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To Break Her Gently(Just Like Me)

//Hanni Pham x Reader//Very mini series//College AU//

Listening to: Pare Ko by Eraserheads

⋆.˚ Masakit mang isipin, kailangang tanggapin. Kung kailan ka naging seryoso — Saka ka niya gagaguhin ⋆.˚

⟡ WARNINGS: FEM READER, cliffhanger???, WEEED (reader sells it lol), Angst, too long to proofread ngl i got lazy and fell asleep, Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong™, psych!student!reader, manipulation, Wony’s kinda evil here (I love her pls don’t hate me) inspired by 10 things i hate abt u (watch it if u havent yet)

⟡ SYNOPSIS: Hanni Pham is busy. Like really busy. She has five deadlines, three group projects (which she’s carrying, obviously), and a scholarship to keep. She does not have time for distractions. Especially not the annoyingly attractive psych major who keeps showing up whereves she goes and calling her “pretty girl”.

So why does it bother her that you suddenly stopped?

⟡ GENRE: College AU · Fake Dating · Second Chance Romance

⟡ WC: 9.4K

Parts: [1]|[2]

a/n: I like psych majors idk, oh ymhofgddd i miss them sm im ognna cry huu

What does it take to make Saint Hanni Pham crack?

Hanni Pham.

How do you even describe her?

Academic weapon. Future summa cum laude. Probably has a five-year plan and a separate five-year plan in case the first one fails.

She’s got a full-ride scholarship. The professors practically drool over her. Admins adore her. The student orgs have practically declared her a patron saint.

So naturally, someone wanted to ruin her life.

Enter, Jang Wonyoung. Tall, pretty, rich, and absolutely deranged about being second place.

She’s been gunning for Hanni’s spot since freshman year and losing every single time. In grades. In recognition. In awards.

Wonyoung even joined Model UN once because she heard Hanni was in it. Guess who walked away Best Delegate?

Not Wonyoung.

After the third time losing out on an academic grant to Miss Perfect Pham, Wonyoung did what any normal, rational girl would do.

She bribed someone else who could distract the girl.

But who in their right mind would have the guts to mess with Saint Hanni?

Simple.

You.

A broke psych major with a questionable work ethic and even more questionable income sources

A hundred bucks. To ruin her concentration, break her little routine, distract her just enough to knock her off the top. Just a tiny academic tragedy in exchange for a slightly less broke bank account on your end.

Did you feel a little bad?

Yeah. Maybe.

Did you take the money anyway?

Duh.

You figured: how hard could it be? Just annoy the golden girl until she starts slipping. That’s light work, right?

Right?

-

it wasn’t.

It was hell.

No, really. Absolute, exhausting, mind-numbing hell.

Getting through to Hanni Pham was like trying to chip away at a marble statue with a fucking spoon. It wasn’t just that she was smart; because everyone knew that. The girl could recite case studies and philosophical theories like she was reading them off the back of her hand. It wasn’t just that she was diligent. Because, again, no surprise there.

No, What made it hell was how nice she was about shutting you down.

Her smile, her polite nod, every “Sorry, I really have to go,” or “Maybe some other time?”—it was like being rejected by sunshine itself. You couldn’t even hate her for it. She was so infuriatingly kind. So endlessly patient. So... untouchable.

You tried everything. You tried compliments. She’d thank you, genuinely, and walk away before you could tack on a flirt. You tried being bold. She’d laugh. (that pretty little laugh that did not help) You tried casual conversation. She’d entertain you for maybe a minute and then someone would ask her to help with their notes, or she’d remember a deadline, and she was gone.

And with every failed attempt, you were getting tired. Bone-deep tired. Honestly, you weren't even trying to flirt anymore. You were trying to break into a fortress made of fucking netherite.

And for what?

The money. That stupid hundred bucks.

Every day, you told yourself: one more try. One more fail. Then I’m done.

And yet—here you were. Again.

Although... lately, you’d started to notice something. There was this faint tightness in her jaw. Her hands tapped her pen too fast. The smiles didn’t come as quick

You didn’t know what was up. Not yet. But maybe that’s why she snapped today.

-

“Hey pretty girl.”

“Are you seriously following me again, L/N?”

You raised a brow, leaning against the edge of the table. “Got your panties in a twist already?”

