction.
The adviser explains the setup with cheerful precision. “Team captains, you’ll review your group’s arguments together. Critique each other, point out weaknesses, refine your strategy. By the end of the week, both sides should be able to anticipate and counter every possible argument.”
Eyes flicker toward you and Sophia as if this pairing is the highlight of the plan. You feel your stomach drop.
Sophia’s gaze finds you across the room. Her expression is one of mild amusement, as if she can already predict how this is going to go.
She doesn’t smile outright — that would give you hope — but there’s a slight lift of her brow, enough to make your pulse spike. She leans back in her chair, opening her binder with deliberate slowness, as if daring you to step up.
You stand, gripping your own folder like it’s a weapon. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your notes, your brain scrambling for an appropriate opening line that won’t make you sound like a complete disaster. Sophia notices the hesitation instantly.
“Didn’t expect you to show up,” she says finally, her voice light but sharp, cutting through the low hum of other teams around you. “You usually avoid anything that requires effort.”
Heat rises in your cheeks. Normally, you’d let that comment slide, roll your eyes, and retreat into sarcasm. But today feels different.
Today, her words ignite something inside you. You fire back with the sharpest comeback you can muster, careful to hide the shaking of your hands: “Someone has to show the amateurs how it’s done.”
Sophia tilts her head, clearly intrigued, not offended. That small reaction — subtle as it is — gives you an almost perverse satisfaction. You realize, with a mix of dread and excitement, that she’s going to push you harder than anyone ever has.
The session begins, and the air immediately thickens. Sophia scrutinizes every point you raise, leaning over your notes to trace flaws you didn’t even notice. Her perfume — something soft, floral, intoxicating — drifts into your awareness, and it’s nearly impossible to focus.
She corrects phrasing, reorganizes your logic, and at one point, peers down at a particularly solid counterpoint you accidentally stumbled upon. “This part is actually good,” she murmurs, voice tinged with disbelief. “Shocking.”
You smirk, unable to resist the jab. “I’m full of surprises.”
Sophia raises one perfectly arched eyebrow and meets your gaze directly. “I’m aware.”
The rest of the session stretches on like this. Every correction, every close assessment, every tiny smirk or raised brow builds a tension that is almost unbearable. You’re working harder than you ever have in your life, driven by a mix of pride, irritation, and something you refuse to name.
By the end of the first hour, your notes are a mess of edits and highlights, your mind buzzing, your heart stubbornly refusing to calm down.
And through it all, Sophia doesn’t just watch. She notices.
By the third study session, things shift.
You’ve gotten used to Sophia’s rhythm — the way she speaks fast but thinks faster, the exact moment her eyes narrow when she’s about to tear an argument apart, the small inhale she takes before delivering a point that could make someone quit the entire activity forever. She’s terrifying, impressive, and annoyingly mesmerizing all at once.
But this time, you’re ready.
The adviser calls for a short practice round. You and Sophia on opposite sides. Friendly fire, supposedly. You can practically hear the universe laughing.
Sophia stands first, posture immaculate, voice smooth as glass. She delivers her opening argument with the same effortless precision she always has — clean, structured, airtight. Her teammates look impressed. Your teammates look resigned.
Then it’s your turn.
You take a breath, steady your notes, and begin.
At first, you follow the plan you rehearsed: slow, calm, measured. But as you speak, something clicks. The words come easier. The structure you practiced late last night flows into place. You look up, meet her eyes, and you swear for a moment she looks surprised you aren’t choking on your own nervousness.
Then she drops her key point — the one she always relies on, the one she’s used in three different recorded debates. You know it by heart. You’ve watched that clip more times than you’d ever admit.
And you strike.
You dismantle her argument with surgical precision. Every flaw you found in your late-night study session becomes a weapon. Every counterpoint you practiced under your breath comes out crisp, cutting, and undeniable. Your delivery is sharp enough to draw a low, impressed whistle from Yeonjun.
Sophia freezes.
Just for a second — but you see it.
It’s like you’ve offended her bloodline.
Her eyes narrow, not in anger, but in something sharper, deeper — genuine shock. She didn’t expect you to hit her that cleanly. She didn’t expect you to understand her strategy. And she definitely didn’t expect you to call out a blind spot no one else has caught.
When the round ends, there’s an uncomfortable silence. Even the adviser looks at you with raised brows, like he’s trying to figure out when exactly you became competent.
Sophia closes her folder slowly. Too slowly. Her composure is perfect, but her shoulders are a little too stiff, her jaw a little too tight. She walks over to you, her steps measured, her face unreadable.
“You’ve improved,” she says quietly.
There’s no sarcasm. No mockery. No smug lift of her brow. Just a statement. Honest. Unsettling.
You swallow, unsure why her sincerity feels more dangerous than her insults. “Thanks, queen,” you answer, trying to keep the moment from feeling too… intimate.
She ignores your teasing for the first time ever. “No, seriously.” Her eyes search your face, trying to peel back your layers. “What changed?”
You open your mouth — and panic. Telling her the truth isn’t an option. I studied because you annoyed me into enlightenment is not something you’re ready to confess.
So you dodge.
“Just… felt like it.”
It’s the worst lie you’ve ever told. And she knows it. Her expression tightens with irritation, confusion, and something else you can’t name. She doesn’t press further; she just steps back, crossing her arms as if shielding herself from something she doesn’t understand.
“Fine,” she mutters. “Be cryptic.”
Then she walks away before you can say anything else.
You watch her back, her perfectly straight posture, her perfectly controlled stride, and something in your chest twists.
You wanted to prove her wrong.
You didn’t expect to get under her skin.
And you definitely didn’t expect her to get under yours.
It’s late, the rest of the team has left, and the conference room is quiet except for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the scratch of Sophia’s pen against paper. You linger near the doorway, pretending to check your notes, but really, you’re watching her. She doesn’t usually stay behind like this.
Sophia Laforteza, who dominates every meeting, who rarely falters, who seems incapable of stress, is hunched over a sheet of paper, brows furrowed, lips pressed together. Her perfect composure is cracked, if only slightly, and it’s… fascinating.
You clear your throat. She doesn’t look up at first. When she finally does, there’s a flicker of surprise, quickly masked by the usual confidence she wears like armor. “What are you doing here?” she asks, voice cool but curious.
“Just… thought I’d check something,” you say, stepping closer. Your eyes can’t help wandering over the notes she’s scribbled in frantic, neat loops. You notice the small corrections in the margins, the way she’s double-checked every reference, the intensity that usually hides behind that queen-bee exterior. “Looks like someone’s stressed,” you tease lightly.
Sophia straightens just a fraction, like she’s trying to push you away without moving. “I hate losing,” she admits quietly, almost under her breath. It catches you off guard. “I hate feeling second. I hate… not being in control.”
You blink, suddenly seeing her differently. That untouchable aura, the perfect veneer — it’s not invincible. Not completely. And the truth sneaks into your chest with a little thrill.
“Scared I might take your crown?” you ask, smirking despite yourself.
Her lips twitch, almost like a smile. Almost. She steps closer, and the air between you tightens. “I don’t lose to people who don’t even try,” she says, eyes locked on yours. There’s a challenge in them, but also something more… fragile, human.
You swallow. Your chest tightens. “Then lucky for you,” you say slowly, letting your words hang in the silence, “I’m putting effort in… because of you.”
The effect is immediate. Her eyes widen, ever so slightly, a flicker of something — shock, disbelief, maybe even… curiosity — crossing her face. You can almost hear your own heartbeat in the quiet room. Neither of you speaks for a moment. The air thickens, charged with all the things neither of you is willing to name.
She leans over your notes as if to correct something small, and your proximity catches you off guard. You can feel the heat from her shoulder, the faint scent of her perfume. Your mind scrambles. You know this is wrong. You know it’s probably forbidden. But your chest feels like it might combust if you move or speak too quickly.
Almost instinctively, you step back, breaking the spell. “I should… get going,” you mutter, but even as the words leave your mouth, your brain is screaming at you to stay, to say more, to admit something you’re not ready for.
Sophia straightens, regaining the composure that’s always been her shield. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t smirk. She just watches you, quiet, unreadable, as if trying to process exactly what you just said — and maybe, what it really means.
And for the first time, you realize that your rivalry isn’t the only thing changing. Something else is shifting. Something dangerous, thrilling, and completely uncontrollable.
The spark you thought was just irritation, just motivation to beat her, just petty revenge — it feels a little different now. A little sharper. A little hotter.
And as you leave the room, you know one thing with terrifying clarity: Sophia Laforteza isn’t just a rival anymore. She’s… something else. Something that has your full, unwilling attention.
The day of the inter-school debate arrives, and the auditorium hums with anticipation. Students, teachers, and judges fill every seat. The air is thick with the scent of polished wood, paper, and nerves. You pace backstage, gripping your notes, heart hammering in your chest.
Your hands are sweaty, your brain is buzzing, and yet, somewhere deep inside, a strange calm has settled. You’ve prepared. You’ve studied. You’ve obsessed. And for the first time, you actually feel ready to face Sophia.
She’s already there, reviewing her binder with the same deadly precision, her ponytail swinging slightly as she moves. When her eyes flick up and meet yours, your stomach twists.
That same smug, effortless expression is there — but now, it’s tempered with something else, a flicker of recognition, curiosity, and maybe a touch of unease. She tilts her head, ever so slightly, as if testing you, daring you to rise to the occasion.
The round begins, and you’re on stage. The spotlight is unforgiving. Judges scribble notes furiously. Your teammates glance at you, a mix of trust and desperation in their eyes. Sophia steps forward first, her voice clear, measured, commanding.
She delivers her opening argument with flawless execution. Every point is precise. Every transition seamless. She is perfect. She is terrifying. She is everything you expected — and yet, something in you refuses to flinch.
When it’s your turn, you draw in a deep breath and begin. You speak with clarity, your words rehearsed but alive, your tone firm, your confidence growing with every sentence.
You counter her first major point with precision, the culmination of late nights, obsessive note-taking, and endless replaying of her debate clips.
When you finish, a hush falls over the judges. You glance at Sophia. Her eyes widen for a brief moment — just enough to let you know that you’ve thrown her off balance. She wasn’t expecting this.
She responds with sharper attacks, faster transitions, harder logic. The tension between you two is palpable, like the electricity before a storm. You meet her point for point, every rebuttal carefully chosen, every argument precise.
The auditorium feels smaller, the world outside the stage nonexistent. It’s just the two of you, sparring through logic, and somehow, everything else — the pressure, the fear, the rivalry — melts into something thrilling.
By the end of the round, your voices are slightly hoarse, your notes scattered, and your hearts racing. The judges murmur amongst themselves, clearly stunned, but the real storm is backstage, just behind the curtain. You catch sight of Sophia leaving the stage first. Her expression is a mixture of frustration, admiration, and something else that makes your stomach flip.
You can’t help yourself. You chase after her, weaving through chairs and students. She stops just long enough to glance at you, lips parted slightly, eyes wide, unreadable. You step closer, words tumbling out before you can filter them.
“I studied,” you admit, voice low, catching her off guard, “I wanted to prove myself to everyone… but really, it’s you I wanted to prove it to."
For a heartbeat, she freezes. Every ounce of her composed exterior falters. Her breath catches. Her eyes widen even further, and for the first time, she seems truly… vulnerable. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. She just stares, caught in that moment of disbelief, and maybe… understanding.
You lean closer instinctively, drawn to her in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. The space between you shrinks, and for a heartbeat, it feels like nothing else exists — the auditorium, the judges, the competition, even the rivalry — none of it matters.
And then, suddenly, the adviser’s sharp voice cuts through the tension. “Both teams, back on stage! Now!”
You stumble back just enough to break the proximity. Sophia blinks, flustered, her composure flickering as she takes a step away from you. The almost-kiss lingers in the air like static, thick and electric, and your chest tightens with frustration and longing.
You exchange a look — brief, loaded, unspoken — before turning toward the stage, hearts still racing. The moment didn’t end, it just… paused. Both of you know it’s far from over.
And as you take your place, side by side with your teammates, the rivalry feels different now. It’s no longer just about winning. It’s about the pull between you, the tension that refuses to be ignored, and the unspoken promise that the game — both on stage and off — has only just begun.
When you guys got back on stage, the final scores were posted, and the auditorium erupts with applause. Your chest pounds as the numbers settle into your brain: your team won. Not by much, but enough. Enough to make the endless late nights, obsessive note-taking, and chaotic study sessions feel worth it.
Yeonjun and Chaewon cheer, slapping each other on the back. You force yourself to stand tall, smiling through the adrenaline, trying not to look over at the other team — but, of course, your eyes find Sophia.
She’s standing perfectly composed at first, binder clutched to her chest, but when her gaze lands on you, something changes.
A small flicker of surprise crosses her features — subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable. Her lips twitch almost imperceptibly, like she’s trying to hide a reaction, trying to keep the queen-bee exterior intact. She doesn’t smirk. She doesn’t congratulate you. She just watches, calculating, as if already plotting her next move.
When she finally steps off the stage, she does so with measured calm, her movements deliberate. Her voice, low and even, carries a warning more than a greeting: “I’ll beat you next time.”
There’s no challenge in the tone, and yet, you can feel the weight of it, the unspoken acknowledgment that this isn’t over. You almost grin at her, almost reply with something smug, but you bite it back. That’s not the game now. The game is still simmering, still alive.
Instead, you just nod, letting a small smirk curl at the corner of your lips. “I’ll hold you to that,” you say lightly. Your teammates cheer behind you, but you don’t look at them. Your focus is entirely on Sophia, standing there like she’s already plotting the next round.
She rolls her eyes at your remark, shakes her head slightly, and brushes past your shoulder. A light, almost imperceptible brush of her hand against yours — casual, accidental, but enough to make your chest tighten.
She doesn’t acknowledge it, and you don’t either. It’s a subtle thing, a spark buried in the tension between you.
As you gather your things and leave the stage, you realize the truth: winning was only part of this. You didn’t become better just to defeat Sophia Laforteza.
Every late night, every argument practiced in your room, every obsessive dissection of her debate style was motivated by something far more stubborn and dangerous.
You became better because she made you want to, because pushing yourself past your limits somehow became tied to her. Because her presence — intimidating, infuriating, impossible to ignore — lit a fire under you that no lecture, no adviser, and no competition ever could.
The victory is sweet, yes, but it’s only the beginning. You gather your things and step outside, the cool air hitting your face, and your heart is still racing from the adrenaline.
The auditorium behind you buzzes with chatter, but your focus is singular. You spot her almost immediately, standing just outside the entrance, coat draped over her arm, binder tucked neatly under her elbow.
Without thinking, you jog toward her, adrenaline and nerves mingling in equal measure. “Hey,” you call out, breathless, and she glances up, eyes narrowing briefly before softening ever so slightly.
You pause a few feet away, trying to act casual despite the pounding of your heart. “So… I was thinking,” you start, voice uneven, “maybe we could… uh… go out sometime? Like, a proper date?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, without a word, she steps closer, tilts her head, and plants a quick, deliberate kiss on your cheek. It’s soft, fleeting, and warm — a spark of something promising, teasing, and entirely unexpected.
She steps back just enough to meet your eyes, her lips curling into the faintest smirk. “Don’t get cocky,” she murmurs, though her eyes are laughing.
You feel your face flush, your chest tighten, and for the first time, the rivalry feels less like a war and more like… something else entirely. The game is far from over, but maybe, just maybe, it’s finally a game you want to play together.
I wanna find you in a crowd, just to hide from you.
That’s what it feels like every time you cross paths with Megan Skiendiel —sharp, untouchable, and never interested in anyone—until a stray basketball hits her in the face and suddenly you’re the one person who can crack her perfectly controlled world.
From tense hallway encounters to a school festival's “Marriage Booth” that forces the two of you into plastic rings and fake vows . In a high school full of noise, stolen glances, and too-loud heartbeats, you and Megan learn that sometimes the person you try hardest to avoid is exactly the one you can’t stop wanting.
✩₊˚.⋆ Themes - highschool au, basketball captain!reader x bookworm! megan, marriage booth !!!, forced proximity, opposites attract :p, inspired by So High School by Taylor Swift
✩₊˚.⋆ w.c - 4k
The gym smelled like polished wood and sweat and the faint tang of whatever cleaning spray they used on the bleachers. Sunlight cut in through the high windows, painting golden stripes across the hardwood.
It was late afternoon, and the court was alive—the thump of the ball, the squeak of sneakers, the echoes of your teammates yelling at each other, the familiar rhythm that made everything feel… predictable. Until it didn’t.
Because you didn’t see her at first.
You were lining up for a layup, bouncing the ball a few times to get the rhythm right, the kind of focus that made everything outside the court fade. And then, in one careless, chaotic instant, your shot went wide. The ball soared through the air and smacked something—or someone—right in the face.
You froze. Heart jumping.
“Shit.”
And there she was, crumpled slightly, one hand flying to her cheek, the other clutching a binder that had exploded in papers around her like confetti. Her glasses had slid down her nose, and her dark hair fell in a messy curtain across one side of her face.
She looked up at you with wide eyes, cheeks faintly pink, and then—because of course this would happen—she stared for an uncomfortably long moment.
“Wow,” she said finally, blinking. Her voice was dry, clipped, Gen Z casual but somehow perfectly pitched to cut through the chaos. “You really hate walls, huh?”
Your jaw dropped. “Uh… I—I didn’t mean—”
She waved a hand, letting it drop like it was nothing. “Relax. I’m not dead.”
You crouched, gathering her scattered papers. Your fingers brushed hers, and she flinched—not badly, not offensively, just a tiny, instinctive flinch. She grabbed a notebook and pressed it to her chest like armor, her sharp eyes flicking up to you.
“You’re—uh—” you began, unsure what to say. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, voice casual but with a faint edge of amused annoyance. “Although maybe next time, try aiming your shots somewhere that isn’t… my face. You know, general courtesy, stuff like that.”
She smirked slightly, the kind of smirk that made you feel like she had just won some invisible, private battle. And somehow, despite being hit in the face with a basketball, she was terrifyingly, infuriatingly cool.
“Right. Yeah. Sorry about that,” you said, brushing a hand through your hair. “Totally didn’t mean—”
She raised a hand. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse. Mostly people bumping into me in the hallway. But your style… aggressive. Noted.”
You blinked. “Aggressive?”
She shrugged, glancing down at her mess of papers. “You’re loud. You move fast. You probably yell a lot at your friends. It’s very… sporty. I respect it.”
Something in your chest fluttered at that. Not because she complimented you—no, because it was her. Casual. Witty. Observant. Not lecturing. Not formal. You handed her a sheet of paper she had missed. “Here. That one—uh, make sure it’s not ruined.”
She took it, brushing your fingers again with hers, and for a moment, neither of you moved. She looked at you like she was both annoyed and intrigued, like she couldn’t quite decide whether she wanted to storm off or stay.
“Thanks,” she said finally. Her voice was softer now, almost reluctant. “I guess. For the… helpin'.”
“Yeah, no problem,” you muttered, scratching the back of your neck. “Maybe, uh, try not to walk into my shots again?”
Her smirk returned, one side of her mouth quirking up like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Or maybe you should learn to aim better. Your stats could use it.”
You blinked. And somewhere under that—under the absurdity, the adrenaline, the faint warmth from her brush of fingers—you realized;
she was trouble. And for some reason, you were already hooked.
As she gathered her things and walked toward the bleachers, glancing back at you with that same mix of amusement and challenge, you couldn’t help but watch.
And you knew, deep down, this wasn’t going to be the last time you ran into Megan Skiendiel.
The first time you saw her again after the basketball incident, it was by pure chance—or so you tried to tell yourself. You were jogging across the schoolyard, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, water bottle in hand, hair damp from the warm spring sun.
The world was full of noise; kids laughing, vendors setting up booths for the upcoming festival, the faint smell of popcorn from the cafeteria.
You didn’t expect anyone in particular, certainly not Megan Skiendiel, standing near the lockers, completely absorbed in the screen of her phone.
You froze before she noticed you, a strange pull in your chest. She looked smaller in casual clothes—gray hoodie, baggy jeans, sneakers—but just as intense. Her hair was messy in a way that looked effortless, and those dark eyes flicked up briefly from the screen, catching yours before she quickly dropped her gaze again.
You swallowed. “Hey.”
Her head jerked up, almost like she’d been caught committing a crime. “Oh—hey,” she said, voice clipped but casual, like she was trying to act unimpressed while your chest jumped at the sound of her tone. “Uh… fancy seeing you here.”
“Yeah… I, uh, just finished practice,” you said, kicking a small pebble along the ground. You didn’t look away, but you couldn’t quite meet her eyes either. There was a fluttering, a tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected.
Megan adjusted her backpack strap, clearly trying to act normal. “Right. You’re—what—basketball?”
“Yeah. You remembered,” you said, a little surprised. You hadn’t expected her to remember you. Most people didn’t, not really.
She shrugged, glancing down at her phone again. “I mean… kind of hard to forget the girl who throws balls at your face in the middle of gym class.” Her lips twitched in a smirk, almost imperceptible, but enough to make your stomach twist.
“Yeah, okay, I deserved that,” you admitted, laughing softly, nervous. “Sorry again.”
“Mm. Noted,” she said, voice casual, but you swore you caught a faint edge of something—like amusement, or interest, or the tiniest trace of annoyance that she wouldn’t let herself admit.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, glancing at the crowd of students moving past, then back at you. “So… you’re, uh… practicing all the time?”
“Pretty much. You know me.” You smiled, shrugging. “You still doing that… thing with the debate club?”