She looked up, finally, just to glare. “Don’t for one minute think you had any effect whatsoever on my panties.”

“Then what did I have an effect on?”

Hanni shut her laptop with a snap. “Other than my gag reflex? Absolutely nothing, L/N.”

She packed her things in quickly, swung her tote over her shoulder, and then walked off without a second glance.

-

“And then she just left!” you groan, collapsing onto Wonyoung’s bed and hugging an otter plushie.“I’m giving up.”

“Oh my god,” Wonyoung gasps, clutching her heart “You? Giving up on a girl? What did you do to the Y/N L/N I used to know?”

“You know what-” You squint at her. “Why don’t you do it.”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes “I would—except I’m not her type.”

You squint. “And how the hell do you know her type?”

“She said she likes mysterious people,” Wonyoung shrugs. “You’re mysterious enough.”

“I sell weed behind the chem building.”

“Exactly,” she says, then pulls a book out of her tote and chucks it at you.

You catch it. The cover’s light pink with a doodled heart on the front. Gross.

You wrinkle your nose. “Is this... romance? Wony, I’m not reading your Wattpad bullshit—”

“It’s Hanni’s diary, dumbass.”

You stare at her. “That’s... so illegal.”

“And so is your side hustle.”

You sigh, flipping it open. “Ten bucks or I’m shutting this whole thing down.”

She doesn’t blink. “You’re extorting me with stolen property?”

“Capitalism, Wony.”

“Fine. Fuck you.”

You grin. “That’s extra.”

-

"Y/N L/N, that’s the fifth time this week. Honestly, just say it if you wanna fail."

You wince and give a half-assed shrug. “Sorry, Miss—I missed the bus.”

A lie. But saying “I had to convince my landlord not to throw my stuff on the sidewalk this morning” didn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

She clicks her tongue and gestures toward your seat. “Sit down.”

You exhale and shuffle to your seat. Your claimed seat. As in: you claimed it by threatening the actual seat owner a week ago.

You look over. “You got a pen?”

She doesn’t look up. Just hands one over like muscle memory. You recognize the little cat paw on the cap—it’s the third time you’ve borrowed this exact one.

You uncap it and start doodling on your notebook. You glance at her sideways. “Ever think about how generous you are to known degenerates?” you say, tapping the pen.

“Ever think about shutting up?” she replies, still not looking at you.

Okay. try again.

A beat passes. Then—

“How do you keep showing up thirty minutes late and still walk out with just a warning?”

You smirk. “Ouu… getting curious about me now, Pham?”

That earns you a look “don’t flatter yourself.”

“Relax” You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. “I dunno, maybe she just finds me charming.”

“More like concerning,” she mutters. “You’re late. You never bring anything. Your attendance is shit. But she doesn’t even write you up.”

“She’s human,” you shrug. “She has favorites.”

“And you’re one of them?” She snickers, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns back to her notes.

…

You tap the desk with the pen. “Tell you what. I’ll spill everything after class.”

Her head tilts slightly. Skeptical. “And why would I waste time on that?”

“…There’ll be bread?”

She hesitates. Not long, Like a little skip in her brain before she catches herself.

“I’m busy.”

Plan B(read) fail.

—

They say food is the way to the heart.

Hanni’s not sure who “they” are, but—okay, maybe it’s a little true. She’s never said no to free food. But free food from a stranger?

Yeah, no. Stranger danger. She’s seen documentaries.

And yet… it’s not like you’re a total stranger. You’re just always…there. The cafeteria. The library. The hallway outside her 10 a.m. gen lecture even though you’re definitely not enrolled. She's tried to ignore it.

It’s probably a coincidence. Campus isn’t that big.

Or maybe—

No. No, no. Hanni doesn’t do fate. Or signs. Or whatever hopeless romantics call this kind of thing.

Gross.

She sighs, lightly strumming the guitar resting on her knee.

What do you even want from her?

Her gaze wanders, unthinking. The window beside the rack of acoustic guitars, and beyond it is the street, hot in the summer heat. A couple walks by. Someone’s skateboarding across the path. Another student ducks under the awning to avoid the sun.

She isn’t really looking for you.

But then—there you are.

Across the courtyard, in the building across from the shop, framed perfectly by the bookstore’s wide glass. You’re leaned slightly against the counter, holding a paper bag. Laughing. She sees your profile tilt, your mouth moving with something mid-sentence, your hand pushing back a strand of hair.

It’s weird.

How quickly her stomach flips.

You’re annoying.

She blinks. And right then, like you felt it, you turn.

Your eyes meet hers and maybe she looks away too quickly.

And right then—

Plink.

She looks down. The high E string has snapped. It curls like a loose thread off the fretboard. For a second, she just stares.

She sighs. Carefully sets the guitar down, but moves a little too fast. Her finger catches the broken string. It stings.

“Ow…”

Tiny dot of red.

Awesome.

She brings the guitar to the front, holding it by the neck. Her voice comes out softer than she wants it to.

“Hey, Tom…”

The old man behind the register looks up from his stool, smiling behind his glasses. “Ah, Hanni, kid! What’s up?”

“I think I snapped a string,” she says. “Sorry—I wasn’t really… I wasn’t being rough, it just—”

He waves it off, already getting up. “It happens. I’ve broken more strings than I’ve played, I swear.”

“No, no—let me pay for it. I’ve got it.” She starts rummaging through her tote bag.

Receipts. Crumpled tissue. A pack of gum.

Wallet.

She flips it open.

Empty. Just an old exam schedule and a faded sticky note reminding her to buy printer ink.

Her throat tightens. She knew she forgot something. She was supposed to withdraw cash this morning, but then they had that last-minute group meeting, and then Minji sent the wrong file, and the chem lab printer wouldn’t scan—

“You don’t have to, kid,” Tom says kindly.

“No, I got it—”

Another voice. Closer.

“I got it.”

Hanni turns slowly and you’re there. Right there. Just behind her, like you’d been standing there the whole time as you slip a bill onto the counter.

The bell above the door must’ve rung earlier. That’s what she’d heard.

“Y/N!” Tom grins. “Been a while!”

Hanni stares, not saying anything. She’s too busy reading your face, trying to figure out if this was planned, or just another coincidence in the ever-growing list of them. The list she’s starting to hate.

Tom gestures between the two of you. “You two know each other?”

You smile, casual. “We’re schoolmates.”

“Unfortunately,” Hanni mutters, quieter than she means to.

Your brows lift. “Hmm?”

She clears her throat. “I said thank you.”

You smile wider. Too wide. “No problem.”

She grabs the receipt Tom hands her and already starts reaching for her bag again. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“How about now?”

She blinks. “I haven’t withdrawn—”

“No, I mean...” you tuck your wallet away. “Dinner.”

Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You laugh, “I’ll pay. Think of it as you accepting your payment.”

She glances at Tom like he might save her.

He raises both hands and shrugs like, Hey, don’t look at me. But there’s a little smile playing at his lips that says he’s seen this kind of scene before.

Hanni’s fingers brush the edge of the counter. Her heartbeat is annoyingly loud in her ears.

Why is she so nervous?

She licks her lips. Clears her throat.

“Where?”

—

“Aren’t you full already…?” you asked, watching as a crumble of crust clung to the corner of her lip, then tumbled down onto her sweater sleeve.

“Answer the question.”

You sighed and leaned back in your seat, the plastic of the café chair creaking beneath you. The air smelled like burnt sugar and old books “Miss Park used to be my tutor.”

“That’s it?” she asked, words slightly muffled, the pastry was doing half the talking.

“That’s all,” you said with a shrug, like it didn’t matter. But she narrowed her eyes at you, chewing slower now. Not suspicious—just… curious. Still, she gave a small nod and let it drop.

She licked a crumb off her thumb. “And Tom?”

You clicked your tongue. “Nuh-uh. Only one relationship question per pastry.”

Her brow lifted. “Says who?”

“Says me. My turn.” You pointed a lazy finger at her. “Why are you always so… annoyingly studious?”

She stared at you. “I’m the one asking questions here.”

“Fine, dictator,” you muttered, reaching for your drink. It had gone cold. Tasted like watered-down chocolate and regret.

She grabbed a napkin and dabbed the corner of her mouth with mechanical precision, then flicked her gaze back at you. “Why do you sell... that stuff?”

You tilted your head. The hum of the ceiling fan filled the space between you.

“I need the money,” you said eventually, voice low.

The words just sat there. Not heavy. Just… true.

You picked at the edge of your cup. “Also… it helps people,” you added, quieter. “Helps them chill out. Get through the day. Makes things feel a little less… sharp.”