“Yeah. Mostly surviving,” she said, deadpan. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and let out a soft sigh. “It’s chaos. Not as dangerous as a basketball hitting your face, but still…” She trailed off, glancing toward the gym doors where the remnants of your practice echoed faintly.
There was a pause, awkward and electric. You noticed the way she kept stealing glances at you, pretending to look at her phone, adjusting her hoodie, anything to avoid fully meeting your gaze. It was infuriating. And somehow… kind of intoxicating.
“Anyway,” she said finally, stepping back, “don’t hurt anyone else today, okay? People aren’t as lucky as me.”
“I’ll try,” you said, grinning. “You should—uh—come to practice sometime. Might help with… reflexes.”
Her eyes flicked up sharply. “Reflexes, huh? Tempting, but I think I’ll pass. Don’t need another injury.”
You laughed, heart thumping in that ridiculous way that always happened when she was near. “Suit yourself.”
She glanced away, finally letting a small smile tug at her lips—almost hidden, almost casual, but unmistakable. “See you around… hopefully not in the line of fire.”
And just like that, she was gone—slipping into the crowd, hoodie blending into the chaos, leaving you with your stomach in knots and the faint, undeniable feeling that this was just the beginning.
That every hallway, every practice, every glance would be a slow build toward… something. Something you didn’t quite understand yet, but already couldn’t wait for.
School had this way of feeling like a living, breathing organism: crowded hallways, the constant hum of chatter, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on tile. You moved through it like you owned it, backpack bouncing against your shoulders, sneakers clattering in rhythm with your heartbeat.
Yet no matter how loud the corridors, no matter how fast your sneakers carried you to the next class, there she was—Megan Skiendiel—lurking at the edges of your vision like a shadow you didn’t want to exist but couldn’t stop noticing.
It wasn’t subtle. She wasn’t glaring, exactly, but there was a tension in her posture, a stiffness that didn’t belong to the rest of the calm, effortless people around her.
You first noticed it during lunch, when she walked past your table to get her usual salad, head down, earbuds in, clearly trying to avoid colliding with the cafeteria crowd.
But even with her attention buried in the music, her eyes flicked up—brief, unguarded—and there you were. Somehow, she had found you in the chaos, and just as quickly, she looked away.
It became a quiet game. You would glance across the hall, pretending to check your phone, only to catch her scanning the crowd too, like she was measuring the probability that you’d be anywhere nearby.
Neither of you admitted it—yet. And yet, the tension between you was growing, unspoken but undeniable, simmering like a coil waiting to snap.
Meanwhile, the rest of the school had begun to notice the odd dynamic. Megan Skiendiel had always had admirers—students who whispered about her intelligence, her awards, the way she seemed untouchable.
But now, apparently, she was being approached almost daily by a rotating cast of hopefuls. Boys, girls, student council members, debate partners—everyone. And Megan? She rejected all of them with the same efficiency that made her terrifying to be around.
“No, thanks.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Really, not gonna happen.”
Each refusal was polite, perfectly measured, yet sharp enough to leave no room for argument. Rumors spread like wildfire. “Megan Skiendiel doesn’t date.” “Megan must have impossibly high standards.” “She’s too focused on herself to even care.”
And yet… there was something strange about the way she stared when she noticed anyone flirting with you.
Just the hint of annoyance in her eyes, a tightening of her jaw, a subtle scowl directed at anyone daring to come near you. The rumors, the rejections, the whispered chatter—they didn’t matter to her, except for one tiny, glaring exception: you.
And then came the school festival.
The week-long fair transformed the campus into chaos incarnate: games, booths, food stands, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and sweet pastries, laughter and screaming.
You had expected it to be overwhelming, but somehow your focus narrowed immediately when you spotted her among the crowd.
She wasn’t at a table or a booth, just moving through the throng, a bottle of water in her hand, eyes flicking constantly over the chaos as if evaluating whether anyone dared come near.
And you couldn’t help yourself; you scanned the crowd for her too.
There was a booth that had become infamous: the “Marriage Booth—Get Married for 10 Minutes!” sign hanging crookedly above a small curtained alcove. Students lined up to pair with crushes as a joke, laughing as they slid fake rings onto each other’s fingers.
You hadn’t paid much attention until you saw her—Megan, once again surrounded by would-be suitors. Girls with flirty smiles approached her, hearts written on their sleeves, phones ready to capture the moment.
Megan rejected every single one. Instantly. Sharply. Polished words, clipped with annoyance: “I’m not wasting time on something ridiculous.” “Absolutely not.” “Do not ask me again.”
She did not flinch, did not waiver, but her eyes kept flicking toward you whenever she thought you weren’t looking.
Your friends, Minji and Soobin, who had been watching the tension build between you and Megan all week, whispered and nudged each other. “Dude, this is perfect. The chemistry is real.” “I’m putting ten bucks on them actually fighting in there.”
Before you could protest, someone shoved you both into the booth as a joke. The curtain slammed behind you, the interior cramped, the smell of cheap plastic and fabric surrounding you.
“I didn’t agree to this,” Megan hissed, whisper-shouting through the curtain, cheeks red.
“Neither did I!” you shot back, your voice just above panic.
The space was absurdly small. Your knees touched hers. Your shoulders brushed against hers. She tried so hard not to look at you, twisting her head and fixing her hair, pretending the fabric curtain offered some shield of dignity.
The officiator, Yunjin—a friend of yours who clearly thought this was hilarious—forced you both to repeat the vows. Megan’s voice cracked slightly on the words, “…in excellence and in failure…”
The plastic rings clicked together on your fingers. For a single, electric moment, your eyes met hers. Something unspoken passed between you, something that made your chest tight and your stomach twist.
When the timer finally rang, Megan stormed out without another word. Her cheeks burned crimson, her stride quick and stiff, as though running could erase the memory of those ten minutes entirely.
Rumors exploded the next day: “ THE MEGAN SKIENDIEL GOT MARRIED???”
She avoided you for days, keeping her distance in the halls, but you noticed the way her eyes sharpened like steel whenever anyone even looked at you. The unspoken warning was clear: approach her… or anyone near you, at your peril.
And somewhere in the mess of paper, plastic rings, and whispered rumors, the first thread of something real had started to form between you two—messy, unplanned, and entirely inevitable.
It had been three days since the “marriage incident,” and the campus still hummed with gossip. Every hallway corner, every classroom whisper, every locker slam seemed to carry the echoes of that ten-minute disaster.
You had tried to act normal, pretending the booth never happened, pretending the ridiculous electric tension that had sparked between you two didn’t exist. But it was impossible. Everyone else had noticed.
Megan had noticed, most of all.
You spotted her first in the library, tucked behind a tower of books like she could hide from the world if she only squinted hard enough. Her hair was messy, a few strands escaping from her usual neat ponytail.
Her hoodie was pulled a little tighter around her shoulders, like armor. She hadn’t seen you yet, and for a moment, you debated turning around—giving her space, letting her recover from the humiliation.
But curiosity, and something sharper, pulled you closer. You slid into the chair across from her, placing your bag down quietly. “Hey,” you said. Simple. Casual.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, and for a second she froze, caught between annoyance and panic. “Oh. Uh. Hi,” she said, voice clipped but quieter than usual. Her cheeks were faintly pink, betraying more than she wanted to admit.
“Library hours aren’t usually this crowded,” you said, attempting some small talk, because normal conversation felt like the only lifeline between you and the mess of what had happened.
She sniffed, pulling a notebook closer like it was a shield. “Yeah, well… avoiding the crowds is kind of the whole point.” Her tone was defensive, but there was an edge of vulnerability beneath it. You caught it immediately.
You didn’t say anything for a moment, just studied her, noticing the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way she tapped her pen against the table with uneven rhythm, the faint crease between her brows.
And then it hit you—she thought you were mad. That your silence, your avoidance, your casual attempts to act normal were disapproval, judgment, maybe even hate.
“You… you don’t hate me, right?” she blurted suddenly, eyes wide and earnest, the usual sarcasm stripped away.
You blinked. “What?”
“The marriage booth thing,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper, leaning forward despite herself. “You think I—like—I forced you into it or something. And now… now you probably think I’m insane or… or childish or something. You hate me, don’t you?”
You froze, because the truth was, you didn’t hate her. You didn’t even come close. Your chest tightened with a mix of disbelief and relief that she’d actually admitted this out loud, even if it was awkward and frantic and entirely Megan.
“I—no,” you said finally, shaking your head. “I don’t hate you. If anything… it was kind of hilarious. Terrifying, but hilarious. And honestly? I didn’t think you were childish. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her eyes searched yours, wary, like she was measuring every word, every expression, every microsecond for signs of betrayal. The faint pink in her cheeks deepened, and she muttered, “Huh. Didn’t expect that. I was… bracing for insults, mostly.”
“You were bracing for insults?” you repeated, trying not to laugh, because her voice, her expression, the sheer ridiculousness of the moment, was irresistible.
“Yeah,” she said, shrugging in a way that was simultaneously defensive and vulnerable. “I’ve… had some bad luck with people assuming things about me. Thought you’d join the club.”
You leaned back, letting a small smile creep onto your face. “Well… good news. You’re safe with me. Not judging, not hating. If anything, I’m… curious. About how you survive these ridiculous situations without completely losing it.”
For a long moment, she didn’t respond. Then her lips twitched, that familiar, half-smile that was uniquely hers, mixing defiance, sarcasm, and—if you looked closely—something softer. “Curious, huh?” she said finally, voice quieter. “Well… I guess you’ll have to stick around to figure it out.”
Her words hit you like a small jolt. That single sentence—so casual, so teasing, so loaded with promise—made your chest tighten in a way basketball never could. You nodded, trying to mask the surge of excitement you felt. “I’ll consider it my civic duty,” you said, smirking back.
And in that small, quiet library corner, amidst the smell of books and the distant hum of the festival outside, something shifted.
The tension that had been building since the basketball incident, the stolen glances, the ridiculous forced marriage booth—it all condensed into a fragile, exhilarating thread that neither of you could ignore.
Megan leaned back, eyes flicking down at her notebook again, but you caught the faintest upward curve of her lips, the tiniest spark of amusement and vulnerability peeking through. It was an invitation, of sorts. Awkward. Tentative. But impossible to resist.
You hadn’t even realized it at first—small, harmless conversations at lockers, random smirks from your teammates, the way someone laughed just a little too loud as you passed. Then it hit you like a rogue ball in midair: the rumor that you were dating Daniela, one of the cheeleader from your class who had been friendly to you for months.
You hadn’t even asked her out. You barely knew how this had started. And yet, by the next day, Megan Skiendiel was… different.
She avoided you. Not the casual, “I’m busy” type of avoidance, but the deliberate, precise, targeted avoidance that made your stomach twist every time you spotted her in the hall.
She would duck behind lockers, slip through classrooms before you arrived, even cross to the other side of the court during practice. Every glance you tried to offer was met with a faint flinch, a flick of her hair, a stiffened shoulder. It was maddening.
You hated it. But at the same time, it lit a fire in your chest you didn’t expect.
By the end of the week, you couldn’t take it anymore. The whispers, the half-glances, the unbearable tension that made every hallway feel like a minefield—you had to know.
“Hey,” you called, catching her just as she was walking past the gym. Her head jerked up, startled, eyes wide, and for a moment she seemed ready to vanish entirely. But you held her gaze. “I need to ask you something.”
She froze, one hand tightening on the strap of her backpack. “Uh… yeah? What?” Her voice was careful, but there was a sharp edge to it, a subtle defensiveness that made your chest tighten.
You took a deep breath, feeling the nerves buzz like electricity under your skin. “I want you to watch my game. Officially. Not just… lurking around the bleachers like some rumor police. Come to the court, Megan. Watch me play.”
Her lips twitched, the familiar smirk threatening to appear, but her eyes flickered with something else: hesitation. Maybe confusion. Maybe annoyance. Maybe something you couldn’t quite name yet.
“You want me to… watch you play basketball?” she asked, voice a mix of disbelief and dry humor. “And not just because I’m obligated or because everyone thinks we’re… whatever those rumors are?”
“Exactly,” you said. “I want you there. You, not the rumors. No excuses, no hiding, no ‘I’m too busy’—just… you.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Her dark eyes scanned you, searching for a trap, for a joke, for some reason to decline. And then… slowly, deliberately, she nodded. Just once. Small, almost imperceptible, but enough to make your heart leap.
“You’re… lucky I have nothing better to do,” she said finally, voice teasing, just enough to keep her guard up, but softer now. “Don’t expect me to cheer, though. I’m not that predictable.”
“Fair,” you said, grinning. “Just… show up. That’s all I’m asking.”
The next afternoon, she appeared. Hoodie tied around her waist, sneakers squeaking lightly on the court, her hair pulled back just enough to see the sharp glint in her eyes.
She found a seat near the sideline, arms crossed, pretending she wasn’t intensely observing your every move. You caught her gaze briefly, and this time, she didn’t look away.
Throughout the game, every pass, every pivot, every sprint across the court seemed to play out just for her. She didn’t cheer—at least, not loudly—but you could see it in the subtle twitch of her lips, the way her eyes followed you like she was calculating trajectories, predicting moves, silently impressed.
And in that moment, the tension that had been simmering for weeks—the forced marriage booth, the lingering glances, the rumors, the jealousy—began to untangle. Slowly. Tentatively.
With every dribble, every shot, every glance she allowed herself to give, the invisible wall between you two started to crumble.
The final whistle had blown, echoing through the gym like a triumphant battle cry. Sweat dripped down your forehead, your muscles still buzzing from the last intense play, and your chest heaved with the kind of pure, reckless exhilaration only a hard-fought win could give.
The crowd’s cheers faded behind you, but the echo of adrenaline didn’t. It made you feel unstoppable, untouchable, like nothing could hold you back—not rumors, not embarrassment, not even Megan Skiendiel herself.
And so you went looking for her.
You spotted her at the edge of the bleachers, arms crossed, hoodie tied at the waist, leaning casually against the railing. Her dark eyes were fixed on the court as you collected your gear, but you weren’t about to wait for her to approach first. Not now. Not when your body screamed at you to move.
“Hey,” you called, voice firm, confident—sharper than usual, carrying the energy that only victory could give.
Megan’s head jerked up, eyes widening in that way that always made your chest tighten. She blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden boldness radiating from you. “Oh… hey,” she said, voice clipped, cautious, but there was a flicker—something curious—in her gaze.
You jogged up the steps toward her, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, heart still hammering. “I want you to watch my next game,” you said, words spilling out with adrenaline-fueled certainty. “Officially. No hiding in the back, no pretending you’re not interested. Just… you.”
Her lips quirked in that half-smile, that teasing smirk that could make your stomach twist in knots, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of vulnerability. “You’re… serious?” she asked.
“Yes,” you said, stepping closer, the energy of the match still coursing through you. “I’m serious. I want you there. You, not the rumors, not anyone else. Just me, and you watching.”
Her gaze softened, almost imperceptibly, but enough to make your pulse race. “Hmm…” she said, one hand adjusting her hoodie, a subtle attempt to shield herself from the intensity radiating from you. “Fine. But only because… technically, I married you first.”
You froze for a heartbeat, then grinned, heart surging. “At a school booth?”
“Still counts,” she said, unapologetic, smirk teasingly sharp.
The adrenaline buzzed in your veins, making words easier, courage sharper. “Well, technically married… officially together?” you asked, letting your grin spread.
Her smirk softened, her eyes warm and steady now, and she stepped closer, brushing against your shoulder. “Yeah,” she said simply. “Officially together. Don’t mess this up.”
You laughed, heart pounding with victory that had nothing to do with the scoreboard. “Technically married… officially together. Got it.”
“Don’t forget it,” she teased, nudging you lightly. “Because technically, I already have the upper hand.”
And for the first time in weeks, between adrenaline, tension, and laughter, you felt the weight of all the rumors, the awkward interactions, the forced marriage booth, dissolve. It had led here: messy, exhilarating, real. Megan Skiendiel, standing close, teasing, triumphant in her own way, finally letting you in.
You grinned again, letting the energy of the game, the victory, the moment wash through you. Somehow, it all felt perfect.
it was supposed to be a chill live — just music talk, tour updates, the usual chaos.
but then someone in the comments asked “what’s your type?”
you laughed, answered honestly, and somewhere between “funny and sweet” and “can dance like no one’s watching,”
the rest of the members started losing it on camera.
now the fandom swears you just described one of them.
maybe you did. maybe you didn’t.
✮⋆˙ themes : weverse live stream, 7th member au, a bit of pining and mostly dialogue of reader explaining their type..
── ⟢ ・MANON BANNERMAN
“Great, funny, talented, confident,” you started casually, like you hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in the middle of the room.
"Someone who can be as goofy as me. like—comfortable in her skin. someone who knows when to laugh and when to take things seriously, but mostly just… laughs.”
Manon, sitting next to you with her legs folded underneath her, looked up from her phone so fast it was comical. “Hold on— what are we even talking about right now?”
You blinked at her innocently. “My type.”
She stared at you for a solid two seconds before breaking into a laugh, head falling back. “Oh, we’re doing that again.”
user1: bro didn’t even hesitate 😭
user2: manon’s face when she realized 😭😭😭
user3: y/n you’re too comfortable saying ts
"What?” you asked, grinning. “It's just a question. i’m being honest.”
“Yeah, sure,” megan said from off-camera, “That’s what you call honesty now.”
“Don’t start,” you said, pointing at her. “This is a safe space.”
The chat went insane. hearts, crying emojis, shipping tags already flying by too fast to read.
And manon— she was trying so hard not to smile, but her expression gave her away immediately. she reached over to grab a pillow and threw it lightly at you. “you can’t just say stuff like that!”
“say what?”
“‘funny, confident, talented’— that’s literally me,” she said, feigning offense.
“huh. weird coincidence,” you teased.
user4: coincidence my ass 😭😭
user5: she’s BLUSHINGGGG
user6: “you can’t say stuff like that” YES YOU CAN YN
Manon groaned, trying to hide behind her hands, but she was still laughing. “you’re so annoying.”
“and yet,” you said, leaning closer, “you’re smiling.”
She froze for a half-second, realizing just how close you were, before flicking your shoulder. “you’re lucky we’re live.”
user7: THE WAY SHE SAID THAT 😭😭
user8: not them flirting mid broadcast 😭😭😭
user9: i need this delusion in my life
“you love it,” you shot back, laughing.
“maybe,” she said under her breath.
Megan immediately yelled, “I HEARD THAT!” and the entire chat exploded again.
Manon covered her face, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. “i’m never going live with you again.”
“that’s a lie,” you said softly, and she glanced up, that spark of challenge in her eyes again.
“maybe,” she said again — this time smiling, softer, almost shy.
user10: nah why’s this lowkey romantic
user11: “that’s a lie” IM GONNA CRY
user12: manon smiling like that should be ILLEGAL
the others were cackling in the background, but for a second, the two of you were just— quiet. still. the kind of silence that hums with unspoken things.
you broke it first, chuckling as you reached for your drink. “anyway, next question before i get accused of starting rumors again.”
user14: the confidence. the tension. the delusion. we’re winning.
And even though you laughed it off, you didn’t miss the way she looked at you when she thought no one was watching — like the chaos was just noise, and the rest of the world had blurred out.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Sophia Laforteza
You blinked at the screen, feigning thought, chin propped on your hand. “I like people who… I don’t know,” you start, dragging it out just to make them wait. “Someone who takes care of everyone without realizing it. The kind who makes you eat before they do, who keeps extra hair ties on their wrist for emergencies.”
The chat detonates.
user1: NOT YOU DESCRIBING WIFE MATERIAL
user2: i know exactly who that sounds like 😭
user3: oh this is about sophia. this is about her.
The camera pans just enough to catch Sophia biting back a laugh. She tries to hide behind her sleeve, but the dimple gives her away. She doesn’t say anything, just fiddles with a loose thread, pretending the comments don’t exist.
You keep going, like you don’t notice — but your grin says otherwise.
“Someone who’s calm but not boring,” you say, tapping the mic. “Who’ll call you out when you’re being stupid, but still pat your head after. And—” you pause, grin widening, “—a great cook. Like, dangerously good. The kind who feeds you until you can’t move.”
That earns a quiet snort from Sophia. Finally, she looks up, eyes meeting yours. There’s that familiar spark, small but impossible to ignore.
“You’re hungry again, huh?” she teases, voice low but caught by the mic.
You laugh, shrugging like it’s nothing. “You make it sound like a crime.”
The rest of Katseye shares a look — Lara slapping the couch, Megan wheezing into her hoodie. The chat goes feral.
user4: “you’re hungry again huh” I’M SCREAMING
user5: SOPHIA FLIRTING ON MAIN AGAIN???
user6: they’re so soft it hurts
Sophia shakes her head, trying to play it off, but the corner of her mouth won’t stop twitching upward. You see it — that almost-smile she gets when she’s fighting the urge to blush.
You lean back in your chair, still laughing. “Look, I’m just saying,” you add, “people who can cook are dangerous. You fall in love after one bite. Science can’t explain it.”
She rolls her eyes, “Yeah, sure. Science.”
The room softens a little after that — the loud laughter fading into quieter giggles and side conversations. Sophia’s still close enough that your knees touch, just barely, and when she laughs again, she reaches out and scratches lightly at your arm — that small, grounding thing she always does without thinking.
user7: THE ARM SCRATCHES. THE ARM SCRATCHES.
user8: idc what anyone says they're inlove
user9: katseye live streams are a fever dream
You exhale, half-smiling, half-trying not to. “Anyway,” you say finally, eyes flicking toward her. “That’s my type.”