She didn’t reply right away. Just raised an eyebrow, skeptical but not judgmental. “By getting them addicted?”

“They don’t always get addicted,” you shot back, a little fast. A little defensive. Then, with a shrug: “It’s just… calming.”

She tilted her head at that. Thoughtful.

“Is it good?” you asked her eventually.

She nodded, finishing the last bite of her pastry. A beat passed. Then, wordlessly, she tore a piece from her third carp bread and held it out to you.

You smiled, shaking your head. “I’m fine.”

Her hand hovered for a beat longer than necessary, then she popped the piece into her own mouth. “Your loss,” she said, lips tugging into the faintest smile.

—

“Good morning, Miss Pham,” you say as you drop into the seat across from her—voice laced with that fake cheer you save for people you enjoy annoying. Or people you... whatever. Doesn't matter.

Hanni doesn’t even bother looking up. Just sighs. “It’s too early for you to be this loud.”

You smirked. No immediate roast today. Progress.

“It’s the perfect time,” you replied, sliding your bag under the table. “What are you even studying for? Exams aren’t until next week.”

She flips a page, still not looking at you. “Didn’t think you’d know that.”

“Wow,” you say, pressing a hand to your chest. “I dabble in calendar literacy, thank you very much.”

“This isn’t for the exams,” she added, eyes still scanning text. “Regional competition.”

“Obviously.”

She finally looks up, eyes sharp and amused in that way that makes your stomach shift a little too much. She expected that reaction out of you.

“What about you?” she asks. “Studying?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do I look like someone who studies?”

She doesn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

“I mean,” you say, stretching your arms behind your head, like the ceiling’s ever done anything interesting, “if I actually tried, I’d probably beat you.”

That gets her. She looks up properly now.

“I’d like to see you try.”

And you should’ve just laughed. Should’ve brushed it off like you always do.

“Challenge accepted,” you say, trying to recover. “You want competition that bad?”

“No.” Her voice softens, just barely. “Seriously.”

A pause.

“I think you could do it.”

Your smirk falters. Just a second.

“What,” you say, trying to lace your voice with a joke that doesn’t quite land, “you recruiting your next academic rival or something?”

“Maybe,” she says, and this time, she closes the book gently. Doesn’t shove it aside. Just lets her fingers rest on it as she’s still holding the thought. “Study with me.”

Your instinct is to say no. Because that’s the plan.

Keep distance.

But she’s looking at you like she means it.

Why?

You exhaled silently.

“…Fine,” you say. “One session.”

You don’t say that your stomach’s doing that fluttery thing again.

Or that for a second, you almost forgot you were supposed to be playing her.

You don’t remember when you last studied seriously.

Not studied like skimming a page with your eyes half open.

Not studied like rewriting a bullet point just to feel like you tried.

Was it for the entrance exam? No. You barely even read the first page. You just sat there chewing on the pen cap until the taste of metal and ink sat bitter at the back of your tongue.

Was it in middle school? Or sixteen—when you moved in with your aunt and uncle, into a house where the dinner table was always quiet but the silverware loud, and the bathroom always smelled like mildew, lavender, and cold ceramic that never warmed up under your feet?

Or maybe it was when they got divorced two years later—like some part of you had been waiting for the final crack in the drywall to split the whole thing open.

You don’t remember. And you think you’ve stopped wanting to.

But what you do remember is— you’ve always hated studying. Always. Hated the way it wanted silence from you, the way it asked for stillness you never really had. Hated sitting there under the ugly stale yellow light of your night lamp, scratching notes into your notebook. So you used headphones. Not for music at first—just to mute the noises. Mute the verbal war going on downstairs, the sound of forks clinking against plates followed by the usual “You always…” “You never…” “Can’t you just…”

Though, at some point, elementary or middle school maybe, you kind of liked it. The praise. The novelty of being good at something. Your mother used to beam when she saw your report cards. You remember the folder stuffed fat with awards, papers curling at the edges, certificates with your name spelled in big, proud letters. She used to call you her little genius. You don’t remember when she stopped.

But she did.