Sophia doesn’t look away this time. “Yeah,” she says, softly but sure, “figured.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Daniela Avanzini
You groan dramatically, leaning closer to the mic. “Fine,” you say, pretending to think. “Someone who’s… really good with rhythm. Like, someone who moves like music lives in their bones. You know those people who can just feel a song before it even starts?”
Daniela, lounging on the beanbag across from you, raises a brow, pretending not to hear.
user4: oh we know EXACTLY who that is
user5: she’s literally right there brocacho
“Also,” you continue, ignoring the chaos, “a great driver. Like, terrifyingly confident behind the wheel. The kind who parallel parks in one try and then acts like it’s no big deal.”
That makes everyone laugh, because everyone knows Daniela is that person — the designated driver, the unspoken leader when things get messy.
user6: DANI’S FACE RN 😭😭
user7: not her pretending to check her nails
user8: this is so domestic stop
You glance up mid-laugh, and sure enough, Daniela’s trying to look casual, running her fingers through her curls like it’ll hide the grin creeping up her face.
“Someone hardworking,” you add softer this time, “the kind who doesn’t stop until everyone else is okay too. Who’ll stay late just to fix one tiny detail because it matters.”
The teasing dies down for a second. It’s quiet — not awkward, just warm.
“Also,” you say suddenly, smirking, “curly hair. I like curls. They look like they’ve got attitude even when you don’t.”
That does it. The room explodes again.
user9: CURLY HAIR??? SAY HER NAME THEN
user10: NOT YN FLIRTING ON A TECHNICALITY
user11: daniela’s curls just got a compliment from god
Daniela groans, laughing now, “You’re so annoying.”
You grin, leaning forward. “And yet, you’re still smiling.”
She throws a scrunchie at you, missing by a mile. The chat goes feral.
user12: the scrunchie toss 😭😭😭😭
user13: PARENTS
user14: I AM GOING TO EXPLODE
You catch the scrunchie from the floor, twirling it around your fingers like a trophy. “So yeah,” you say, still smiling at her. “That’s my type.”
Daniela shakes her head, curls bouncing with the motion, still fighting a laugh. “Sure,” she mutters. “Keep telling yourself that.”
And somehow, everyone watching knew — you didn’t need to say a name.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Lara Rajagopalan
“I think I like people who are… brave,” you start, fingers tapping absently against your mug. “Not the kind that need to shout it — just quietly brave. Like someone who says yes to things, even when it scares them a bit.”
The chat immediately lights up.
user1: starting strong HELLO??
user2: sounds suspiciously like a certain vocalist 👀
You try not to laugh, eyes flicking toward Lara for half a second — she’s pretending not to hear, arms crossed, that small, knowing smirk on her lips.
“Someone adventurous,” you go on, voice softer now. “Who’ll wake up one day and decide to take a drive to the beach. Who’ll climb a hill just to watch the sunrise, even if they complain the whole way up.”
Lara chuckles, shaking her head. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”
You grin, ignoring the bait. “And I like people who love art. Music, especially. You can tell when someone’s meant to play — it’s not about the crowd or the lights, it’s just… something in their chest, you know?”
user3: ‘meant to play’ oh this is SO lara
user4: nah she’s not even hiding it anymore 😭
user5: lara trying not to blush rn is my roman empire
You keep talking, pretending not to see the way Lara shifts in her seat, eyes fixed on the table. “They’ve got that spark,” you continue. “That kind of person who lives with their heart open, even when it hurts. I respect that.”
Lara glances at you then — brief, but her smile softens. “That’s rare,” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” you agree. “Maybe that’s why it stands out.”
There’s a beat of comfortable silence. The kind that feels like the air’s heavier but in a good way. Then, to break it, you add with a smirk, “Also, they’ve gotta be a hustler. Like, ridiculously hardworking. Always in motion.”
That gets a laugh from her. “Define ‘hustler,’” she teases.
You look straight at her now. “I don’t know… someone who ends up starring in a Michelle Obama video or something.”
The chat explodes.
user6: STOP NOT THE MICHELLE OBAMA REFERENCE 😭
user7: she’s so unserious for that
user8: OH FREEDOM
Lara groans, covering her face. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Never,” you reply instantly.
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” you say, your tone quieter now. “But I meant it. I like people like that.”
Lara hums, looking away — but her grin lingers, soft around the edges. “Then I guess you’ve got great taste,” she says under her breath.
And for a second, you forget there’s even a live running.
user9: why does this feel like third wheeling
user10: ‘great taste’ YEAH OKAY LARA 😭
You try to look at the comments but it’s useless — your face already feels too warm. Lara leans back, trying to play it cool, but the small smile that appears says everything she won’t.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Megan Skiendiel
“I like someone who doesn’t try too hard,” you say, voice steady, but there’s a smile threatening the edge. “Someone who’s a little awkward sometimes, but doesn’t mind being seen that way.”
You don’t look directly at Megan, but she shifts in her seat anyway — that nervous laugh she does when she feels eyes on her.
user1: she’s already giggling 😭
user2: bro we see the tension
user3: nah cause we SEE who you mean
You tap your fingers on the armrest, pretending to think. “She’s funny too. Not the loud kind. The kind that sneaks up on you, makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, then acts like she didn’t mean to be that funny.”
The chat spams hearts and inside jokes, but your focus drifts back to her. Megan’s pretending to scroll through comments, but her hand’s shaking just a bit.
“She’s confident in this weirdly quiet way,” you go on. “Like, she’ll trip over her own feet and still recover like it was choreography. She knows who she is, even when she pretends not to.”
user4: this ain’t a livestream this a soft launch atp
user5: she’s not even hiding it anymore
user6: they’re so obvious pls
Megan snorts softly, trying to play it off. The sound warms something in you.
“She’s also… passionate,” you add. “When she loves something — or someone — it’s all in. You can feel it when she talks about the things that matter to her.”
That’s when she stills. Her thumb pauses mid-scroll. Her head tilts slightly, and for a moment, she forgets there’s an audience at all.
user7: oh nah she FELT that
user8: the silence is so loud rn
You can see the change — the way her smile softens, her posture straightens, and that quiet flush creeps up the side of her neck. The space between you hums, subtle but charged.
You add, softer now, “And she has this… duality to her. She’s goofy one second, and then suddenly, she’s all grace and focus. Like, it’s unfair how easy she makes it look.”
user9: “unfair”?? be fr rn
user10: this is literally flirting disguised as poety
She laughs quietly, but it’s different this time — breathy, small. The kind that slips out when someone’s caught off guard. Her hand comes up to fix her hair, but it’s more of a cover than a habit.
You glance her way. Her eyes meet yours for just a second before darting away, like she’s afraid you’ll see too much.
The air between you thickens — not heavy, just real. Familiar in the way only something unspoken can be.
user11: nah this is a movie
user12: alr pack it UP guys #MegYn
You grin faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Anyway,” you say, voice lighter, almost teasing. “That’s my type.”
Megan exhales — a quiet, shaky breath that gets lost under the noise of the chat.
But the way she’s smiling now?
You can tell she heard every word.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Jeong Yoonchae
You leaned back, pretending to think, fingers tapping against your knee.
“Alright,” you said slowly, eyes flicking to Yoonchae — who pretended to scroll through her phone, completely failing to hide her curiosity.
“I like someone who’s a little sassy,” you began, voice casual but teasing. “The kind who’ll roast you for fun but make sure you know it's a joke after.”
A quick laugh escaped Yoonchae before she could stop it. You caught the sound, smiled.
“Someone who keeps up,” you continued. “Who’ll play games with you even when they’re bad at them, just for the chaos. Someone who’ll talk trash during Valorant but still heal you when you mess up.”
The comment section went nuclear.
user1: NOT VALORANT AS A LOVE LANGUAGE
user2: ‘just for the chaos’ YN BE SERIOUS
user3: yoonchae’s laugh gave it AWAY
You tried to act unfazed, but the corner of your mouth twitched up again.
“And,” you added after a pause, “someone calm. Like—” you hesitated, choosing your words softer, “—the kind of person who can ground you just by sitting next to you. Doesn’t even have to say anything. You just breathe easier.”
That got quieter laughter from the couch. Yoonchae’s head tilted, like she wanted to say something but didn’t. Her foot brushed against yours under the blanket — just a small movement, but enough to catch your attention.
You smiled, softer now. “Oh, and bonus points if she likes hip-hop.”
The reaction was instant. She froze mid-sip, cup half-raised, eyes flicking toward you like she couldn’t believe you said that.
user4: OH WE SAW THAT
user5: chat caught the stare in 4K
user6: she didn’t even BLINK 😭
“I mean,” she started, voice all fake-casual and way too careful, “I do like hip-hop but… why’d you say it like that?”
Her tone had that tiny tremor of laughter hiding something warmer.
You just leaned your chin on your palm, smiling. “No reason.”
The room felt smaller for a second — not quiet, exactly, just softer. The others kept talking, chat still spamming hearts and jokes, but it all blurred around the two of you. Her fingers tapped against her cup, yours mirrored the rhythm on your knee.
And even though you didn’t say another word, the grin on her face said she knew exactly what you meant.
✐ᝰ author's note: REQUESTS ARE OPEN PLZ SEND REQUESTS... 💔💔💔 also sorry if ts fic is a bit ahh i wanted to give y'all something immediately.. pt 3 of not even a little bit is still marinating sooo..
Every night, the campus quiets down—except for you.
As the late-night DJ of 92.3 Campus FM, your voice fills the silence Megan always claims helps her sleep. She listens religiously, never calls in, never misses a show.
But lately, the words you speak into the mic start to sound more like confessions. One night, after too many rewound thoughts and half-finished songs, you finally break your own rule.
“This next one’s for someone specific. Megan… if you’re listening—
I wish you knew how much I mean every song I play for you.”
‧₊˚♪ Themes - college au, radiohost!reader x visual-arts! Megan Skiendiel, err minji is mentioned because I miss njz..
‧₊˚♪ w.c - 3k
You’ve learned that the campus sounds different after midnight.
The chatter fades, the streets go still, and even the vending machines hum in a lower key. Only the radio booth stays awake—a glass box of yellow light tucked behind the library, where you sit with your headset crooked and your coffee going cold.
“Good evening, night owls,” you say into the mic, voice steady even as the monitor blinks ON AIR. “You’re listening to 92.3 Campus FM. Let’s keep each other company for a bit.”
It’s the same greeting every night. The same ritual.
Somewhere out there, Megan’s probably listening. She always is.
You imagine her sprawled on her dorm bed, hair still damp from showering after dance practice, hoodie collar stretched over one shoulder. She texts you right before every shift—playing yet?—then sends a picture of her mug or her half-finished homework. When the playlist starts, she stops replying. Says she likes to “just listen.”
You cue the next song, tapping your pencil against the desk to the beat.
A knock on the booth’s glass makes you look up.
Megan stands there, framed by the hallway light, holding two take-out cups. She mouths, I brought caffeine, and waits for you to wave her in. She’s not technically supposed to be here after hours, but she’s made herself an unofficial part of the show.
You switch the mic off, slide the door open.
“You’re gonna get me fired one of these nights,” you mutter.
She grins, handing you a cup. “Then I’ll just DJ for you. ‘Hey guys, this is Megan from 92.3, playing all the songs you forgot you loved.’ Sounds good, right?”
“You’d talk too much.”
“Exactly. Ratings would skyrocket.”
You roll your eyes but smile, because that’s the thing about her—she’s chaos wrapped in warmth. The whole room feels bigger when she’s in it. She drops into the spare chair, pulling her knees up, chin resting on them as she watches you fiddle with the soundboard.
“Go on,” she says. “Do the voice.”
“The voice?”
“The radio one. The smooth one that makes people fall asleep.”
You glance at her, amused. “It’s literally just me talking.”
“Nah,” she teases, leaning closer, eyes glinting. “It’s soft. You don’t sound like that when you talk to me.”
You laugh, half-flustered, half-caught. “Because I don’t need to impress you.”
“Maybe you should,” she says lightly, then hides behind her cup before you can answer.
You let the silence stretch. The music fills it for you, slow and steady. She taps her fingers on the table, humming along.
You catch yourself watching her reflection in the glass—how the booth lights trace her face, how she bites the straw of her drink when she’s thinking. You look away before she notices.
Another song ends. You flip the switch, lean toward the mic. “That was Shot my baby by Daniel Caesar. You’re still tuned in to Campus FM. If you’re out there studying, hang in there.”
Megan mouths the last line with you, grinning. You throw a pen cap at her.
For the rest of the hour, you trade jokes between songs. She picks tracks, you cue them; she makes fun of your transitions; you tell her she’s banned from the booth. It’s all the same rhythm—banter, music, quiet moments that feel like they could mean more if you let them.
When the clock hits one, she stretches, yawning. “Okay, Ms. DJ, walk me back?”
You glance at the “ON AIR” sign, still glowing red, then at her.
“Yeah,” you say. “Show’s over anyway.”
The café hums with soft indie music and chatter — your usual background when you build the next playlist for Midnight Frequency. The glow of your laptop reflects off your iced latte; the cursor blinks, waiting for you to decide if tonight’s closer will be upbeat or mellow.
Across from you, Megan’s sketchbook is open again. She’s got graphite on her fingertips, hair tied up messily, and the faintest smudge of blue paint on her sleeve. She’s supposed to be doing her art history readings. Instead, she’s sketching you.
“Why do I feel like you’re using me for your portfolio again?” you say, sipping your drink.
She grins without looking up. “Because you have a good face for light studies.”
“That’s just your way of saying I need more sleep.”
“Well,” she says, dragging her pencil in slow strokes, “if the shoe fits.”
You throw a crumpled tissue at her. She dodges easily, laughing, that warm sound that makes everyone nearby glance over and smile like it’s contagious.
You go back to your screen, pretending to pick songs, but your eyes keep flicking to her hand moving across the paper. The way she focuses — brow furrowed, tongue poking out just slightly — is unfair. You shouldn’t find someone sketching that attractive.
When she’s done, she taps the page with satisfaction and flips it around.
It’s… you. A perfect version, soft-lined, headphones hanging around your neck, your fingers mid-type on the laptop, your expression calm — like you belong in a moment that never existed.
You blink. “That’s… really good.”
“Duh,” she says, smirking, but you catch the faint pink on her cheeks. “Don’t act surprised, I’m talented.”
You laugh, but something about your voice sounds quieter than usual. She takes a photo of the sketch before you can protest, opens her art account, and posts it right there.
A few minutes later, your phone buzzes.
@meganskiendiel: i love my bro <3
You stare at it for five straight seconds. Then ten. Then you groan so loud the barista glances over.
Later, when you get home, you toss your bag on the floor and call Lara. She picks up on the second ring.
“You sound like you just lost a war,” she says.
“I might have,” you groan, flopping onto your bed. “Lara, she posted it. The sketch.”
“And?”
“And the caption says ‘I love my bro.’ BRO, LARA. I WAS ALREADY SMILING LIKE AN IDIOT AND SHE— SHE CALLED ME BRO.”
Lara bursts out laughing. “No way. Not the b-word.”
“It’s worse because she doesn’t call everyone that!” you say, pacing now. “She calls you Lara. She calls Yoonchae by her name.
But me? Bro. She could’ve said anything else. Anything. ‘I love my friend.’ ‘I love this girl.’ I would’ve survived that. But no. BRO.”
You hear her trying to stop laughing, failing miserably. “You’re down bad.”
“I’m not— I mean— okay maybe a little,” you admit, collapsing back on your bed. “But seriously, how do you go from sketching me like I’m your muse to calling me bro? Who does that?”
“You realize this is a good problem, right?” Lara teases. “Most people don’t get drawn by their crushes.”
“She’s not my—” You stop mid-sentence. Lara goes quiet on the other end.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “Okay, sure. Not your crush.”
You groan into your pillow. “I hate you.”
“I know,” she says cheerfully. “You’ll thank me when you two finally figure it out.”
When the call ends, the room feels too still. Your phone buzzes again — a new message.
Meiyokie: did you see the post? 🫶
Meiyokie: u looked so serious but cute at the same time while picking songs lol.
You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.
You could reply with something dumb — a heart emoji, a joke — but instead, you just set the phone face-down on your chest.
The ceiling fan hums. You exhale slowly. It’s funny how something so small — a sketch, a caption, a word — can make your heart do this.
You whisper to no one, “Why did it have to be bro…”
The radio, your playlists, the late-night shifts — it’s been all-consuming. Days blur together, and Megan becomes a name on your phone rather than a presence in your day. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ll catch up later. You’ll explain. There’s always time.
Until today.
You cross the quad after class, coffee in hand, hoping for a quiet moment at the art building — maybe even a chance to bump into Megan, finally, after weeks of absence.
But when you round the corner, she’s already there. Sitting under the acacia trees with her sketchbook balanced on her lap, sun glinting off her hair, she laughs.
And she’s not alone.
Minji sits beside her, pointing at something in the sketchbook, laughing along. Megan mirrors her gestures, sharing the joke, head thrown back, completely absorbed.
You freeze mid-step, heart tugging in a way you don’t want it to. It’s nothing romantic — they’re just friends — but you feel it anyway. That pang of missing her, of wanting to be there, bites deeper than it should.
You tell yourself to look away, to keep walking. You do. But your eyes dart back once more, just to see her smile. And it stings.
That night, you don’t reply to her messages. You tell yourself you’re busy, that you’ll answer tomorrow.
Tomorrow becomes the next day, then the day after. You don’t drop by the café. You skip her studio visits. Even when you’re at the booth, you notice her absence as an ache rather than a relief.
It’s not that you don’t want to see her. It’s that every time you imagine talking to her, your throat tightens, and you’re afraid of saying something you can’t take back.
The first small gesture comes a day later. A paper bag, left on the console when you come in early for your shift. Inside, your favorite snacks. A note tucked in:
Don’t skip meals. — Meiyokie
You stare at it longer than you should, lips pressed together. Of course she’d still call you “bro.” And of course, it makes your chest ache anyway.
A few days pass in the same rhythm.
A sketch slips under your notebook — you, headphones draped over your shoulders, messy hair falling over your eyes. The tiny speech bubble reads, “Remember to smile.”
You tell yourself you’ll throw it away, but it ends up taped to the edge of your desk.
Then, a coffee cup, left by the mic. You notice the familiar handwriting on the sleeve. Another small reminder that she’s paying attention, that she notices, that she cares.
You keep your distance. You tell yourself you’re protecting yourself, but the truth is, every gesture pierces the wall you’ve built. Every small act of hers makes you ache with longing.
And you notice other things too — glimpses of her and Minji walking across campus, laughing about something, sketchbook in hand. It shouldn’t matter.
They’re just friends. But your chest twists anyway. The timing, the missed days, the moments you didn’t get to share with her — all of it presses down.
Your radio shifts become both refuge and reminder. The playlists are quieter now, slower, softer. You pick songs that hang in the pauses, that make the empty booth feel less hollow but never quite full.
Late one night, you lean into the mic, whispering, “Midnight Frequency… tonight’s theme is… absence.” The words feel heavier than you mean them to. You almost say her name, but it catches in your throat.
Another morning, you find a small sketch taped to your desk — a chibi version of you, sitting in the booth, headphones on, eyes bright and curious. No caption. No teasing. Just… her.
You stare at it for a long time. The little details — the way she shaded the curls of your hair, the faint blush she added to your cheeks — they’re all hers. Each line feels deliberate, careful, like she poured her quiet affection into it.
And suddenly, you feel it — that familiar ache blooming wide in your chest. You miss her. You miss her laughter, the way she scrunches her nose when she’s concentrating, the way her voice softens when she says your name.
You press your palms against your face, groaning into the silence. “Why does she have to be everywhere at once,” you whisper, half-laughing, half on the verge of something else. “Even when she’s not with me.”
The sunlight catches the edges of the sketch, warm and golden, and your throat tightens. You remember the way she looked at you last night — flushed, nervous, alive — and it hits you, all at once, what this feeling really is.
You’re not just fond of her. Not just curious. Not just caught up in the warmth of her laugh or the pull of her dorky smile. You’re in love with her. Completely, stupidly, beautifully in love.
And for once, that realization doesn’t scare you. It feels… right. Like everything you’ve been avoiding, everything you’ve tried to suppress, has finally fallen into place.
You glance at the sketch again, smiling softly. She’s everywhere, yes — in your playlists, in your booth, in every song you queue, in every thought that fills the quiet.
You don’t know what happens next. But for now, that’s okay. Because for the first time, you’re not running from the feeling. You’re sitting in it, letting it bloom quietly inside your chest.
And it’s hers. Completely hers.
And suddenly, it’s clear. No more waiting. No more excuses. Tonight, in the radio booth, you’re going to say it.
You shuffle back to your apartment, stomach in knots, heart pounding, rehearsing words under your breath.
“I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. I can’t hide it anymore.” You try a few jokes, a few flirty lines, but none of it feels right. It has to be honest. Real.
By the time night falls, the campus is quiet. The streets are nearly empty, the glow from the station faint and warm.
You step into the booth, headphones snug, the console humming softly under your fingers. Your palms are slick with sweat. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears.
The playlist is ready. The mic sits before you, red ON AIR light blinking faintly. You take a shaky breath and lean in.
“Midnight Frequency,” you begin, voice steadier than you feel, “tonight’s final song… is dedicated to someone I’ve been… thinking about a lot. Someone who’s always been in the background, and somehow also the reason I keep going.”