Eventually, the compliments turned into expectations, and the expectations turned into pressure, and the pressure became your whole identity. It was never enough. You were never enough. Not unless you were holding something at least; a medal, a ribbon, something that could be shown off at a dinner party while she laughed and said, “She gets it from me.” You swore once, when you were nine, that you’d be a doctor. That you’d make her proud. She cried when you said it and hugged you too hard. You felt her ribs in that hug. You felt her joy, and you thought, maybe this is what love is.

But it wasn’t.

It was what she wanted. And that’s different.

You started noticing that everything you wanted had to come second. Or third. Or never. That being “gifted” wasn’t a gift at all. It was a small glass room. You were the display, the fragile object in the center that everyone clapped for, but no one let out in fear that it might get damaged. Outside, kids your age played in the rain. You weren’t allowed to join. You watched them from the window with a pencil in your hand, your back aching from sitting so straight.

You remember, once, sneaking out when your parents were both working. You went to the playground and you thought, maybe someone will let me be a kid.

They didn’t.

You remember standing by the swing with the missing broken seat. You remember the stares. Not mean, just confused, they knew you didn’t belong. They sat together at the seesaws like atoms and you were the outsider molecule.

There was a girl, though. Pink party hat, carp bread in her hand. You remember her wide lopsided smile, her bangs stuck to her forehead from running too much. She handed you the bread in its crinkled plastic wrap and said, “My mom gives me food when I’m sad. It helps.”

You remember thinking: What does that even mean? You remember looking up at her and, for the first time, wondering what someone else was thinking.

“Where’s your mom?” the taller girl behind her asked. She got smacked for it. “Don’t ask her that!” Pink Hat said, turning to you with a sincere apology on her face. And then the rain came like it had been holding its breath all day and finally exhaled.

They ran. Moms rushing toward them with umbrellas and jackets. Kids laughing, slipping, squealing. You stood still. The rain poured onto your hair like it was trying to wash something off of you. You hid the bread under your shirt and sniffled but didn’t cry.

An orange cat sat beneath the tunnel slide, tilting its head at you like it wanted to understand. You walked toward it, shoes squelching in the wet sand. Sat inside the tunnel where the rain couldn’t touch you but the cold still did. You broke off a piece of the bread and handed it to the cat. It bit you, took the bread and ran with it.

You stayed. Arms wrapped around your knees, chin tucked down. You stayed until the sky dimmed and the swing outside creaked annoyingly.

When you got home, soaked, your mother didn’t ask why. She just shouted — Why did you leave your books? She didn’t see your wet hair. She didn’t see your hand bleeding. She didn’t ask about the bite.

That was the day you started hating studying. Not just the act, but the whole idea of it. What it meant and what it had taken from you. You stopped pretending. Stopped thinking that studying was anything other than what it really was–Proof. Of being enough and being useful.

Though the orange cat kept coming back after that. You’d see it outside your window, just sitting there like it was waiting for you to come outside to feed it. You fed it crackers, rice, leftover fish sometimes. It never bit you again. It started waiting at the gate when school ended. You’d pretend it was yours. You knew it wasn’t—the pink collar gave it away. Yet it still stayed.

Until the day you left. You were putting your bags in the car, the driveway wet with last night’s rain, and you saw it. Sitting there. Not running up to you nor meowing. Just watching. You opened the door but It still didn’t move. And then it turned. And walked away.

You didn’t cry. You should’ve.

Then came the rest. The move. The divorce. College. The feeling that everything breaks eventually.

—

But here you are, weeks later, in the library.

One session turned into three.

Then five.

At first, it was just for the money. You told yourself that. You sat across from Hanni Pham and made sarcastic commentary about the way her handwriting looked like a font. She mostly ignored you—except for the occasional sigh or dry remark that made your stomach twist in ways you didn't have the vocabulary to explain.

But then she started saving you a seat.

Not out loud, of course. She never said This is for you. But the chair opposite hers was always pulled out and the extra pen was always there.

It freaked you out, honestly.

Like—did she know?

Did she see through you?

Because you weren’t exactly subtle. Not really. You’d drop random references to Kant or Freud just to see if she’d look up. You’d poke at her note margins like you were teasing her, but really you just wanted to hear her laugh. Wanted to see that flicker in her eyes before she swallowed it back down again like she always did.

Some days you didn’t even talk. She’d have her notes out, and you’d have your half-assed attempts at pretending you knew what you were doing. She never called you out for it. Never asked what you were actually doing, she just let you sit there.