You pause. Your fingers twitch over the mic, mind spinning. Words feel heavier than usual. Heart pounding, you continue.
“Megan… if you’re listening… I like you. A lot. And I’ve been too scared to say it, too scared to ruin what we already have. But I can’t hide it anymore. So… this is for you. Enjoy the song.”
Your hands fidget. You hit play on the song; Superpowers by Daniel Caesar— soft, hopeful, maybe a little dramatic, but it’s yours. And it feels like the truest thing you’ve ever done.
Silence follows. The hum of the station fills your ears. Your chest twists. Did you just ruin everything? Did she even hear it?
Then — commotion in the hallway. Footsteps, rapid and determined. Your pulse leaps. The door bursts open, and there she is: Megan, cheeks flushed, hair messy from running, glasses slightly askew, holding a bouquet of paper flowers.
Her arms shake slightly as she holds it out to you. “I… I made this for you,” she blurts, breathless, “with… help from Minji. That’s why I’ve been so busy lately. I wanted to… I mean, I just… here.”
Your chest tightens. Paper flowers. For you. Carefully chosen, tied with a ribbon, each bloom whispering the thought and care she’s poured into this risk. Your throat tightens, eyes wide.
“You… you ran all the way here?” you manage, voice cracking a little.
“I didn’t want to wait,” she admits, voice softening, eyes bright. “I… wanted you to know how I feel. Right now. So you’d hear me say it. And see me say it.”
Everything in you unravels — weeks of avoidance, nervous rehearsals, hidden glances, skipped coffee dates — all collapsing into this one moment.
You lean forward instinctively, hands brushing hers as you take the bouquet, inhaling the faint scent of lavender and daisies.
“I… I like you too,” you whisper, heart hammering, voice barely audible. “More than I realized. Way more.”
A small, disbelieving laugh escapes her. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, the dorky, artsy grin splitting her face. “I thought you’d never say it. And here you are… confessing on the radio. Typical.”
You grin despite yourself, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “And you’re the one who ran across campus with paper flowers. So, I think we’re even?”
She rolls her eyes, cheeks pink, and laughs softly. “Maybe. But you’re still ridiculously dramatic.”
You lean back, exhale, heart still racing, and finally let yourself smile. Safe, warm, full. The red ON AIR light glows silently behind you — a quiet witness to the truth you both dared to say.
And Megan? She’s here, flowers in hand, laughter spilling between you, every worry and hesitation gone.
For the first time in a long while, everything feels… right.
A month has passed since that night. Since the confession. Since Megan ran across campus, flowers in hand, heart pounding just as much as yours.
You step into the radio station, and the familiar hum greets you. Sunlight spills through the blinds, catching sketches pinned to the walls, sticky notes doodled with her jokes, and tiny reminders of her presence scattered across every surface.
The corner of your desk holds the paper bouquet she gave you that night, now carefully pressed and taped, a quiet testament to the risk she took.
It’s comforting, seeing her everywhere, even when she isn’t physically in the booth. Each little mark she’s left — every sketch, every note, every carefully chosen detail — reminds you of her thoughtfulness, her dorky perfection, and the way she fills your world in ways you never expected.
You settle into your chair and glance at the chibi sketch she made of you at the booth, taped right above the console.
Over the past month, it has become a kind of anchor — a reminder of that moment, of her courage, of the way she looks at you when she’s laughing, or concentrating, or just being Megan.
A soft smile spreads across your face. You realize something, something that’s been growing quietly but undeniably: this isn’t just fondness, isn’t just affection.
You’ve been in love with her all along. Every time she left a note, every time she laughed, every tiny gift she left behind — it was all pointing to this truth.
Your chest tightens, warm and full. “I’m in love with her,” you whisper into the quiet room, a smile tugging at your lips. “Completely, utterly, and there’s no going back.”
You lean back, letting the sunlight wash over the radio booth, over the sketches, over the little traces of her everywhere.
The room is full of her, and it’s full of you, too — full of the love that has settled, steady and bright, over the past month.
Somewhere down the hallway, the faint click of the door tells you she’s arrived — probably to check on the station, probably to tease you, probably to make you laugh like she always does. And you realize, finally, you don’t have to hide anything.
The sketches, the flowers, the small signs of her everywhere — they’re all proof. She’s here. She’s yours. And now, after a month of quiet mornings, shared songs, and small, careful moments, you’re ready to love her fully in return.
✐ᝰ author's note - sooo.. this was made while I was talking to my oomfs in discord... also guys plsplsplspls send requests pretty plz...
₊˚⊹ᰔ Synopsis : After two years at Ateneo, you finally fly from the Philippines to the U.S. to see Sophia, your childhood friend and the girl you’ve secretly loved for years. Living together for a short summer, sharing late nights and quiet moments, you navigate stolen touches, lingering glances, and the ache of unspoken feelings—all while she belongs to someone else. You leave without a kiss, without a confession, but with a quiet truth between you: she didn’t choose you, but God, she looked like she wanted to.
₊˚⊹ᰔ Themes : yearning .. !! sophia has a bf for the plot, based on this req !! ANGSTTT, somehow slowburn
₊˚⊹ᰔ wc : 10k
The air inside the arrivals hall felt colder than it should. Not sharp, not refreshing—just… empty. Filtered. Recycled. Like every breath you took belonged to someone else before you. The kind of air that didn’t belong to you, just like this city didn’t.
Your fingers tightened around the handle of your suitcase. You kept rehearsing the same sentence in your head:
Don’t act weird. Don’t make it obvious. Don’t show how much you missed her.
You crossed an entire ocean to see her.
That alone already said too much.
Two years in Ateneo had gone by in a blur of rainy afternoons, blue-and-white jackets, org meetings that ran too late, and coffee that never tasted as good as it should’ve. You made friends. Good ones. You learned to love your routines, your independence, your city.
But every time your phone buzzed—every time you saw her name—your heart reacted before your mind could.
Sophia.
Your childhood.
Your summers.
Your first guitar chords and sleepovers and secrets whispered past midnight.
She had left first—accepted into a U.S. program too good to refuse. You promised to keep in touch, and you did. Voice notes, photos, calls at 2 AM when time zones didn’t care about convenience.
And then the calls got shorter.
Then fewer.
Then rare.
Not because you stopped caring.
But because you cared too much.
Because every time she laughed through the phone, something inside you ached like it remembered something warm it could no longer hold.
So when she said, “You should visit. For real this time.” You didn’t think.
You booked the ticket.
And now here you were.
Waiting for her to find you in a crowd of foreign faces.
Your chest tightened—
And then you saw her.
She was rushing through the terminal doors, scarf hanging loosely, hair curled at the tips, coat swinging around her like it was made to frame her. She looked older, just slightly. But still unmistakably Sophia—like the summer sunlight version of her had just grown into autumn.
She saw you.
And stopped.
And then she smiled.
It wasn’t the polite kind.
It was familiar.
Softened at the edges.
A memory in motion.
You didn’t remember moving, but suddenly she was in front of you and your arms were around each other. Her warmth hit first. Then her scent—something like vanilla and something like home. Your throat tightened.
“God, I missed you,” she breathed out, small and real.
You almost said same. You swallowed it instead.
She pulled back—just slightly—not enough to actually let go, just enough to look at you properly. Her hands still on your arms. Her eyes searching. Taking you in like she needed proof you were real.
“You look—” she started, but the words caught somewhere between surprise and nostalgia.
So you laughed, because laughing made the tightness easier.
“Like someone who spent fourteen hours in economy?”
She smiled, the kind of smile that used to ruin you when you were seventeen.
“Still you,” she said. And for a second, your heart forgot how to beat.
But then someone cleared their throat.
You turned.
You hadn’t noticed him at first.
Tall. Comfortable posture. Hands in his pockets. A presence that didn’t demand attention because it already assumed it had it.
Her boyfriend.
“Ah—” Sophia said, stepping back a little, just enough for the space between the two of you to mean something. “This is Eli.”
His smile was polite. Not smug. Not cruel. Just… secure. As if he had never once wondered whether someone might take her away from him.
You shook his hand. Your name sounded emptier coming from him.
“We should beat traffic,” he said, already turning toward the exit.
Sophia gave you a small, apologetic look.
Like she knew that wasn’t the reunion you had been rehearsing in your head.
You forced a smile.
You’d gotten good at that.
The car ride was quiet.
Sophia sat in the passenger seat, turned just slightly toward you. Her knee angled your direction. Her attention half on you, half on the road ahead. Like she had one foot in the past and one hand holding the present.
You wanted to speak. To ask everything you had avoided saying for two years.
How have you really been? Do you still think about home? Did you ever miss me, or just the idea of me?
But instead, you said, “It’s colder than I thought it would be.”
She laughed softly. “That’s because you never bring jackets even when I tell you to.”
You blinked.
She remembered.
Your heart did something painful and stupid.
Her apartment wasn’t large, but it was warm. Lived-in. String lights along the walls, a dying plant in the corner, polaroids pinned to a corkboard. Some of you. Some old. Some new.
But on the fridge—
a picture of her and Eli laughing.
You tried not to look too long.
You unpacked in the spare room.
She hovered in the doorway, like she was unsure if she was allowed to step fully inside.
“You really came,” she said, voice softer this time.
Not excited.
Not bright.
Just… relieved.
“Of course I did,” you answered.
Her eyes flickered—something unspoken passing through them. Something like guilt. Something like longing. Something like a memory knocking against bone.
She stepped back first.
“I’ll let you rest. We have time.”
Time.
You nodded, but the word felt fragile.
Because she didn’t know.
Not yet.
Time is exactly what you were afraid of.
Time was what changed her.
Time was what changed you.
Time was what brought you here, years too late to still be holding her in your heart.
But you were.
God, you were.
And when she turned to leave, you let yourself look at her the way you used to—
the girl who felt like summer evenings and mango juice and out-of-tune guitar strings and everything you were too young to understand was love.
The girl who had moved on.
The girl you crossed an ocean for anyway.
“So… how long are you here?” Sophia’s voice was soft, almost careful, as if the answer mattered more than she was ready to admit.
You shifted your weight, fingers still curled loosely around the strap of your backpack. The apartment was warm — the kind of warmth that should have felt comforting — but something about the air felt tight.
“Two weeks,” you said.
Her eyes brightened, the kind of brightness that made her look like the girl you used to know — the one who knocked on your door barefoot at 7PM because she wanted to watch the sunset from your roof. The one who always leaned too close when she laughed. The one who said I’ll call you, promise, and meant it, even if time didn’t.
“That’s… that’s really good,” she said, breath catching slightly. “I’ve been writing down things to show you, actually. You remember how we used to say we’d go to museums together when we were older? There’s one here with a night exhibition, and—”
Her excitement was warm.
It reached you.
It always did.
But before the moment could settle, Eli stepped into the doorway behind her, leaning his shoulder against the frame the way people do when they already feel like they belong.
“Don’t forget you’ve got finals next week,” he said casually, like it was a reminder, like it was reasonable, like it didn’t weigh anything at all.
Sophia’s expression faltered — not fully, just a small flicker of hesitation.
The kind you only notice if you have memorized her.
“I know,” she said, softer now. “I just—”
She didn’t finish.
You watched the smile on her face shift into something more restrained. Something practiced. Something meant to keep the peace. And you felt it — that quiet, familiar sting — the ache of being someone she was happy to see, but not someone the world revolved around anymore.
You offered a small smile, the kind that tried to say It’s fine. I get it. I’ll take whatever version of you I can have.
The kind that hurt to make.
Sophia stepped toward you anyway. “We’ll make it work,” she said, insistence threaded into her voice. “I want to spend time with you.”
There it was.
The sentence you came here for.
The one that should have felt like sunlight.
But something about it felt like holding a warm object with bare hands — comforting, but capable of leaving burns.
Eli didn’t argue.
He didn’t need to.
He just looked.
A quiet assertion that he didn’t have to be jealous — because he had already been chosen.
Sophia didn’t see it.
But you did.
You always saw everything.
Later, when the conversation dissolved into settling your things and unpacking and small domestic movements that felt both intimate and distant, you closed the door into the spare room and finally let your breath go.
Your shoulders sank.
Your pulse steadied, painfully.
You had waited two years.
You had crossed oceans.
You had told yourself you were prepared.
But seeing her with him — not hand-holding, not kissing, not even touching — just existing with him — felt like watching something you once prayed for come true for someone else instead.
And you knew it then — as quietly and as clearly as a truth spoken without sound:
You had come all this way for something that was never yours.
Not really.
Not anymore.
You pressed your hand against your chest, grounding yourself against the ache rising there.
You could love her.
You always had.
But if she couldn’t — or wouldn’t — choose you…
…you would have to learn how to let that love become memory instead of hope.
And that was the kind of heartbreak that didn’t shatter.
It settled. Deep.
Slow.
Inevitable.
The kind you carry quietly.
You exhaled.
And the process of moving on — painful, tender, and slow — began.
Not because you wanted to.
But because loving her silently was starting to bruise the parts of you that once felt like home.
The first morning felt deceptively gentle.
Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, pale and soft, dust motes drifting lazily in the air like everything in the world was moving slower than it used to. You sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a warm mug, steam rising past your face in quiet ribbons.
Sophia moved around the kitchen the way she always had—carelessly graceful, like the world had been shaped around her steps instead of the other way around. She hummed under her breath, an old song you recognized even before the melody took shape.
Your song. Or—what used to be yours.
Back when you were both thirteen, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her room, passing a cheap pair of tangled earphones back and forth, telling each other that some people were meant to stay.
She still hummed it the same way.
You didn’t mention it.
You just watched her from across the table, quietly, the way someone watches a memory they are afraid to touch too hard—because it might break.
“Breakfast?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
You opened your mouth, but before you could answer, a pair of arms slid around her waist. Eli pressed a kiss to her temple with the confidence of someone who believed he belonged there.
You didn’t flinch.
You didn’t look away.
You didn’t have to.
The ache didn’t need help making itself known.
Sophia smiled, soft but not the same soft she reserved for you. Something about it had an ease, a familiarity. A comfort that came from repetition.
It wasn’t your place to interrupt a routine you weren’t part of anymore.
So you stood up quietly and rinsed your mug.
“Going somewhere?” Sophia asked, turning fully now, concern flickering in her features—not dramatic, not loud—just real enough to hurt.
“Just… walking,” you said. “Haven’t seen the neighborhood.”
She nodded, biting her lip like she wanted to say more—but Eli’s voice cut in asking about coffee, and the moment passed like smoke through fingers.
You stepped outside.
The morning air was cool.
Almost sharp.
The kind that wakes you up just enough to feel everything more clearly.
You walked without direction—just feet meeting pavement, as if motion alone could soften the ache inside your chest. Houses passed. Trees. A dog barking somewhere behind a fence. People living lives that had nothing to do with you.
Your phone buzzed.
Sophia: Come back soon. I wanna take you to that cafe we talked about.
You stopped walking.
The message was simple.
Light.
Warm.
But it cracked something anyway.
Because she still wanted you close.
But not close enough.
You typed back:
Sure.
No emojis.
No punctuation.
Nothing more than what was required.
You stared at the screen for a long moment before putting your phone away.
When you returned, Sophia was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, coat on, hair clipped back, smile bright—and real.
“I told Eli we’re going out!” she announced, triumphant, like she’d pulled off a jailbreak. “Just us. For a bit.”
You blinked.
Not surprised.
But unsteady.
“You okay with that?” you asked carefully.
She gave you that look.
The one that had undone you since you were ten.
Soft. Open. Unburdened.
“With you?” she said. “Always.”
And that was the problem.
You walked side by side down the street like no time had passed, like two years hadn’t stretched between you like an ocean you had both been too afraid to swim.
Your shoulders brushed.
Not by accident.
Sophia laughed—loud, unfiltered—about something small and unremarkable.
You smiled and tried not to memorize the sound again.
Because you had promised yourself not to hope.
But being beside her felt like oxygen after months underwater.
And your heart betrayed you.
Quietly.
Desperately.
You didn’t say anything.
You just let the moment happen.
Even though you knew the universe had a cruel sense of humor when it came to timing.
Because she was yours—
just not in the way you wanted.
And wanting her felt like holding a flame too close to your skin.
Warm.
Beautiful.
And guaranteed to burn.
The café Sophia took you to looked like something out of a film—small, warm, and full of corners where people could tuck themselves away from the rest of the world.
There were shelves filled with plants that reached lazily toward the ceiling, and sunlight poured through wide windows, pooling gold on every surface it touched. You could smell coffee, vanilla, the faint sweetness of cinnamon, and something about the air felt like memory—familiar in a way you couldn’t quite name.
Sophia led the way like she always had, weaving between tables with her light, easy steps. You followed automatically, your heart doing something stupid and unrequested inside your chest. She stopped near the window and gestured with a small grin.
“Sit there,” she said, tapping the seat across from her. “The lighting makes you look nice.”
She said it casually, as if it didn’t mean anything.
But she noticed you.
You sat down, and when she slid into the seat across from you, her knee brushed yours beneath the table. She didn’t move away, and neither did you. The warmth of that small point of contact felt louder than any conversation you could have started.
Sophia pulled her hair into a loose clip, strands falling around her face in the same soft way you remembered. Of all the things that had changed—the city, her voice, the world around both of you—that stayed the same. You tried not to stare, but your eyes had always been drawn to her, like there was a string tied between your ribs and her silhouette.
The barista passed with a wooden board of drinks, setting them down gently: her honey latte and your cappuccino with the foam just the way you liked it.
Sophia remembered your order, even after two years of being separated by oceans, degrees, and people who claimed her time.
You didn’t ask how.
She reached for her phone, thumb flicking through her gallery. Her face brightened—real, warm, almost glowing.
“Oh—look,” she said. “I wanted to show you this.”
She turned her phone toward you, and there she was—laughing, cheeks rosy from cold air, bundled in a coat and scarf. Her hand was hooked through another girl's arm as the two of them stood in front of an ice rink. A group photo. A moment in her life you were not there to witness. One she only told you about after the fact.
But you recognized someone — immediately too.
“That’s Lara,” you said quietly. “The one who always orders iced coffee even when it gives her a headache, and then complains about it for an hour.”
Sophia blinked—surprise flickering first, then something softer and slower. It wasn’t amusement. It wasn’t pride.
It was recognition.
“You remember,” she said, not as a question, but as something that had weight.
You didn’t know what to do with the way her voice sounded when she said it—like she had just discovered something fragile and valuable she didn’t know she had been holding.
“Well,” you answered, trying to keep your tone steady, “you talked about her a lot.”
You could have said more.
You could have told her that you remembered everything she ever gave you.
Every message.
Every late-night call.
Every detail she slipped into conversation without realizing she was placing pieces of herself into your hands.
But some truths don’t need to be voiced to be already understood.
A quiet stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just full. You held her gaze for a second longer than friends usually do. Sophia opened her mouth, ready to say something—not playful, not casual—but something honest.
Her phone buzzed against the table.
The screen lit up.
Eli: Hey. How long will you be?
The moment didn’t break.
It simply dissolved—like breath fading from cold glass.
Sophia turned the phone face-down, her expression returning to something lighter, polished back into place like a mask she had rehearsed wearing. The softness in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something you recognized too well: hesitation.
“So,” she said, clearing her throat softly, “two weeks. That’s… not a lot of time. I want to take you everywhere. All the places I told you about. We should start planning.”
You didn’t trust your voice at first. You swallowed. Once. Twice.
“Yeah,” you managed. “I’d like that.”
She smiled, but her eyes were still looking at you like she was searching for something she didn’t know how to ask for.
Her knee brushed yours again beneath the table. Not accidentally, and definitely not out of habit. But as if she was making sure you were still there.
As if she needed to confirm you were real.
And that was the part that hurt the most.
Because you were still there.
You had always been there.
And she hadn’t noticed until now.
Outside, people walked by. Cars passed. Leaves shuddered in the wind. The world kept going, unconcerned with the quiet war taking place inside your chest.
But here, at this table with too much sunlight and memories hanging between you like dust turning gold—
you felt it:
The beginning of a heartbreak that had been waiting patiently for its moment.
A love that was already there.
Already deep.
Already impossible.
And still, you stayed.
It didn’t happen all at once.
There was no dramatic turning point, no singular moment where you realized you were slipping back into her gravity. If anything, it happened quietly—like the soft pull of a tide against your ankles, so gentle you don’t notice it’s dragging you deeper until the shore is already far behind you.
It was little things at first.
Sophia sending you a message in the morning before you were even awake.
Good morning — if you’re free later, come with me somewhere?
Her voice echoing down hallways as she called your name like muscle memory.
The way she always found her way to your side in any room, as if proximity were instinct.
None of it was planned.
Or maybe all of it was—just not out loud.
Sophia had always been the type who filled space without trying, who pulled attention without asking, who made rooms seem smaller simply by being in them. But something about the way she stayed close to you felt different from the way she was with everyone else.
Her laughter softened when it was you who made her smile.
Her tone gentled when she said your name.
Her touches lingered, never long enough to claim anything—just long enough to suggest something.
You told yourself you didn’t read into it.
You told yourself she was just affectionate, warm, kind.
You told yourself you were stronger than this.
That you had come here to visit.
Not to feel everything again.
But Sophia never did anything halfway.
So when she said, Come with me,
you followed.
Not because you should have.
But because some part of you had always been moving in her direction, even when oceans were between you.
And that’s how the dates started.
Not dates, technically.
Just two people spending time together.
Just two people laughing too hard.