And you hated it.

Not her.

Just the fact that you started wanting to try.

Which was worse.

Because you were supposed to distract her.

But now you’re here, sitting across from her.

And you’re starting to really hate the version of yourself that said yes to all of this in the first place.

And then one quiet afternoon where the dust danced in the golden sunlight through the window that made everything feel softer.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked back.

“What?” you finally asked.

She blinked. Looked away. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” you said, leaning forward. “You were staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You so were.”

A minute passes “I was just wondering,” she said, still not meeting your eyes, “how someone like you ended up here.”

“‘Someone like me?’” You laughed, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “What, a burnout?”

“No,” she said, and it was too soft to be anything but honest. “Someone who doesn’t believe they belong.”

And wow.

You hated that.

Hated how it was too accurate. Like she’d cracked your chest open and found the part of you even you pretend isn’t there.

“You think I don’t belong?”

“I think you do,” she said, finally looking at you. “But I don’t think you think that.”

It landed like a punch, even though her voice was gentle. She wasn’t trying to hurt you.

After a beat, you muttered, “I don’t actually smoke, you know.”

Her head tilted. “What?”

“I just sell it. For the cash.”

“Figured.”

No judgment?

She leaned back in her chair. “So what did you want to do?”

You didn’t answer immediately because the question felt heavier than it should’ve.

“I don’t know,” you said, then corrected, “...Actually, I wanted to be a forensic psych.”

That made her raise an eyebrow.

You shrugged. “I like knowing how people work. Why they do the things they do. Thought maybe if I understood the worst of them, the rest wouldn’t seem so impossible.”

She nodded, slowly. “That tracks.”

You didn’t say the rest. About the notes you kept in your old phone of the symptoms your mom never got diagnosed for. Or how your dad called you “overdramatic” every time you cried and still expected you to set the table. Or how deep down, you just wanted to stop people like them from becoming the reason someone else ends up in therapy.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer.

“If med school doesn’t work out,” she said, fingers absently brushing her notes, “I’d want to be a vet. Or maybe a musician.”

That surprised you. “Musician?”

“Yeah,” she said with a small smile. “Guitar. Ukulele. Piano. I used to write songs in high school, but... I don’t know. Felt silly.”

“Doesn’t sound silly.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward.

You started looking forward to the library. And, against all better judgment, maybe to her.

—

The sun was relentless, but the game was somehow still going. Minji’s backyard wasn’t exactly pro court material, but the net was up, and no one had collapsed from heat stroke yet, so. Success?

Minji served again, cleanly and fast.

“How do you know if you like someone?” Hanni asked, like she was commenting on the weather.

Minji raised a brow mid-jump. “Why’re you asking that now?”

“Why not?” Hanni replied, feigning nonchalance.

“UNNIE, ARE YOU IN LOVE?!” Danielle gasped from across the net, hands flying to her face just as the ball bounced pathetically at her feet.

Hanni rolled her eyes and bent down to grab it. “No, Dani. I’m not.”

Danielle grinned. “Your face says otherwise.”

“Mhm, It’s kind of red,” Haerin added helpfully, lips curled into a smirk. She bumped the ball back to Minji, who caught it instead of spiking it.

“Could be the sun,” Hanni muttered.

“Could be something else,” Danielle sing-songed. “Or someone else—Ooooh, is this about—”

“It’s not about Y/N,” Hanni snapped, turning just in time to miss the ball Minji had tossed back lightly. It hit her square in the forehead with a soft thunk.

A beat of silence.

“…No one mentioned Y/N,” Haerin said, eyebrows raised, trying not to laugh.

Minji was already grinning. “That’s… kind of suspicious, no?”

From the bench in the shade, Hyein didn’t even glance up from her phone. “If you’re asking, you probably already like them,” she said flatly, thumbs tapping. “You just want someone else to say it first.”

The entire yard went quiet.

“Thank you, Hyein,” Hanni called, raising a hand like a distant high-five. “The youngest, ladies and gentlemen.”

Everyone else had gone home.

Hanni was still on Minji’s couch, arms crossed, hair still a little damp with sweat. The TV was on but muted, casting soft light across the living room.

“So…” she said, dragging the word out. “What was that earlier?”

Hanni blinked up at her. “What was what?”

The taller girl scoffed. “Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb.”