Standing too close.
Looking too long.
Just two people who knew better.
And pretended they didn’t.
The first one wasn’t planned at all.
Sophia just knocked on your door one Saturday morning, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, hair in a loose braid that had clearly been done in a rush.
It started because she said her fridge was empty.
“Come with me,” she’d said over Messenger, not even bothering with hello.
And of course, you did.
You changed, grabbed a jacket, and followed her outside. The city was still quiet—streets wide and washed pale with morning light. Sophia walked beside you, close enough that her shoulder kept brushing yours in soft, accidental intervals. Or maybe not accidental. You had stopped trying to make sense of it.
The farmer’s market sat three blocks down, tucked under strings of twinkling lights that hadn’t been turned off since last night. Vendors were setting up fruit crates and pastries and fresh flowers—sunflowers, tulips, lilies, poppies—and the air smelled like yeast and oranges and the first breath of spring.
The next that you went to was the grocery store. It was cold, bright, ordinary. But next to her, it felt like home.
She walked ahead with the cart, looking back every now and then to make sure you were still close.
You pretended to compare cereal boxes, but really, you were watching the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. The way she hummed under her breath. The way she laughed at herself when she realized she grabbed the wrong brand—again.
You didn’t need anything.
But you picked up small things you knew she liked back then — not because you meant to, but because remembering her was muscle memory.
And when your fingers brushed over the handle of the cart — just barely — she didn’t move away.
She breathed in… and you felt it.
That tiny, fragile shift in the air.
She felt it too.
The city moved around you, but nothing felt rushed. She tugged your sleeve sometimes to pull you toward something — a jar of honey the color of amber, handmade earrings shaped like little suns, a stack of vinyl records someone was selling for cheap.
You pointed at one in the pile.
“Your favorite,” you said.
Sophia paused.
She hadn’t mentioned that song in nearly two years.
Her fingers brushed the record sleeve.
Then your hand.
Soft.
Barely-there.
Enough.
“You remember everything,” she said softly.
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to.
Because she knew you did.
The next time, it was the arcade.
Sophia dragged you inside with the kind of excitement that only came from muscle memory—high school weekends, tricycle rides, running in the rain, laughing so hard your ribs ached. The neon lights flickered pink and blue across her face, turning her into something unreal. Something cinematic.
“Bet I can beat you,” she grinned, already stepping up to the basketball hoop game.
“You could never beat me,” you said—except your voice was too fond, too soft, too much like you were remembering the girl she used to be and the girl she still was.
She won by three points.
But she preened like she’d destroyed you.
You didn’t tell her you’d let her win.
Then there was the claw machine.
Sophia narrowed her eyes at a plush strawberry the size of your face.
“If I get that,” she said, “you’re taking it home.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Deal.”
She didn’t get it.
Not the first time.
But she tried again.
And again.
And again.
Laughing, swearing, cheeks pink, determination bright in her expression.
Until—miraculously—it dropped.
She let out a cheer so loud the kid next to you flinched.
Then she turned, holding the plush up to you with a look that was almost shy.
“Here,” she said. “For you.”
You stared at it.
Then at her.
“Sophia,” you murmured, voice catching just a little, “you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” she said.
Some music playing quietly — Taylor, like the universe blessed you.
Gorgeous, faint and distant, like a memory trying to be subtle.
She held a Polaroid camera.
She pointed it at you.
“Hold still.”
You blinked, startled. “What—?”
Click.
The flash went off.
Sophia smiled like she’d just caught something impossible.
“Just wanted to remember you like this.”
You didn’t ask why.
But your heart did.
And it was the softest thing anyone had ever said to you.
The third time wasn’t supposed to happen at all.
It was late.
You were walking back to her building.
The city had settled into a quiet kind of dark—streetlights humming, windows glowing in warm rectangles, the night air cool enough to raise goosebumps along your arms.
Sophia looked up.
“Roof?”
You nodded.
Up the stairs, through the maintenance door, onto concrete still warm from the day. The city stretched out below—lights glimmering like distant fire.
You sat side-by-side at the edge, your knees drawn up, your shoulders pressed together because the cold was starting to creep in.
Sophia spoke first, voice low, raw in a way it rarely was.
“You know… sometimes I wish I could freeze moments. Just… stay in them. Without worrying about what's next.”
You didn’t breathe for a moment.
This wasn’t light.
This wasn’t small.
This was the weight of something breaking open.
You turned to her.
“What moment is this for you?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes met yours.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Like she had been looking for something and just now found it.
“This one,” she whispered.
Something in your chest pulled tight—sharp, bright, painful in the way beauty sometimes is.
You leaned forward before you realized you were moving.
Sophia leaned too.
The distance between you became a question.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
And just when your lips would have touched—
Her phone buzzed.
You both froze.
The screen lit her face.
Eli. Again.
Sophia pulled back first, her breath shaking, and you looked away, feeling the weight of something you couldn’t name. The city did not care. The world kept turning.
But something inside you was beginning to unravel—slow, steady, inevitable—because this was not a crush, not “just missing someone.” This was the kind of love that grows quietly until it fills every room of your chest, leaving no space left to escape.
And Sophia?
Sophia felt it too.
She just wasn’t ready to face what it meant.
Not yet.
Sophia didn’t answer the call.
She just stared at the screen for a second too long, thumb hovering in that tense, suspended air — like she was waiting for the phone itself to decide for her. The buzzing cut through the stillness of the rooftop, but the two of you didn’t move. Eventually, she clicked the screen dark and set the phone down, face-first on the concrete ledge, as if hiding it from view would make the moment easier to return to.
You didn’t say anything.
Silence had never been uncomfortable between the two of you. You grew up in each other’s spaces — quiet afternoons studying, long car rides with nothing but the hum of the engine, sitting side by side while your thoughts drifted wherever they wanted. Silence was familiar. Natural.
But this silence had changed.
This silence had weight. It sat between you like something living — with shape, with gravity, with heat. It pressed against your ribs, made your pulse heavy and uneven.
You tried to breathe normally. You failed.
Sophia’s own breath came out unsteady — not quite a sigh, more like something she was trying to release before it drowned her.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
But it wasn’t an apology for ignoring the call.
It was an apology for everything hanging in the air that neither of you were naming.
And you knew that.
She knew you knew.
You shook your head slowly, forcing your voice to stay level.
“It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t.
God, it wasn’t.
The night wind swept past you, cool and soft, brushing over skin still warm from the closeness you’d almost crossed into. The city lights glittered in the distance, alive and bright — but up here, everything felt too exposed. Too open. As if the sky itself had eyes and was watching the two of you try to hold yourselves together.
Sophia kept her gaze turned outward at first — toward the city, toward the lights, anywhere that wasn’t your face. But you could see her thinking, processing, swallowing words back down before they could escape.
“You ever think about how different things would be if…”
Her voice broke off there.
She seemed startled that she had said even that much.
You didn’t push.
You just waited — the way you always had with her.
After a moment, she swallowed, her throat working around something heavy.
“If timing was different?”
A quiet ache uncurled inside your chest.
Because yes.
You had thought about that.
You had built entire lifetimes out of that.
“What do you mean?”
Your voice came out soft — careful — the tone you used when holding something fragile that could shatter if you touched it wrong.
Sophia finally turned to you.
And there it was.
The look.
The same one she used to give you when you were eighteen and sitting on the Ateneo rooftop, your legs dangling over the edge as the sunset dyed the sky pink and gold. The look that held familiarity, trust, warmth — the look of someone who had once known you as deeply as you hoped to one day know yourself.
The look that said:
You were always mine in a way I never learned how to name.
“I mean…” she began, voice thin, “…if I met you now. Like this. If everything started here instead of back then.”
Your chest tightened — slow and sharp and unbearably real.
You didn’t look away.
You couldn’t.
“And?”
Your words were barely there — a thread, a breath.
Sophia’s eyes softened — not the kind of softness that gentles things, but the kind that breaks them.
“And I think I would fall for you.”
The sentence didn’t crash into you.
It settled — heavy and warm and devastating — like a truth that had been waiting years to be spoken.
You didn’t respond.
Because anything you said in that moment would tear something open that neither of you were ready to acknowledge.
Sophia lowered her gaze, fingers curling tighter around the metal railing until her knuckles paled.
“But I can’t,” she said, voice fraying at the edges. “I can’t do anything about it.”
There it was — the quiet devastation.
No drama, no grand heartbreak.
Just the truth lying bare between you.
Of course she couldn’t.
Of course she wouldn’t.
She had someone.
Someone she had chosen before she realized she was still choosing you in little ways.
Sophia blinked — too fast.
The kind of blink meant to keep tears from spilling.
“You’re only here for two weeks,” she whispered. “And I… I don’t know how to let people go gently.”
You let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t.
More like the release of pain that didn’t know where else to go.
“So don’t,” you said.
It came out quiet.
A request.
A hope.
A wound.
Sophia closed her eyes.
“I’m scared,” she admitted — the most honest, most vulnerable thing she could have possibly said.
You nodded — because you didn’t need to tell her you understood.
You always had.
The wind moved again.
The city breathed.
Your heart didn’t.
You didn’t touch her.
You didn’t confess.
You didn’t kiss.
Because sometimes love doesn’t end in tragedy or fireworks —
sometimes it ends in two people who could have been everything standing in the place they are not allowed to become anything at all.
And yet—
Nothing changed the next day. There was no dramatic aftermath, no awkward apologies, no careful dodging of glances or spaces. You and Sophia moved through the day as if nothing had happened on that rooftop, as if your almost-kiss had dissolved with the night air.
The same laughter, the same casual touches, the same gravity pulling you toward her without permission. It was almost worse this way—loving her quietly while pretending you didn’t.
Sophia: breakfast? :)
Like the night on the rooftop hadn’t split something open between you.
You said yes.
Of course you did.
And she greeted you with the same soft smile.
The same easy teasing.
The same casual closeness that wasn’t casual at all.
Her shoulder brushed yours in line for coffee.
You laughed at the same jokes.
She leaned into you when she showed you something on her phone — close enough that her shampoo, familiar and citrusy, slipped behind your ribs and stayed there.
Anyone watching would think you were just old friends falling back into old patterns.
But you felt every second of it.
You felt it when her gaze lingered a little too long.
When her laughter softened in a way it didn’t around anyone else.
When her feet pointed toward you every time you spoke.
When she said your name like it meant home.
She didn’t have to say anything about that rooftop moment, and you didn’t either, but the silence between you wasn’t empty now.
It was full—full of everything you both refused to name—and strangely, painfully, it almost felt worse like this, because pretending had been easy before, and now every unspoken truth pressed against your chest with quiet, relentless weight.
Before her voice broke on I think I would fall for you. Before you saw her hands shake when she said I can’t.
Now every ordinary moment pulsed with meaning.
When you reached across the table to hand her a napkin, your fingers almost touched.
When you laughed, she watched the way your mouth curved.
When the train arrived and she stepped forward, your hands moved at the same time — like you were built to move toward each other and didn’t know how to stop.
It was the same.
But now you could feel the almost in everything.
And she felt it too.
You caught it in the little things:
The way she hesitated before unlocking her phone — afraid to see his name.
The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t looking.
The way she exhaled when her laughter faded — like something inside her was fraying slowly.
She didn’t say anything.
Neither did you.
Because saying it would mean choosing.
And neither of you were brave enough to break the world like that.
So you kept acting normal.
Normal, except your chest hurt when she smiled at you.
Normal, except her fingers hovered near yours and never quite touched.
Normal, except every time she said your name it felt like a secret.
Normal, except you were falling.
And she was falling too —
just one step behind.
Far enough that she could pretend she wasn’t.
Close enough that you could feel her breath when she turned toward you.
Two people walking side by side.
So close your shadows overlapped.
So far your hands never did.
And the world kept spinning.
As if it didn’t know it was holding something fragile between you.
You woke up before Sophia — same as always.
The apartment was still soft with morning light when you stepped into the kitchen, hair messy, mind still half-asleep. You reached for the cereal, the way you’ve done every morning.
Except this time, someone else was already there.
Eli.
He was leaning against the counter, scrolling his phone, the kind of posture that says I live here and you don’t.
He didn’t greet you.
He didn’t have to.
Sophia walked in moments later, sleepy smile already forming — the one she only used with you.
“Morning,” she yawned.
You smiled back.
Warm. Automatic. Familiar.
And Eli watched it happen.
His jaw twitched.
“So,” he began, voice light in that fake-friendly way people use when they’re sharpening knives behind their back. “Four more days left, right?”
Sophia froze midway through reaching for a mug.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Four.”
Eli chuckled — short, humorless, condescending.
“Damn. Two weeks sure went fast when you’re staying at someone else’s place for free.”
Sophia’s head snapped toward him immediately.
“Eli.”
Sharp. Warning.
He raised both hands, mock innocence.
“What? I’m just saying. Must be nice. Some of us actually pay rent.”
Your fingers curled around your glass just a little too tightly.
Sophia stepped between you and him — not touching, just positioning — like she knew exactly how the words landed.
“They’re here because I asked them to stay,” she said, firm.
“And you know that.”
Eli scoffed, shrugging like it was nothing.
“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep.”
You didn’t say anything.
But you didn’t look away.
And that made it worse.
Eli smirked — slow, smug — the kind of smile that wanted a reaction.
“So,” he said again, leaning back like he was settling into a throne only he believed was there.
“You two seem pretty close. Real close.”
His eyes dragged over you — deliberate, assessing, almost sneering.
“Must be nice to have someone chase you like that.”
Sophia went still.
Completely.
You blinked.
Your chest didn’t move.
He said it like he knew.
Like he saw every look you kept swallowing.
Every almost-touch.
Every rooftop silence.
Sophia’s voice came out low.
Colder than you’d ever heard it with him.
“Don’t do that.”
Eli raised an eyebrow.
“Do what? Acknowledge the reality?”
You stepped in then — not to protect her happiness, but to protect your dignity.
You kept your voice level.
Soft.
Controlled.
“I’m not chasing anyone.”
Eli tilted his head, smirking.
“Right. You’re just conveniently always here. Always around. Always looking at her like—”
Sophia cut him off.
“Stop talking.”
But the damage was done.
Silence hit the room like a slap.
Eli pushed away from the counter, grabbed his keys, and let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“Yeah. I’ll head out. Enjoy your little… study session.”
He winked at Sophia.
Not playful.
Possessive.
Then he left — door closing too hard on purpose.
The moment the latch clicked, Sophia let out a breath that shook.
Not delicate.
Not dramatic.
Shaken.
Like she had just watched something crack in real time.
You didn’t move.
She didn't either.
This time, she spoke first.
“He’s not—”
She stopped.
Started again.
“He’s not usually like that.”
You said nothing.
Because everyone lies like that when something hurts.
Sophia’s eyes lifted to yours —
and they were glassy.
Not crying.
Just full.
“I’m sor—”
You cut her off gently.
“Don’t apologize for him.”
Her inhale stuttered.
Because you didn’t mean him.
You meant:
don’t apologize for choosing him. don’t apologize for not choosing me. don’t apologize for breaking my heart without intending to.
Sophia took a step toward you.
Small.
Barefoot.
Heart in her hands without realizing it.
“Hey,” she whispered, voice fraying. “Look at me.”
You did.
You always did.
And she looked at you like someone realizing she’d been holding a match to a fuse this whole time.
Not angry.
Not confused.
Just realizing.
“You don’t deserve that,” she said.
Your throat tightened.
Neither of you said what you did deserve.
Because the truth was sitting in the room with you — large, quiet, undeniable:
You deserved her.
And she knew it.
And she couldn’t give you herself anyway.
You woke up to the soft hum of the apartment — the refrigerator clicking on, water in the pipes, distant cars moving somewhere outside. For a second, it felt like any other morning.
Like you had always belonged here, brushing teeth beside Sophia, sharing toothpaste brands and matching mugs and the kind of comfortable silence people spend years building.
But then the shift came back — the memory of last night, the rooftop, her almost leaning in, her phone lighting up with Eli’s name, the way her expression had cracked in the smallest, quietest way.
And the kitchen still held the echo of his voice.
“Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable here.”
You had never been comfortable here.
You had only been grateful.
Now you were just hurting.
Sophia moved around the kitchen barefoot, hair tied up loosely, sleeves too big for her, looking painfully soft in the way only mornings allow. She was humming something — a melody you knew but couldn't place — while pouring hot water into her mug.
You watched her for a moment.
Not because you wanted to.
Because you didn’t know how not to.
You had spent the last two weeks trailing after her — following her through museums and bookstores, through small cafés and bus stops, on sidewalks where she walked ahead and turned to check if you were still behind her.
She had been the one showing you the city, pointing out places tied to her life here — her favorite thrift shop, the bench where she cried after a bad exam, the boba place where she learned how to laugh again.
Sophia had been giving you pieces of her world without realizing she was doing it.
And something inside you decided:
You wanted to give something back. Even if it was just for one night.
You set your glass down and spoke before you lost nerve.
“Come out with me tonight.”
Sophia paused mid-stir.
The spoon clinked against the ceramic.
She looked at you — really looked — eyes searching your face like there was something written there she needed to read carefully.
“Where?” she asked.
You shook your head.
“I’ll plan it. I just… want it to be the two of us.”
There was no disguise in your voice.
No joke.
No casual shrug.
Just want.
And want was dangerous.
Sophia knew that.
She set the mug down slowly and leaned her hip against the counter. Her fingers tapped against the rim — once, twice — the nervous habit she’d had since you were fifteen. The habit you could read like language.
She was thinking.
Feeling.
Trying not to let anything slip.
Her voice came quiet:
“Why now?”
You tried to smile, but it came out tired.
“Because I’m leaving soon. And… I just want a day that’s ours. Not rushed. Not shared. Not interrupted.”
Sophia’s eyes softened — painfully, beautifully — like something in her chest had just cracked open.
You continued, even though your throat felt tight.
“You’ve been taking me everywhere these past days,” you said. “Showing me everything that made your life grow while mine stayed… in the same place. And I’m glad. I really am.”
Your hands tightened slightly in your lap.
“But just once… I want to take you somewhere too. Just you. Just me. A memory I can bring home with me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was charged.
Sophia looked away, the sunlight catching the outline of her profile.
Her lips parted like she was holding words she didn’t trust herself to release, and she nodded once—slow, deliberate, like choosing this mattered. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll go.” And your chest warmed, hurt, bloomed, and broke all at once, like every version of hope and heartbreak unfolding in the same breath.
But then — she added something that made the air shift again.
“But just us,” she said. “No one else. Not even Eli. I… I want it to be just us.”
Your breath left you.
Because that wasn’t logistics.
That was a confession in disguise.
You nodded.
“Just us.”
Sophia smiled — not wide, not bright, just that small, soft, childhood smile she used to give you when you handed her your extra umbrella at Ateneo, when you shared chips during recess, when you stayed up studying past midnight in classrooms that smelled like chalk and rain.
A smile that meant:
I still know you. I still see you. I still feel something I don’t have a name for.
And maybe — just maybe — she didn’t know how to let you go gently either.
You didn’t tell her where you were taking her.
Just:
“Wear something warm. And comfortable.”
She met you by the elevator — hair down for once, loose and soft, a cardigan she always stole from her roommate back in freshman year, the one you used to tease her about. There was something unsure in her smile, but it wasn’t nervous.
It was hopeful.
And that was somehow worse.
The train ride was quiet, but the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty.
The kind where your shoulders kept brushing, and neither of you shifted away.
City lights streaked past, soft and golden, catching in her hair like they recognized her.
Sophia leaned her head lightly against the glass window, watching the reflections pass.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” she said, voice low.
“I know,” you answered.
You felt her look at you.
Lingering.
Searching.
Like she knew there was meaning here she hadn’t unfolded yet.
You arrive at the aquarium thirty minutes before closing.
It’s already dim inside — the lighting lower than daylight, the world quiet except for the distant low hum of water filtering through glass. No crowds. No noise. Just blue light and silence and the sound of her breath beside yours.
Sophia stops just inside the entrance.
“Oh,” she whispers.
Not dramatic.
But full.
Like something in her chest loosened.
You don’t rush.
You take your time walking through each arch of glowing tanks — jellyfish pulsing like neon slow-breathing hearts, schools of silver fish flickering like thoughts you can’t quite catch.
Sophia steps close to the glass, hands tucked into her sleeves like she always did when she was overwhelmed.
“They’re so…” she trails off.
You finish it for her.
“Soft.”
She laughs — the quiet, stunned kind, the kind that comes from being surprised by beauty.
“Yeah,” she says. “Soft.”
You watch her instead of the fish.
The blue light pools around her.
Her hair glows.
Her eyes look full of things you once thought you were imagining.
She turns and catches you looking, and this time she doesn’t look away. There’s no teasing, no flustered laugh, nothing to break the quiet—just stillness, heavy and soft all at once, as if the world itself paused to hold the two of you in that moment.
“Why here?” she asks.
You could lie.
You don’t.
“Because it’s quiet,” you say.
“Because no one interrupts here.
And because I didn’t want to spend tonight sharing you.”
Her breath stutters.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
She steps closer — slow, careful — until your arms almost touch.
“You’ve always known how to choose places,” she murmurs.
No sarcasm.
No distance.
Just truth.
The two of you end up sitting on the floor in front of the largest tank — the one with the manta ray gliding slow circles like a constellation that learned how to breathe underwater.
Sophia rests her knees against yours.
Not accidental.
Not unsure.
Just close.
“You remember when we used to skip class and go to the roof in Ateneo?” she says suddenly.
You smile.
“How could I forget?”
She laughs softly.
“You always brought those cheap snacks from Mini Stop.”
“You always ate them,” you remind her.
Her eyes soften.
“We were so—”
She stops.
Searches for the word.
Fails.
You don’t help.
Because the answer is happy.
She looks back at the tank — like the water could explain something impossible.
“I think I’ve been trying to get that back,” she admits.
“Without realizing it, it was you I missed. Not the place.” The ache in her voice was sharp, clean, impossible to ignore. “Don’t say things like that,” you murmured, your own voice quiet against the weight of the moment.
Sophia’s breath caught, and there it was again—that look: the one from the rooftop, the one from when you were eighteen, the one that said,
I would love you if I were braver.
I am already loving you quietly.
I just don’t know how to survive the consequences.
She swallows, and your name leaves her lips soft, trembling, like she’s afraid it might break if she says it too loud. “Come here,” she whispers—not meaning closer, not really.
What she means is stay. Stay in this moment.
Stay in this memory. Stay in this version of the world where the two of you are allowed to love each other quietly, without asking for more. And so you do—you stay, breathing in the same soft air, holding onto a borrowed tenderness you both know you’ll have to return.
For a while, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t the awkward kind of silence — no sticky heaviness, no words tripping over what wasn’t being said. It was a quiet silence, something shared, familiar. A silence that felt like the end of a long exhale.
Then Sophia stopped walking.
Her eyes brightened as she focused on something just ahead — a small convenience store glowing like a lantern at the edge of the block. Its light spilled across the pavement, sharp and white and almost nostalgic.
“Oh my god,” she murmured, breath escaping in a laugh. “Mini Stop.”
You turned to look at her, but she was already smiling — not the polite one she used around others, not the practiced one she gave Eli, but the real one. The one you remembered from late homework nights and stupid inside jokes. The one that made you feel nineteen again without warning.
“You remember what we used to get here?” she asked, though her voice already held a laugh that said she knew you did.
You didn’t answer — because she was already running.
Or trying to. Her laughter broke mid-stride, echoing down the empty street, and your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
You chased her.
The automatic doors parted with a mechanical chime, and the two of you nearly slipped on the too-shiny tile as you stumbled into the fluorescent brightness.
The store clerk looked up from his phone, unimpressed, unimpressed in the kind of way that suggested he had seen teenagers do far worse in these aisles at this hour.
Sophia skidded to a stop in front of the snacks aisle and grabbed a familiar orange bag — cheap cheese puffs, the same ones she used to pretend were “ironically gourmet” just so she could eat half of yours without paying.
She held the bag up triumphantly. “Look at her. A classic.”
You exhaled a laugh — real, unguarded. “I can’t believe those still exist.”
“And yet,” she said, shaking the bag dramatically, “here they are. Eternal. Timeless. Legendary.”
You shook your head, but your feet had already carried you to the refrigerated section. The cold air brushed your face as you reached instinctively — muscle memory more than thought — for a carton of strawberry milk.
Sophia appeared beside you before you even closed the cooler door.
She blinked.
“You still drink that?”
Your eyes narrowed in offense. “Don’t disrespect my legacy.”
Her laugh burst out in a sudden, unstoppable sound — not cute or polite but full and warm, bending her forward, one hand gripping your shoulder for balance. You felt her fingers there, the light press of them, the weight of shared years. You laughed with her, helpless.
The kind of laughter that made everything else — every complicated feeling, every unspoken thing — loosen its grip for just a moment.
It was ridiculous. You were both too old and too tired and too aware of the world to be laughing like this over snack food. And yet — it felt like returning to a childhood bedroom and finding it unchanged. Like realizing that some part of you survived everything.
When her laughter finally faded, Sophia leaned her shoulder into yours, steadying herself. Her hair fell slightly across her cheek, soft and unstyled now, freed from the polished image she wore in public.
“We’re idiots,” she said, breath still uneven.
But her voice was soft, affectionate.
Like she was glad to be idiots with you.
You didn’t look at her — not yet.
You were afraid if you did, you’d say everything.
“It’s nice,” you said instead. And that was the truth. “Being like this again.”
Sophia didn’t answer right away.
You felt her looking at you — slow, searching, like she was taking an inventory of memories only the two of you had the map for. When you finally glanced toward her, her expression had changed. The light in her eyes wasn’t playful anymore. It was warm, and deep, and painfully familiar.
Her voice, when she spoke, was very, very quiet.
“You always made everywhere feel like home.”
The store, the lights, the hum of the refrigerator — everything else faded.
Not a confession.
Not a promise.
But something in the middle — something living and breathing and fragile.
You didn’t move closer, but the space between you felt suddenly, dangerously small. You could feel her breath. You could feel your pulse.
Sophia blinked, realizing the weight of what she’d said only after it had already fallen between you.
She stepped back first.
Not far — just enough to let the moment settle without shattering.
She bumped your shoulder, gentle, a touch that said I’m here even without words.
“Come on,” she said softly, smiling again, but with something tender at the edges.
“Let’s go eat outside.”
And so you followed her to the counter.
Like you always have.
Like, if you were honest with yourself, you always would.
The night hadn’t ended so much as softened.
After the snacks, after the laughter, after the unspoken things that hovered between you like breath, neither of you wanted to go back to the apartment. The air outside was cool, the city quieter now — streetlights blinking tiredly, headlights few and far between.
You were the one who pointed toward the bus stop.
Sophia didn’t ask where.
The bus arrived nearly empty — the kind of vehicle that felt like it belonged only to the two of you, moving through sleeping streets like a secret. The lights inside hummed softly, casting both of your faces in a gentle, washed-out glow.
Sophia slid into the seat beside you without hesitation.
For a while, the world passed in quiet motion — neon signs, closed restaurants, silhouettes of buildings dissolving into something less defined. The windows fogged softly with each breath.
Sophia rested her head on your shoulder like it was instinct, no hesitation, no theatrics. Your body understood it before your mind did, adjusting to her as if it had been waiting for that weight, that warmth.
Her hand, resting loosely on her lap, brushed against yours—not holding, not claiming, just touching—and somehow that small, quiet point of contact held more than any embrace ever could.
You didn’t speak; the silence didn’t ask you to. It was enough just to be there, breathing in the same moment, pretending for a few heartbeats that wanting each other was the same thing as having each other.
The bus carried you both out of the city and toward the coast, the sky outside slowly — almost shyly — beginning to lighten, trading darkness for a gray-blue hush.
When the bus finally stopped, the world was quiet.
The two of you walked toward the shore, the sand cold beneath your shoes. You didn’t talk, just moved in step — your bodies syncing without effort, like you had always known how to walk toward morning together.
Sophia sat first.
Right at the edge of where the sand turned damp, where the tide whispered in small, rhythmic breaths. You lowered yourself beside her, close enough that your shoulders touched — because distance felt unnatural now.
She spoke only when the first streak of pink broke across the sky.
“I used to come here all the time,” she said. Her voice was soft — the kind of soft that only happens at dawn. “When everything felt too loud. When I didn’t know what I wanted. When I didn’t know who I was.”
You looked at her, but she was looking at the horizon — like she was afraid to break if she met your eyes.
“Back then,” Sophia continued, “I always wished someone was here with me.”
Her voice wavered, not from sadness — but from the realization that the wish had come true too late.
Your chest tightened.
You didn’t touch her.
The sky brightened — slow, gentle, inevitable.
Sophia finally turned her head — and when she looked at you, the early light caught in her eyes. She looked tired. And alive. And terrified. And hopeful.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Not for tonight.
For everything you gave without being asked.
For loving her quietly.
You swallowed hard.
“Always,” you said, before you could stop yourself.
Sophia’s breath caught.
Not because she didn’t know.
The sun rose slowly — warm light spilling over the water, over your hands, over the space between you that felt thinner than a heartbeat.
Sophia’s fingers twitched — just once — like she almost reached for yours.
Almost.
But almost was all you were allowed to have.
So you sat there together — shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath — watching a sunrise that would end everything and make it unforgettable at the same time.
Because this was the last morning.
And you both knew it.
The night of your flight didn’t feel real.
Your suitcase was zipped.
Sophia didn’t talk much while she walked you to the terminal.
Eli wasn’t there.
You had expected him to be — expected the tense smile, the possessive arm around her, the quiet battle he kept losing without realizing. But instead, Sophia showed up alone, hair still damp from a rushed shower, sweatshirt sleeves covering her hands like she didn’t know what to do with them.
“He wanted to come,” she said, finally breaking the silence.
You looked at her.
She didn’t look back.
The automatic doors breathed open, airport air cool and sterile compared to the world you were leaving behind. Your suitcase wheels clicked faintly against the tile floor — the only sound between you for a few long seconds.
You reached the point where you had to stop — the security barrier ahead, people flowing through and disappearing into gates and destinations and lives.
Sophia stopped too.
She finally looked up.
And the moment she did — you knew.
“You should go,” she murmured.
But neither of you moved.
Your heart climbed into your throat.
“Sophia,” you said quietly.
Her breath caught.
You searched her face — the soft exhaustion, the confusion, the something aching underneath her ribs.
And you spoke.
Not dramatic.
“I liked you,” you said.
Sophia blinked — slow, like the words had weight.
“I know,” she whispered.
You nodded once.
“And I… still do.”
Her breath broke — just slightly — like something inside her cracked under its own pressure.
She didn’t look away this time.
Her eyes searched yours — as if she could read in them every sunrise, every almost, every quiet moment you held yourself back.
“I know,” she said again, but this time her voice trembled.
Silence unfolded — heavy, full, alive.
Sophia swallowed hard — her jaw tightening the way it did when she was forcing her emotions into shape.
“I wanted—” she started, stopping immediately, and you waited. She tried again: “I wanted to choose you.” Your chest burned at the words, but then she added, “But I didn’t,”
And there it was—not cruelty, not blame, just the quiet, undeniable truth of timing.
Just the truth of timing, right?
You nodded — not because it didn’t hurt, but because you finally understood:
Your vision blurred — just a little.
Sophia stepped closer.
“I don’t know how to let people go gently,” she whispered.
You exhaled — and this time, it shook.
“So don’t,” you said, voice cracking in a way you couldn’t hide.
Sophia’s eyes shone — glossy, unfallen tears.
Her hand lifted — just barely — like she was going to touch your face.
But she dropped it before it reached you.
Almost.
The boarding announcement echoed overhead.
You stepped back.
Sophia didn’t move.
“Goodbye,” you said.
Not because you wanted to.
Sophia swallowed — and for the first time, her voice broke completely.
⋆.ೃ࿔* After years of quietly pining for your childhood best friend, Lara, you decide it’s finally time to move on. With the help of your relentless and teasing friends — you craft a series of “plans” to get over her, from limiting contact to forcing yourself to like someone else. But as each plan spectacularly fails, you begin to realize that moving on isn’t as simple as you thought.
⋆.ೃ࿔* Themes : college!kats, martin of cortis mentioned, reader is a YEARNER. childhood friends! lara x reader
⋆.ೃ࿔* w.c : 9.5k
Classes had barely wrapped up for the day, the campus still buzzing with students weaving through pathways, but your feet followed muscle memory—past the crowded quad, across the garden the maintenance crew always forgets to water, straight to your bench.
The bench.
The one you and Lara claimed during freshman year, after a brutal 7 a.m. lecture left you half-dead and looking for anywhere to collapse. It sits on the quieter side of campus, tucked beneath a giant narra tree, right beside the engineering building’s outdoor AC unit that hums like a tired dragon. The air around it is always a little too cold, but comforting for the two of you.
You drop your bag, sink onto the bench, and let your spine melt into the familiar hard wood.
A moment passes.
Then—
“Of course you’re here.”
Lara’s voice drifts in, warm and familiar, a sound you could pick out from a crowd of thousands. She slides into the seat beside you like she’s simply reclaiming her spot. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun she definitely threw together while speed-walking, glasses perched on her nose, hoodie too big and probably stolen from your closet months ago.
You snort. “You say that every week.”
She exhales, stretching her legs into the sun.
“God, that group presentation drained my soul.”
“Because it’s always true,” she fires back instantly.
The hum of the AC behind the bench fills the space between you. The sun is sinking low, brushing warm gold across her cheekbones, softening the sharp stress lines school tends to carve into her face.
Without thinking, she leans into you—shoulder bumping yours, her knee knocking gently against your thigh. Casual. Thoughtless.
Lethal.
She glances at you. “You look tired.”
For her, this is normal.
For you… it’s everything you’re not supposed to feel this much.
“That’s college,” you deadpan.
“No, that’s you,” she corrects, already digging through her tote bag. “Sit still.”
You groan. “Lara—”
“You’re treating me like a stray cat.”
She pulls out a granola bar and places it on your thigh.
“There. Eat.”
“Exactly. And I need you to survive so you can keep walking me to class.”
You take the granola bar anyway because resistance has always been useless with her. She watches you take the first bite, eyes soft, expression unreadable in the fading light.
“Better?” she asks.
“Barely,” you mumble.
She bumps your shoulder again—gentle, familiar, grounding.
“What would you do without me?”
But you only shrug. “Probably die.”
The real answer?
Suffer.
But it does.
She laughs, that warm, chest-deep sound that’s always been your favorite.
And you try—really try—not to let your heart do that stupid fluttering thing it always does around her.
You bump her knee lightly, trying to sound casual. “Hey… be honest. Do you think I’m cute?”
She goes still. The hum of the AC fills the space behind you, cold against your back. Her fingers tighten around the granola wrapper like she’s bracing for impact.
You panic first.
“I mean—” you rush out, words tripping over each other, “not like that. Just… in general. Compared to the girls who hit on you. Like, I don’t know. Those tall comm majors with perfect hair and perfect faces?”
Her jaw flexes. You keep rambling like you’re trying to shovel yourself out of your own grave. “It’s just a question. I promise I’m not fishing for—”
She turns and looks at you.
Really looks.
No smile, no teasing, none of that usual softness she drapes over you like a blanket. Just something sharp, almost uneasy, simmering in her gaze. Your breath stutters. For a second, you wonder if you’ve finally pushed a boundary you shouldn’t have.
Lara swallows, looks away, and says quietly—too quietly—“…No.”
It sinks deeper than it should. You barely have time to process the sting before she speaks again, even softer this time.
“I don’t think you’re cute.”
You blink, stunned. Then she shifts closer, her knee pressing into yours again, deliberate this time. Her voice drops lower, warm and careful, like she’s handing you something fragile.
“I think you’re… something else.”
You shift away from her slightly, giving her space. “I should get back to class soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”
“Class already?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Thought you still had a free period.”
“Yeah… someone just messaged me,” you lie, fishing for any excuse to leave. Your phone buzzes in your bag—a message from one of your classmates: “Hey, prof extended the review session. If you can still come, come.”
You latch onto it instantly. “It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I should… go.”
You start packing your things, stuffing notebooks into your bag faster than necessary.
And because you’re too busy pretending nothing’s wrong, you miss the way she watches you—frustration tightening her jaw, guilt flickering in her eyes.
You don’t see any of that. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and tell yourself leaving is the right choice.
You knew it was time. Years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.
It had started the day the Raj family moved in next door. Lara had been loud, charismatic, and impossibly warm—the kind of girl who laughed with her entire body, not just her mouth. She’d shoved candy into your hand on the first day, winked, and said, “We’re neighbors now. Deal with it.”
You’d been doomed since that moment.
And to make things worse, you’d all ended up at the same university across the country—same state, same city, same absurdly long campus shuttle route. You weren’t just stuck with her. You were haunted.
But hey, you were young, independent, and supposedly hot. You couldn’t keep orbiting around someone who, last week, had borrowed your hoodie and then washed it with hers without asking because she “liked the way it smelled like me.”
Today, you were sitting at your usual coffee spot on campus, sipping a latte that was way too bitter, across from your best friends—the only people who somehow managed to keep you sane despite your self-inflicted emotional disasters.
Yoonchae, ever the brutally honest one, poked at her frappuccino. “So… you’re still pining, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” you admitted. “But it’s… different now. I’m trying to move on.”
“Uh-huh,” Manon said, tossing a muffin wrapper into the trash like it was a weapon. “Different as in… you’re flailing harder, but with a plan?”
“Exactly that,” Megan added, smirking from the other side of the table. “You’re orbiting her like a planet that refuses to leave the sun. And honestly? It’s entertaining.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I said I’m trying!”
The three of them exchanged looks. Yoonchae rolled her eyes, Manon grinned, and Megan’s smirk widened. They’d known you for years—through sleepovers, late-night study sessions, and every disastrous crush you’d ever had—and they’d all agreed: your obsession with Lara was legendary.
“Look,” Megan said, voice serious now, “I know you think you’re subtle. But you’re not. Lara knows. And let’s be honest—you’re never going to move on unless you do something drastic.”
“Like what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Operation: Get Over Lara,” Yoonchae said, eyes glinting like she was about to unveil a secret weapon.
Manon clapped her hands once. “Yes! Step one: admit you’re way too deep. Step two: actually try to stop yourself from thinking about her every second.”
You groaned again. “That… sounds impossible.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Megan said, sliding her coffee across the table to you. “We’ll make a plan. Or at least watch you fail spectacularly.”
And somehow, against your better judgment, you felt… relieved. Maybe, just maybe, having a plan—no matter how ridiculous—was better than letting your heart flail uncontrollably.
Especially when Lara was still sitting just a block away, completely oblivious to your spiral.
After a careful, painfully thorough curation—and a lot of teasing, eye-rolls, and side comments about your life choices—you and your friends finally had something resembling a plan. Well… truthfully, it was them doing the work while you sat there sulking, face buried in your latte, occasionally whining about the unfairness of existence.
Megan slammed her sketchbook onto the table like it was the Declaration of Independence. “Okay, enough whining. Feast your eyes on the Five Stages of Uncrushing.” You leaned over cautiously, taking in the pages filled with doodles, arrows, and stick figures—somehow, your friends had turned your emotional chaos into a full-fledged war plan.
“Stage one: Limit Physical Contact,” Megan began, pointing at a little drawing of you recoiling as Lara poked your cheek. “Goal: stop melting every time she touches you.” You frowned. “Uh… that seems impossible,” you admitted.
Manon snorted. “Exactly. That’s why it’s doomed. She’s clingy by nature. Cheek pokes, arm loops, lying in your lap during movie night—you’re not surviving this.” Yoonchae leaned in, grinning like she was about to savor your inevitable failure. “But that’s the point. You need to see how hard it’s going to be so you’re mentally prepared. Agreed?” You groaned but nodded, muttering, “Fine. I agree… doomed.”
Megan flipped the page. “Stage two: Diversify Your Social Life. Get a crush on someone else.” You blinked. “Wait, seriously?” Manon wagged a finger at you.
“Goal: stop obsessing over Lara. Why it’s doomed? Because she’s weirdly protective and overshadowing. She’ll lowkey scare the girl off.” Yoonchae leaned closer, still grinning. “Exactly! But think about it: even if it fails, you learn something. You see the stakes. You agree?” You huffed, rolling your eyes, and finally muttered, “Fine. Agreed. I’ll try.”
“Stage three: Spend Less Time Together,” Megan continued, flipping another page. “Goal: distance yourself.” You scoffed. “Ha. She’ll just… follow me around.” Manon chuckled. “Which is why it’s doomed. And also why you have to try. Admit it—you can’t avoid her entirely, but you can make a tiny effort. Agree?” You muttered, “Agree… ” though you weren’t entirely convinced.
Megan’s tone grew dramatic. “Stage four: Confession Purge. Write everything down, then burn it. Goal: catharsis.” “Except I’ll panic if she finds it,” you said, frowning. “But doing it forces you to confront your feelings. Agreed?” You groaned again and nodded reluctantly. “Fine. Agreed.”
Finally, Manon smirked and flipped to the last page. “Stage five: Cold Turkey. A week without Lara. Goal: get over her.” Your stomach twisted at the thought. “A week? Without her? Impossible.” “Exactly why it’s doomed,” Megan said. “But the whole point is to see what happens when you actually try. Plus, we’ll be here to watch, judge, and guide you. Agree?” You stared at the sketchbook, exhaling slowly, and nodded. “Agree… doomed.”
Yoonchae clapped her hands and leaned back, grinning from ear to ear. “Good. Then let the suffering begin.”
Stage one: Limit Physical Contact
You tried to convince yourself it would be easy. Just a tiny mental adjustment: no leaning on her arm, no brushing against her hand, absolutely no accidental touches. Simple, right? Wrong.
Lunch at your usual campus bench arrived like a ticking time bomb. Lara was already there, sprawled across the seat with that infuriatingly perfect grin, waving at you like nothing had changed. Your stomach dropped.
You had spent twenty minutes rehearsing how to sit just far enough from her without seeming rude, counting invisible margins between your knees and hers like a geometry problem.
As soon as you sat down, she poked your knee lightly. “Hey,” she said, eyes sparkling. “You look like you’re plotting something.”
You froze. That poke was the exact wrong kind of contact. Your plan unraveled immediately. You shifted slightly, trying to give her space, but it only made her lean a little closer. “What’s with the distance today?” she asked, looping her arm over yours in a way that made your brain short-circuit.
You tried to distract yourself, chewing loudly on your sandwich, forcing a cough when she nudged your shoulder. “Uh… nothing!” you blurted. “Just… focusing on eating. Very important research.”
Her grin faltered. For a split second, a shadow crossed her face—slight, almost imperceptible—but enough to make your chest tighten. She pouted subtly, the kind of sulk she only did when she wanted to get a rise out of you. “Mm,” she murmured, dragging out the sound like a question. “Sure you’re fine. You seem… different.”
You froze again. Different? Panic set in. Your meticulously rehearsed mental notes were already spiraling into oblivion. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, gaze fixed on you like she was trying to read your thoughts. The light breeze caught her hair, and for a moment, your brain shut off entirely.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, a little too loudly, feeling your face heat up. “Really. Just… eating.”
Her lips twitched as she glanced down at your untouched sandwich, then back at you. “Uh-huh,” she said, sounding suspicious, her tone teasing but laced with a little… disappointment? A tiny sulk that made your heart ache for reasons you refused to admit. She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms in that way that made her look both adorable and infuriatingly smug.
Your phone buzzed on the bench with a group chat notification. Megan: “Step one = fail. And your face is red. Classic.” Manon: “Stop panicking. Maybe she likes it?” Yoonchae: “Enjoy the suffering. You deserve it.”
You groaned into your hands, but Lara leaned closer, brushing a stray hair from your face. “Are you okay?” she murmured, voice soft and careful, eyes searching yours. Her sulking had softened now, but the sharp edge of her observation remained—like she was noticing everything and daring you to slip up.
“I’m… fine,” you croaked, trying desperately to pull back, but she held your gaze. That smirk, the one she reserved for moments when she knew she had the upper hand, curled at the corners of her lips. Your chest felt like it was going to burst, the plan crumbling faster than you could catch it.
She poked your knee again, just lightly, just enough to make your resolve falter. “You’re being weird,” she said softly, almost accusingly. “Did something happen? Or are you… avoiding me?”
You couldn’t answer. Panic had fully taken over. You’d wanted a simple, safe lunch, and instead you were sitting on a bench next to someone who knew how to dismantle every boundary you tried to set—and now she was sulking just enough to make you feel guilty for even thinking about distancing yourself.
Manon’s voice floated in your head, dripping with amusement: “Doomed. Absolutely doomed.” Yoonchae’s too: “You just can’t win.” Megan’s snort from a few messages down: “Enjoy this. It’s your life now.”
By the time lunch was over, you had failed spectacularly. Every single boundary you tried to establish had been erased by her presence, her pokes, her subtle sulking. And deep down, a small, panicked part of you wondered if Lara had been aware of all of this—the way your stomach twisted, the way your hands fidgeted—the whole time. Maybe she had been, and maybe that tiny pout was her enjoying it just a little too much.
You slumped as you stood to leave, shoulders tense, heart racing, and a thought—unwelcome, terrifying, and undeniable—crept into your mind: this is going to be way harder than any of us thought.
Stage two: Diversify Your Social Life.
aka: Get a Crush on Someone Who Isn’t Lara
You had a study break the next day before heading home, and your trio insisted—demanded—you use this time to “start Plan 2.”
Which was stupid.
And doomed.
And stupid.
But here you were anyway.
You had a study break before heading home the next day, and you thought maybe, just maybe, it would be chill. Maybe you could focus on notes, sip your overpriced latte, scroll your phone a little… normal stuff. You were wrong.
Lara was already at the table, stretched out across the bench like she owned the place, earbuds dangling from her ears, nose buried in a textbook. Her eyes lifted when she saw you, and that grin—infuriating, perfect, way-too-knowing—spread across her face. Your stomach did a backflip. You tried to tell yourself it was fine. Totally fine.
You made a grab for your phone, trying to seem casual, but she leaned back effortlessly, holding it above her head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glared at her from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat swiping at the moon. “Give it back!” you barked, more sharply than intended.
“Patience,” she said, smirking.
“Lara Raj—”
“Okay, okay!” she relented with a dramatic sigh, finally setting your phone face-down on the table like she’d just handed you a priceless artifact. You snatched it up immediately, scanning the screen for damage. No weird messages, no unsolicited likes, no new matches. Relief washed over you, but it was short-lived.
“…What did you do?” you asked, suspicion prickling at your nerves.
She shrugged like it was nothing. “I didn’t message anyone. I’m not that cruel.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“But,” she added, with that grin that made your brain short-circuit, “I didn’t know you were dating.”
You blinked, because of course she didn’t. “I’m not,” you muttered, shutting your phone off. “I’m… just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”
“Good,” she said, too fast, too sharp. Her tone didn’t match the casual words she was trying to sell, and your chest tightened.
“Good?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
She shifted in her seat, suddenly very interested in dragging her pen across the page in her notebook, but you noticed the subtle tension in her posture. “I mean… good that you’re not settling,” she said softly. “You should be picky. People are… well, you know. The worst.”
You snorted. “You are a person.”
“Exactly. Which is why I know what we’re like,” she shot back, and you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself.
Rolling your eyes, you muttered, “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”
“I am,” she said, winking. Then she sobered slightly, eyes flickering to yours with a seriousness that made your chest ache. “I’m just… looking out for you.”
The words landed heavier than intended. You tried to sip your latte to calm yourself, but it didn’t help. The next words slipped out before you could stop them.
“You know,” you said quietly, voice barely above the hum of the café, “with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”
Silence. Thick, terrifying silence.
It was supposed to be a joke. You tried to laugh it off, tried to pretend your face wasn’t heating up, but the second the words left your mouth, they felt real. Too real.
Lara froze, eyes wide and unreadable. Your stomach twisted in knots. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe I should,” she said, almost too casually.
You blinked, trying to comprehend what you’d just heard. Then she grinned again, that infuriating grin that made your brain short-circuit, and swiped your phone from the table before you could stop her.
“Anyway,” she said lightly, flipping through her own notes, “don’t overthink it. And don’t waste your time on that app. You can do better.”
And that was it. That little, offhand comment, subtle but pointed enough to make your pulse spike. She wasn’t mad. Not exactly. But she was… weirdly territorial. Maybe jealous.
Your friends, of course, had been watching from the corner of your vision the whole time, smirking, already planning the next stage of chaos.
The next day, your friends weren’t subtle at all. Manon nudged you as you walked into the campus cafeteria, her eyes darting to the park outside. “Look,” she said, pointing discreetly toward a bench near the edge of the quad. Your head snapped in the direction she was indicating.
Sophia. Sitting alone, headphones in, book open, latte on the table. She wasn’t paying attention to anything else—except, maybe, to the breeze that kept tossing her hair across her face.
“She’s literally in your lane,” Manon whispered, a grin playing at the corner of her mouth. “Perfect for Plan 2. Go. Talk to her. Pretend your life isn’t a disaster.”
Yoonchae snorted beside you. “Do it before Lara notices you’re not literally glued to her side.”
You groaned, tugging your bag tighter over your shoulder. “Why do I even listen to you guys?”
“Because,” Manon said, clearly enjoying your internal panic, “if you actually try, at least you’ll have some… proof that you can talk to someone else. And it’s not like Lara’s going to just… let you forget her. She’s… well, her.”
You rolled your eyes, already imagining Lara’s subtle glare from across campus, and took a deep breath. One foot in front of the other, you were about to step into the disaster that Manon had cheerfully labeled “practice flirting with Sophia.”
You made your way toward the bench, palms sticky with nervous sweat. Sophia noticed you approaching almost immediately. Her lips curved into a small, polite smile, and you felt something inside you lift—a little, tiny spark of hope. She wasn’t indifferent, and that alone made you want to curl into a puddle of relief and panic at the same time.
“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual but coming out a little too breathy. “Uh… Lit 304, right?”
“Yeah,” Sophia said, tilting her head slightly, voice soft but warm. “You’re in that class too?”
“Yeah! Uh… I mean, kind of. I—” Your words stumbled over each other, and Sophia giggled lightly, that soft, lilting sound that made your chest ache and your brain short-circuit simultaneously.
“Relax,” she said, holding up a hand. “I get it. You look… nervous. Don’t worry about it.”
You blinked. She noticed? She actually noticed? Heart hammering, you forced a smile, trying to act like a normal human being and not a puddle of feelings for Lara.
Meanwhile, in the background, the two people who made your life infinitely more complicated were walking across the quad: Lara and Daniela, her best friend, laughing about something you couldn’t quite catch.
Lara’s gaze flicked in your direction once, sharp, calculating, and a tiny pang of jealousy ran through you—even though she had Daniela there. Her body language wasn’t confrontational, not yet, but there was a subtle tension in the way she held herself, the way her eyes narrowed just slightly, tracking your every move.
You shifted nervously, trying to focus on Sophia. “So… I was just reading the last chapter for discussion,” you said, gesturing vaguely to your bag. “And… um, I really liked your points in class. You have a, uh, good way of seeing things.”
Sophia’s smile widened, genuine and open. “Thanks! That’s sweet of you. I noticed you asked a few questions in class too. Thought you had some interesting thoughts.”
Meanwhile, a few dozen feet away, your friends’ whispers floated faintly through the air, barely audible but impossible to ignore.
“Wow. She’s actually cute,” Megan murmured, notebook half-shielding her face.
“Don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up,” Yoonchae whispered, fidgeting with her coffee cup.
Manon smirked, nudging Megan. “And yep… Lara and Daniela are literally right over there, probably catching all of this.”
Your stomach dropped. Of course they were there. Lara and Daniela were sitting together on a nearby bench, clearly in the same quad, laughing at something Daniela said—but your peripheral vision caught Lara’s gaze flicking in your direction. She wasn’t approaching. Not yet. But she was watching. Observing. Always aware.
You forced yourself to breathe, to focus on Sophia. “So… uh… do you… want to, I dunno… maybe discuss the next reading sometime? Over coffee?”
Sophia’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! I’d love that.”
Your chest did a full flip, and for a moment, you almost forgot that Lara and Daniela were in the quad. Almost.
From afar, Megan whispered, “Yep. Doomed… in the best way.”
Manon just grinned, leaning back in her chair. “Good. Let her stew. You’re officially off the rails. Let’s see what happens next.”
And just like that, you realized Plan 2 was alive—and terrifyingly effective—even with Lara and Daniela quietly monitoring from the background.
Ten minutes in, and somehow you and Sophia were still talking. Not awkward small talk. Actual conversation. She was easy to talk to, smart, funny, and surprisingly interested in your rambling thoughts about the latest reading. You found yourself relaxing, almost forgetting that this whole thing was supposed to be “practice flirting.”
Almost.
From across the quad, Lara’s curiosity had clearly shifted from mild interest to full-on inspection mode. She sat with Daniela, who was clearly enjoying herself a little too much. “Ohhh,” Daniela murmured, leaning closer to Lara with that sly smirk she always got when she was about to stir the pot. “Look at you. Can’t even pretend you’re not watching. I see the way your head keeps tilting.”
Lara flushed just slightly, muttering under her breath, “Shut up.” But she didn’t look away. Not once.
Meanwhile, Megan, Manon, and Yoonchae were perched a few benches away, half-whispering and half-giggling at the scene. You could almost hear their commentary from the corner of your mind, though thankfully it was muffled enough to focus on Sophia.
But then you noticed it. Lara wasn’t just glancing anymore. Her body language had changed—shoulders tense, eyes narrowing just enough that you could tell she was invested. And for the first time, the subtle pull of jealousy was obvious.
“Okay,” Daniela whispered, leaning closer to Lara with that teasing grin, “you’re gonna do something. I know it. Bet me you won’t.”
Lara’s jaw flexed, and after a beat, she straightened up, brushing her hair back casually. “I’m not sitting here watching like a statue,” she said, voice low but decisive. “Time to see what’s really going on.”
Before Daniela could tease her any further, Lara stood, tossing a casual glance at her friend over her shoulder. Then she started walking toward you and Sophia, each step purposeful. You felt your chest tighten, adrenaline and panic rising in equal measure. This was supposed to be your chance to talk to someone else.
And now, Lara—Lara—was coming over.
Lara stopped just beside the bench, one hand resting lightly on the backrest. You felt your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with Sophia, and everything to do with her.
“Hey,” Lara said again, this time looking directly at you. Her tone was neutral, but there was a faint edge, like she was testing the waters.
“Hi,” you managed, voice a little too high, too fast. “Uh… Lara, this is Sophia. Sophia, Lara.”
Sophia’s smile was warm, open, but just slightly cautious. “Hi, Lara! Nice to see you here.”
“Yeah,” Lara replied, giving a small nod. Her eyes flicked to you again, and your pulse threatened to skip a beat. The way she looked at you—like she knew everything and nothing all at once—made your cheeks heat up.
For a moment, there was an awkward pause. You could feel it pressing down on your chest. Then Lara sat down at the other end of the bench, keeping a polite distance from Sophia—but not from you.
“So… you two know each other already?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual.
“Yeah,” Sophia said smoothly. “We’ve met in some classes. Lara’s… opinionated. But in a good way.”
Lara tilted her head, a hint of amusement in her expression. “Opinionated is one word for it,” she said, voice low enough that only you could hear the edge. Then she glanced at Sophia. “She’s smart, though. Always has something interesting to say.”
Your chest tightened. Every compliment Lara gave Sophia felt like a sting—and yet, at the same time, it was oddly protective, almost like she was testing the waters for how far she could let Sophia get close to you.
You forced yourself to smile, trying to keep the conversation on neutral ground. “Yeah, Sophia’s great. Really makes you think about the readings in a way I… uh… didn’t before.”
Sophia laughed softly, leaning in just a little, clearly enjoying your company. “Thanks! That’s nice to hear. I like talking with you—it’s… easy, you know?”
You nodded, heart hammering. Easy. With Sophia, it was easy. With Lara, it was everything you didn’t know you wanted until it was already too late.
From afar, you could just barely make out Megan, Manon, and Yoonchae were now crouched behind a tree closer to you guys, whispering and giggling.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Yoonchae whispered, but you could hear the smirk in her voice.
And there, on the same bench, the three of you sat: Lara watching you, Sophia engaged, and you trying not to melt entirely under the weight of both their attention.
Lara’s eyes narrowed slightly at the corner of Sophia’s mouth as she spoke, the faintest crease forming between her brows. She crossed her arms loosely, shoulders squared, exuding that quiet, unshakable territorial vibe. You felt it immediately—a low, simmering tension that made your stomach do a little flip.
“You make it sound like I’m hard to deal with,” Lara said, her tone light but measured, eyes flicking between you and Sophia.
“Not at all,” Sophia said, smiling, her tone playful. “I just… like testing boundaries a little. Keeps life interesting, don’t you think?” She wiggled her eyebrows slightly, and you felt Lara shift almost imperceptibly, jaw tightening just a fraction.
You tried to keep the conversation on track, fumbling with your words more than usual. “Yeah… uh… testing boundaries. Totally. Makes… uh… discussions more engaging?”
Sophia laughed again, a soft, melodic sound, and you cursed yourself quietly. She clearly enjoyed nudging at Lara, and you were the awkward center of it all. Lara’s gaze flicked to you one more time, sharp and unreadable, before returning to Sophia.
You were halfway through trying to make some coherent point about the essay when the tension around the bench became almost unbearable. Lara’s protective gaze flicked between you and Sophia with a quiet intensity that made your stomach twist, while Sophia’s subtle teasing only made it worse.
Just as you opened your mouth to say something—anything—to smooth things over, your three friends appeared like they had been waiting for this exact moment.
“The princess needs saving,” Manon murmured, sliding onto the bench beside you with that trademark smirk of hers.
“Yeah,” Megan added, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Time to evacuate before this gets catastrophic.”
Yoonchae leaned in from the other side, grin wide. “Seriously, come on. You’re about to melt, and we can’t let that happen.”
You blinked, stunned. “Uh… hi?”
“Hi!” Sophia said, laughing softly, clearly amused by the sudden appearance of your personal rescue team.
Manon hooked her arm through yours, tugging gently. “Coffee break. Now. Before someone here combusts from… well, territorial vibes.”
You let yourself be guided to your feet, heart hammering, barely registering Lara’s intense gaze following your retreat. Sophia tilted her head, smiling but letting you go, clearly entertained. Lara’s expression remained unreadable—sharp, protective, and maybe just a little jealous—but she didn’t follow.
As you walked away with them, the trio whispered and giggled, their commentary like a running track of your life.
“Saved,” Yoonchae murmured triumphantly.
“Finally. You were about two seconds from turning into a puddle,” Manon added, nudging you lightly.
Megan grinned. “This is why we exist. You can’t handle yourself.”
You let out a shaky breath, grateful for the rescue, but also painfully aware: the bench, Lara, and Sophia’s teasing smiles were still etched into your mind.
Meanwhile, back at the bench, the air had shifted. You weren’t there anymore, but Lara’s gaze was sharp, fixed on the spot where you’d just been sitting.
Her jaw tightened, and her voice was low, a controlled edge to it. “Stay away from her,” she said, eyes narrowing at the empty space.
Sophia tilted her head, smirking, clearly amused. “Territorial much? You guys aren’t even dating.”
Lara’s glare didn’t falter. “I’m not joking. She’s… important,” she said quietly, her tone sharp but calm.
Sophia laughed softly, leaning back on the bench, still smiling. “Important, huh? Wow… I didn’t realize I needed permission to talk to her.” She gave Lara a teasing glance, dark eyes sparkling. “Relax a little. We’re just sitting on a bench.”
Lara’s gaze lingered on the empty space, hands resting in her lap. “I just… don’t want her getting caught up in the wrong stuff.”
Sophia leaned forward slightly, voice playful but pointed. “Well… she’s single, right? I don’t see her dating anyone, so I guess that makes me free to talk to her.”
Lara’s jaw tightened further, a faint flush creeping up her neck. She didn’t answer, just glared at the empty space where you’d been, the quiet stretching between them thick with unspoken tension. Even without words, it was clear: Lara wasn’t about to let Sophia—or anyone—get too close.
And she didn’t know why she was doing this.
Stage 3: Spend Less Time Together
It had been four days since the bench incident—the little café chaos, the sideways glances, and Sophia’s teasing grin—and you were determined. Plan 3: spend less time with Lara. Just a little space. Just enough to convince yourself you could breathe without your heart hammering every time she was near.
You told yourself you’d do it today. No bench hangouts after class. No casual library meet-ups. Solo lunch. Focused study. Easy. You even texted the group chat in advance, framing it as a “personal project day,” so you could avoid unwanted commentary.
And just when your classes rang, signaling the end of the lunch break, you thought—finally—you could slip away, blend into the crowd, and get a few hours of “distance.”
Except you couldn’t.
There she was.
In all her effortless, undeniably noticeable glory, Lara leaned against the railing near the exit, arms crossed loosely, hair falling perfectly into place despite the casual sway of her walk. That grin—half teasing, half challenging—was plastered across her face, and her gaze locked onto you like she’d been waiting all day.
You froze. “What… what are you doing here?”
She shrugged, like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Walking. Needed some fresh air. Thought I’d check on you.”
“Here? Now? On this side of campus?” You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck.
“Yeah,” she said, eyes sparkling, tone deceptively calm. “Weird coincidence, huh?”
You grimaced internally. Of course it was. You’d hoped that, since she was technically from another major, you could get some real distance, even for a little while. But apparently, fate—or Lara—had other plans.
You tried to sidestep, weaving through the crowd, but she matched your pace effortlessly, like she could read the tiny shifts in your steps before you even made them.
“And here I thought I could get away,” you muttered under your breath, half to yourself, half hoping she wouldn’t hear.
“I never thought you could,” she replied, her grin widening. “Not even for a second.”
You sighed, knowing the plan was failing spectacularly. Every time you tried to pull away—even just a little—Lara had a way of inserting herself into the same space, effortlessly, naturally, like gravity.
Lara stayed just a little too close as you walked, matching your pace like she had a sixth sense for exactly where you’d step. That grin—half playful, half knowing—never left her face, like she was holding onto some secret she wasn’t ready to share.
And maybe, just maybe… the subtle way she lingered, the teasing glances, the soft challenges in her words, the way her eyes tracked you when you weren’t paying attention—it all meant something.
You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but every step beside her made your chest tighten and your thoughts scatter. She wasn’t just there to annoy you… was she? Maybe she was guarding you, or maybe she was testing you. Either way, it felt like she’d quietly claimed this little stretch of campus as her territory, and you were caught somewhere in the middle.
You tried to believe something had changed—that maybe walking beside her, keeping your distance, Plan 3 actually working, had shifted the balance. For the first time in days, you allowed yourself a tiny spark of hope. Maybe she’d accept a little space, maybe you’d finally get a few hours without your chest twisting every time she appeared, maybe—just maybe—you could start pretending you weren’t so tangled up in her.
You walked a little taller, careful not to glance at her too often, telling yourself this was the start of a new strategy. She laughed at something someone said in the distance, and for a fleeting second, you thought, maybe things could actually be normal today. Maybe plan 3 could work.
And maybe, when you thought you finally had a chance to catch your own breath, she leaned slightly closer, grin teasing, eyes sparkling with that familiar edge.
“Guess who invited me out this weekend?” she said.
Your chest froze. That spark of hope evaporated instantly.
“…Wait, who?” you managed, forcing your brain to scramble.
She smirked like it was the best joke in the world. “Martin. From your chemistry lab.”
Your chest tightened. Of course. You forced yourself to breathe, keeping your tone carefully nonchalant. “Oh. Him. Yeah… cool.”
Lara raised an eyebrow, clearly amused at your attempt to play it casual. “You know him, right? We have that lab together sometimes.”
You nodded, acutely aware of every word, every pause. Martin was… everything you thought you wanted. Charming, funny, the kind of guy who made casual conversation seem effortless. The kind who could flirt without even trying, the kind everyone noticed the second he walked into a room.
“And he asked you out?” you managed, keeping your voice even despite the flutter in your chest.
She shrugged, grinning like it was no big deal. “Yeah. Dinner this Friday. Said he thought I was… ‘interesting.’”
You forced a laugh. “Interesting. Right.”
She tilted her head, teasing, clearly enjoying the small crack in your composure. “You look worried. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
You blinked, shaking your head like a pro. “Jealous? No. Not even a little. Totally happy for you.”
And yet your stomach twisted anyway. This was exactly what you thought you wanted—for her to have her own life, for you to finally detach, for Plan 3 to somehow work.
But now that it was actually happening, it felt like someone had grabbed your ribs and was slowly pulling them apart.
You kept walking, smiling, your laugh practiced and hollow, your heart quietly protesting: she was moving on, alive in someone else’s orbit, and you… were still orbiting her.
Stage Four: Confession Purge
After your last class of the day, you trudge back to your dorm, shoulders heavy, backpack digging into your spine. The campus hums with life—laughing students, music from distant speakers, the smell of someone’s coffee cart wafting through the air—but it all feels muted, distant, like you’re underwater.
You drop onto your bed, letting your bag slump to the floor, and stare at the ceiling. Plan 4: Confession Purge. You’d thought writing it all down would help—pour everything into a notebook, set it on fire, and walk away. A symbolic clean break.
But the words don’t come easily. Every time you pick up your pen, your mind drifts, and all you see is her. Teenaged Lara; black hair with red ends, oversized hoodie, bright-eyed and laughing at some joke that only she found funny.
The afternoons you spent sprawled on her bedroom floor, strumming your guitar while she sings, daring each other to try ridiculous dares. The way she somehow always knew when you were sad before you even spoke.
You scribble and scratch, cross out whole paragraphs, and start again. I miss her laugh. I hate how she doesn’t know. Why does it hurt so much? The words are messy, chaotic, and painfully honest, like trying to catch fireflies in a jar—you can see them flicker but can’t hold them.
You lean back against the headboard, staring at the blank page in front of you. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about purging or moving on. Maybe it’s about finally admitting, to yourself first, that she’s everywhere. In your classes, in your head, in everything.
You flip through the notebook one last time. Each page is a little time capsule, fragments of hope and hurt, memories of who you were and who she made you feel like you could be. And for a moment, just for a moment, it’s enough to just sit there, letting yourself remember, letting yourself ache.
Because no matter what plans you make, no matter how many steps you take to get over her, some part of you will always orbit Lara—like it or not.
Stage 5: Cold Turkey
Across campus, Lara feels the emptiness that your absence leaves like a bruise. She notices it in the small things—your usual bench in the quad left empty, the way the library seems quieter without your chatter, the half-empty coffee mugs that somehow taste less sweet when you’re not there to steal a sip.
She tries to tell herself it’s fine. You’re busy. Maybe you needed space. She shrugs off the sharp pang in her chest as she walks past the café, hoping the sight of your latte cup on a table is just a coincidence. But every step she takes, every place you normally haunt, only reminds her how much you belong in the world she moves through.
By the third day, it’s undeniable. She misses you. Not in some fleeting “oh, I wish they were here for this joke” kind of way. She misses the way you fill the air, the rhythm you set, the little imperfections she secretly loves—the way your pen tap dances on your notebook, the way you correct her grammar with a smirk, the way you make even the most mundane afternoons feel alive.
She paces outside her dorm with a restless energy, phone in hand, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But you don’t reply. You haven’t replied since the first day. The screen stays stubbornly blank.
Lara stares at her phone for what feels like the hundredth time today. The little screen glows against the dim light of her dorm room, mocking her.
“Hey… you okay?”
No reply.
“Seriously, talk to me.”
Still nothing.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard again. She types, deletes, types again, over and over. She knows she shouldn’t bombard you, knows that giving you space is part of whatever plan she’s vaguely aware you’ve been following—but the thought of your silence is unbearable.
“I’m not mad. I just… I miss you.”
She hits send. Then hits it again. And again. Each message a little plea, a little confession, a little surrender. Triple-texted, desperate.
And still—nothing.
Her stomach twists in knots. She had thought she could handle this. She had thought she could let you go, at least a little. But the empty space where your words should be gnaws at her.
Every buzz from the phone makes her heart leap. Every notification she opens only to see it’s something mundane, something irrelevant, feels like a fresh stab.
She whispers to herself, voice shaking, “Why aren’t you replying? I just want… I just want you to say something.”
Because every day of silence only makes it clearer: she doesn’t just miss you—she can’t imagine not having you in her life.
And with that realization comes panic. The kind of panic that makes her pace, makes her clutch her phone like a lifeline, makes her wonder how long she can stand waiting before she has to do something—before she loses you entirely.
Daniela found her pacing in the dorm hallway, phone clenched in her fist, jaw tight. She had been watching Lara flounder in silence for days, and she was done watching it happen.
“Lara,” Daniela said, voice sharp, pulling her friend to a stop. “Stop. Just… stop.”
Lara blinked, startled, her hands still trembling around the phone. “I—I’m fine,” she stammered, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her.
“No, you’re not,” Daniela shot back, eyes narrowing. “I’ve been watching you text her like a lunatic for three days straight. You’re not fine. You’re falling apart because you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
Lara opened her mouth, but Daniela cut her off, stepping closer. “You miss her, don’t you? You think ignoring your feelings will make them go away, but it won’t. Not this time. You’re losing her, Lara. And if you don’t do something, it’s permanent.”
Her chest tightened. Daniela’s words were brutal but honest. Lara’s hands clenched around her phone, nails pressing into her palm, heart hammering like it would burst.
“I… I can’t—what if she doesn’t want to—” Lara started, voice trembling.
Daniela grabbed her shoulders, firm but not cruel. “Stop making excuses. You know she matters. You know you can’t just wait around silently. So stop overthinking. Send the message. Call her. Show up if you have to. Just—do something before it’s too late.”
Lara swallowed hard, finally meeting Daniela’s steady, unwavering gaze. The truth hit her like a punch: she can’t ignore this. She’s lost too much time already. She’s lost too many chances.
With a shaky breath, she nodded. “Okay. Okay, you’re right.”
Daniela gave her a small, approving smile. “Good. Now go. Don’t wait another second. She’s not going to chase you.”
And for the first time in days, Lara’s fingers moved with purpose. She opened the messaging app, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Her heart raced, fear and hope colliding in equal measure.
Because unlike Martin or anyone else, there’s no substitute for you. And Lara—finally, painfully, brilliantly—understands that.
It had been over a week.
A week since you last replied to her texts. A week since you’d laughed at one of her stupid jokes, nudged her under the table like it meant nothing, or pointed out how messy her notes were with a teasing smirk. A week since the easy rhythm of your presence had filled her days and quieted the little chaos in her head.
And Lara had felt it. Every empty space where you should have been—your bench in the quad, the little café corner you always commandeered, even the library table where your books would spill over the edges—each one a sharp reminder that you weren’t there.
She had walked past those places too many times, gripping her phone and staring at the blank screen, forcing herself to accept that your silence was deliberate.
But it hadn’t dulled the ache. It hadn’t stopped the part of her that missed you in ways she hadn’t fully allowed herself to admit until now.
The quiet mornings, the afternoons sprawled on the grass while you argued about nothing important, the subtle warmth of simply sitting near you—she felt all of it, stronger and sharper, with every passing day.
And so, when she found you that afternoon, it was like running into the gravity she hadn’t realized she’d been orbiting all week. You were there, on the old bench near the quad—the one you always claimed was “your spot,” the one she’d secretly remembered every detail of: the slight tilt, the scuffed paint, the way the sunlight hit it just right in the late afternoon.
You weren’t surprised to see her, but the tension in your posture, the way your hands fidgeted with your notebook, told her everything.
Lara stopped a few feet away, letting herself take in the sight of you. The lines around your eyes from too many late nights, the gentle way you hugged your bag to your side, the half-smile you offered that was just enough to make her heart ache—all of it was unbearably familiar.
“I thought… maybe you’d still be ignoring me,” she said, voice quiet, almost hesitant. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of how to bridge the week of silence. “I—I’ve been… waiting. Hoping you’d answer. Or at least… come back to your spot.”
You didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her, tired, wary, and something else she couldn’t quite name. Lara’s chest tightened, the week of longing and worry coiling inside her like a spring.
Finally, you exhaled, just slightly, and it was enough. Enough to tell her that the distance had hurt you too, even if you’d tried not to show it.
And in that pause, in the quiet stretch of air between you, Lara realized—again—that letting you slip away was no longer an option. Not now, not ever.
You shift slightly on the bench, hugging your notebook to your chest like a shield. The sunlight catches your hair, but even the warmth of the afternoon doesn’t make the knot in Lara’s chest loosen. She sits down beside you carefully, leaving the smallest sliver of space between you, as if the distance itself is a question neither of you knows how to answer.
“I… I didn’t think you’d actually come,” you say finally, voice low, hesitant. You don’t look at her, staring at the cracks in the paint instead, tracing invisible lines with your finger. “I mean… after all the messages, and… the silence.”
Lara swallows hard, feeling the weight of the week pressing down on her. “I had to. I couldn’t… not check. Not after a week of hearing nothing from you. I… I missed you.” The words come out in a rush, raw and unpolished, but they’re real.
You finally glance at her, eyes wary but flickering with something softer—something she can’t quite name. “You… missed me?”
“Yes,” she admits, almost painfully. “Every day. I kept thinking I could just… wait it out, give you space, let you sort yourself out. But it… it doesn’t work like that, does it? Not with you.”
Lara shifts slightly on the ledge, the fabric of her jacket bunching under her hands. Her eyes, sharp and searching, finally meet yours with a quiet intensity. “You’ve been avoiding me,” she says, voice steady but carrying an edge of hurt. “Why?”
You look away, tracing the cracks in the stone beneath your sneakers, the wind tugging at your hair. “You’re smart,” you murmur, voice low. “Figure it out.”
For a long moment, she studies you, jaw tightening, brows knitting together. The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid over the past week. And then it clicks — a sudden, jagged realization that hits her all at once.
Her eyes widen, heart sinking. “Martin,” she breathes, almost like a curse and a confession at the same time. “It’s… it’s because of him, isn’t it?”
You don’t respond immediately, and she knows the answer before you speak. The way you’ve distanced yourself, the quiet withdrawals, the absence from the usual spots you both inhabit—it’s all connected.
Lara exhales sharply, a mix of frustration and something darker — longing, fear, maybe jealousy. She leans forward slightly, as if the physical closeness might bridge the gap the words never could. “You… you were trying to move on. From me. Because of him.”
You swallow hard, voice barely a whisper. “I… I thought I had to.”
Her hands tighten into fists in her lap. “No,” she says firmly, but the edges of her voice are soft. “You don’t have to. I… I didn’t know you felt that way. That it was this hard.”
She pauses, taking in the weight of your silence, the ache in your posture. And for the first time, she realizes just how much she’s been taking for granted — the small touches, the late-night texts, the constant presence she’d assumed would always be there.
“I should’ve noticed,” she murmurs, voice catching. “I should’ve known it wasn’t just ‘being busy.’”
You finally look up, eyes glimmering with the edges of tears you’ve been holding back. The world feels suspended between you — the wind, the fading sunlight, the empty playground echoing with memories.
“I’ve been… I didn’t want to hurt you,” you confess. “But staying close like nothing had changed? It hurt more.”
Lara swallows, heart pounding, realization settling fully in her chest. “I… I get it now,” she says softly. “I see. It was always you. I just… didn’t realize I mattered this much.”
The silence stretches just a fraction too long, like the world is holding its breath along with you. You shift slightly, almost as if moving will make this all less real—but the ache in your chest says otherwise.
Lara takes a small step closer, hesitant, like she’s testing the waters. Her eyes flick to yours, searching, softening, and something fragile breaks free — the guard she’d held up all week, all month, all these years. “You know,” she murmurs, voice low, “I’ve been stupid too.”
Your brow furrows, heart hammering. “Stupid?”
“Yes,” she breathes, and there’s a laugh in her voice, quiet, almost embarrassed. “For not noticing. For thinking I could just… I don’t know. Watch you distance yourself and pretend it didn’t matter.”
You swallow hard, feeling a lump rise in your throat. “I thought I was protecting you,” you admit. “I thought… I thought if I tried to move on, maybe it would be easier.”
She shakes her head, a small, incredulous smile tugging at her lips. “Loser,” she says, half-teasing, half-laughing through the weight of it all. “Both of us, really. Trying to avoid what’s been in front of us the whole time.”
Something shifts in the air — the wind feels warmer, the light softer, and suddenly you’re both standing closer than you intended, breathing in each other’s space. Her hand brushes yours, tentative, almost accidental, but enough to send sparks through your chest.
You laugh nervously, a short, awkward sound. “So… we’re idiots, then?”
“Yeah,” she says, voice low, teasing, but there’s no mistaking the sincerity underneath. “Big, dumb idiots.”
Your chest tightens, and before either of you can second-guess it, she leans in, just a fraction, and your lips meet. It’s messy and imperfect, because you’re both laughing and crying at the same time, and there’s no grace in the way your noses bump and your hands tremble—but it’s exactly what it’s supposed to be.
Her laugh mingles with yours, and your forehead presses against hers. You can feel the warmth radiating from her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat through her chest. It’s quiet, it’s frantic, it’s everything you’ve both wanted without even knowing it.
When she pulls back just enough to look at you, her smile is shy, triumphant, and completely hers. “Well,” she murmurs, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, “that was… overdue.”
You grin, shaky, breathless. “A little bit.”
She tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “Don’t think this means you get off easy. I’m not letting you forget this anytime soon. Just another one to remind you.”
You laugh again, the tension breaking fully now, the warmth of her words settling in your chest. “Good. I’ve got a feeling I’ll be keeping score for the rest of my life.”
Operation: Move On — officially failed. But maybe that was exactly how it was supposed to go. The bench, the park, the coffee runs, the chaos of your friends’ commentary — it all led to this: you and Lara, messy, awkward, and entirely in love, finally admitting it to each other.
You squeeze Lara’s hand, and she leans her head on your shoulder, smirking like she’s known all along that this would happen. The campus bustles around you, oblivious to the small revolution that just took place on that old bench. You smile, heart finally lighter, because failing at moving on has never felt so right.
⭑.ᐟ Someone has adorably threatened Megan’s place in your heart. ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
⭑.ᐟ Themes : teeth rotting fluff !! ( this is my apology for the angst last time.) a lot of dogs mentioned.. established relationship !
⭑.ᐟ Author's note : this was made solely because i miss my dog named summit. ᨐฅ (also so that my blog wouldn't rot.. 🥀)
“I don’t think I just want only you anymore,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to sound convincing.
Megan froze. The words hit like a slap — sharp, unexpected, and completely out of nowhere.
She blinked, trying to read your expression, but you were turned slightly away, a hand dramatically pressed to your forehead like a soap opera actress.
“You mean…” Megan swallowed hard, “you want us to have a third?” she whispered, almost afraid of the answer.
“What?!” You gasped, clutching your chest like you were holding invisible pearls. “Do you want us to have a third?” she shot back, eyes narrowing in mock accusation.
Megan stared, dumbfounded. “You literally just said—”
“I said I don’t think I just want only you anymore,” You repeated, biting back a grin. “Because…”
Well.. that’s how Megan and you ended up here — wandering through an animal adoption shelter on a humid Saturday afternoon, surrounded by wagging tails, the faint smell of shampoo, and a symphony of hopeful barks echoing off the tiled walls.
It was supposed to be a joke — a dramatic bit turned running gag turned “why not?” kind of plan. But now, walking side by side between rows of kennels, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore. It felt… right.
The first pen had a fluffy Chow Chow sprawled like royalty on the floor, too lazy to even lift its head when they approached.
You crouched beside it, voice soft. “Look at him, Meg. He’s like you in the morning.”
Megan laughed, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Excuse me, I at least acknowledge people before ignoring them.”
They moved on to a beagle next — small, loud, and determined to be the center of attention. Megan knelt down, letting the little thing lick her fingers through the bars. “This one’s kind of perfect,” she murmured.
You tilted her head. “You’re only saying that because it has big eyes and trust issues.”
Megan shot her a look. “So… me?”
You chuckled, slipping her hand into Megan’s. “Exactly you.”
The rest of the walk blurred into moments — a Dalmatian with endless energy, a scrappy mutt with one floppy ear, a husky that howled every time Megan laughed. Each dog seemed to tug at a different piece of your heart, but none of them clicked. Not yet.
Then they reached the last row. A quiet pen, almost tucked away in the corner. Inside, a golden retriever with a silvering muzzle lifted his head slowly. His eyes were calm — the kind of eyes that had seen a lot, loved a lot, and still had room for more.
Megan crouched down, the air between them softening. “Hey there,” she whispered. Her fingers brushed through the wire fence until the dog pressed closer, resting his nose against her skin.
Something in your chest tightened. There it was — that click.
Megan’s voice broke the silence, gentle and sure. “This is the one, isn’t he?”
You nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. This is the third I wanted.”
Megan looked up at her, grin curving slow and warm. “The only third I’ll allow,” she teased.
You leaned down, cupping Megan’s face with both hands. “Deal.” You pressed a soft kiss to Megan’s forehead, then another to her cheek — the kind that made Megan’s nose scrunch up and her entire face go pink.
“God, you’re so cute,” you mumbled against her skin.
Megan tried to glare, but the golden retriever’s tail thumped approvingly, and she gave up with a laugh. “Okay, fine,” she sighed, standing up. “But if he steals your side of the bed, I’m not fighting for space.”
You grinned. “You say that now, but you’ll end up spooning him.”
After signing the papers and officially adopting the golden retriever — now officially named Summit after a long argument between “Bark Twain” (Megan’s suggestion) and “Sir Wigglebutt” (Yours)
You three walked out of the shelter with a slightly wobbling golden retriever on a leash, Megan’s hand brushing yours every few steps as you navigated the crowded streets.
“Okay,” you said, crouching beside Summit as he sniffed every lamppost like he was marking new territory. “First stop — treats. He needs treats.”
Megan laughed, looping her arm through yours. “Treats? I thought you meant toys.”
“Nope. Treats first. Toys later. You need to learn priorities,” you said, kneeling to scratch Summit behind the ears. The dog gave a blissful groan, leaning into both of you.
At the pet store, Megan nearly melted. She crouched in front of a shelf stacked with chew toys, squeaky toys, and balls, picking up a bright blue ball. “He needs this. Look at it! It squeaks! He’ll love it.”
You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’re basically buying yourself a toy.”
Megan huffed. “Excuse me, I am a responsible pet owner. He deserves the best.”
You moved down the aisle, tossing treats into the cart, debating flavors like it was the most serious negotiation in history. Peanut butter bones, chicken jerky sticks, soft training treats — Megan insisted on buying at least one of each.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said, laughing as Summit tugged on the leash, sniffing the bags of snacks like a connoisseur.
“You love it,” Megan countered, giving you a quick nudge with her shoulder.
After paying, you held Summit in your arms while Megan balanced the bags, stepping carefully over his wiggling paws. “He’s going to chew up everything,” you said, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.
“Which is why I’m here to supervise,” Megan replied, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek. You squeaked, surprised, and she just smirked, brushing a strand of pink bangs behind her ear. “He’s officially part of the family now. You’re stuck with us.”
Summit yipped happily, tail wagging like he understood every word.
As you walked back home, the three of you — Megan, Summig, and you — were already settling into a rhythm, laughing at small missteps and stealing quiet kisses in between puppy distractions.
By the time you got back, the apartment smelled faintly of new treats, and Summit had claimed the corner of the living room as his domain, wagging furiously at every new sound. Megan turned to you, grinning. “Ready for the chaos?”
You rolled your eyes, leaning into her shoulder. “Let’s see if I survive the first night.”
Tonight — our first night was supposed to be easy.
Keyword: supposed to.
Summit's toys were scattered across the living room, his water bowl somehow half-empty and spilled, and his tail thumped like clockwork every time either of them spoke.
“Okay,” You announced, hands on your hips. “He sleeps in his bed tonight, not ours.”
Megan nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”
Five hours later, you woke up to find Summit’s entire 30 pounds wedged comfortably between you guys — head on Megan’s stomach, paws over the blanket, Megan’s arm draped around him like he’d been there forever.
“Megan.”
A sleepy hum.
“Megan.”
She cracked one eye open. “Huh?”
“You said no dogs on the bed.”
Megan blinked down at the golden fur practically glued to her shirt. “He climbed up on his own,” she whispered defensively. “I just… didn’t want to wake him.”
You tried to glare but failed, because Megan looked ridiculously soft — hair messy, voice raspy, one hand absent-mindedly scratching Summit’s ear.
“You’re unbelievable,” You sighed, leaning closer. “You like him more than me already.”
Megan smiled lazily. “That’s not true,” she murmured, turning her head just enough to meet your gaze. “He drools less, though.”
“Wow.”
Megan laughed, quiet and unguarded, before reaching out to tug you closer until her forehead rested against yours. Sunny gave a small huff between them, tail flicking once before settling again.
The room fell silent except for the soft rhythm of three different heartbeats syncing under the same blanket.
You whispered, “I’m so fortunate to have you.”
Megan smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “More like fur-tunate.”
“Just go to sleep, loser,” you murmured.
You smiled into the dark, brushing a thumb over her cheek before whispering something that only the sleeping golden retriever heard.
And just like that — what started as a joke, a bit of mock drama — turned into your little family.