Hanni sighed and sank further into the cushions wishing to disappear. “I’m pretty sure I don’t like her.”

Minji raised both eyebrows. “Right. Is that why I saw you two at that café last week?”

Hanni groaned. “Okay, let me explain.”

“I’m listening.”

“I only said yes to that because Miss Park told me she’d bump my grade if I could convince Y/N to study, and because she did me a favor.” Hanni explained, hands moving animatedly. “That’s literally it.”

Minji paused. “Your grades are already good. Why would she—?”

“You’re missing the point.” Hanni leaned in. “Y/N’s late to class, like, every day. No detention. No warnings. Nothing. You don’t see it because you’re not in our class, but I swear, it’s weird. So I thought—hey, maybe if I get close, I’ll figure out what kind of deal she has with Miss Park.”

Minji blinked. “So what, you’re, like… spying?”

“It’s not spying,” Hanni muttered. “It’s… observing.”

Minji burst into a laugh. “Ohhh, and what about the part where you saved her a seat three days in a row? Was that just research too?”

“Shut up,” Hanni said, reaching out to shove her playfully.

Minji dodged just enough to avoid spilling her drink, grinning the whole time.

Then Hanni’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

She glanced down and her breath caught—just a little.

You: are you free next week?

---

Everyone has a price. You used to think yours was pride.

But pride didn’t pay rent. And rent had started speaking louder lately—well more like shouting, really, in the form of red notices taped to your door and your landlord’s punch-like knock echoing through the thin walls of your apartment.

Two weeks. That’s what he gave you. Fourteen days to shit out cash you didn’t have.

Gone would be the cracked ceiling you’d grown oddly fond of, the lukewarm showers you’d tolerated, the paper-thin walls that broadcast your neighbor’s stupid metallica addiction, the orange kitten that somehow gets in your home everytime you come home. And yet the thought of leaving didn’t feel like freedom at all.

You’d sat yourself in the back corner of the campus café, hunched low beneath your hoodie, nursing a tea you hadn’t paid for. Across from you, Wonyoung looked ethereal, her iced Americano sweating and ignored.

But she wasn’t here to hang out.

“So,” she said, eyes fixed on you like she was analyzing something under glass. “There’s this party.”

You didn’t look up. Just kept doodling in the margins of your notes. “Cool.”

“It’s next week.”

You nodded. Didn’t ask.

She leaned forward, arms resting on the table now. “You should bring Hanni.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the night before regionals.”

That made you pause.

“And?. You want her to be—what—hungover?” You gave a small laugh, more disbelief than humor.

Wonyoung didn’t answer. She just tilted her head, like she thought this part should be obvious by now.

Your eyebrows lifted.

“I'm not asking you to make her drink. Just…distracted. Off her game. Whatever works.”

“Wow,” you said flatly. “So casual. Want me to spike her drink while I’m at it?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

…

“...I’m not doing that,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “That’s not part of the deal anymore.”

“You said you’d help.”

“Not like this.”

“It’s one night.”

“She’s been preparing for weeks.”

“So have I,” Wonyoung snapped. For the first time, her voice cracked—just slightly. Then it flattened out again. “Look. You get her to come. Just keep her distracted. Doesn’t even have to be drinking. Just enough to make her tired or off her game.”

“No.”

“Y/N—”

“I said no.” The words tasted final in your mouth. “I’m done with this whole operation.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then Wonyoung leaned back in her chair, studied you like she was recalibrating. “You’re getting soft.”

You clenched your fists. “Or maybe I just remembered that she’s a person.”

She scoffed. “You weren’t saying that when you were ready to ruin her.”

She wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. There had been a time—not long ago—when this entire scheme felt justifiable, But that was before study sessions turned into excuses to be with her. Before stolen glances started lingering. Before you caught yourself hoping she’d text first. Before it stopped feeling fake.

“I’m out,” you said, steady this time. “Do what you want, but I’m done.”

Wonyoung didn’t move. Just studied you for a long, quiet second, and you knew her long enough to know that she was running calculations in her head. Then her voice dropped.

“If you walk, I tell her.”

You froze. The shift wasn’t subtle. It didn’t need to be.

“I’ll tell Hanni everything,” she continued, “How this started. Who put you up to it. Why you talked to her in the first place.”

“She won’t even look at you after that,” Wonyoung added, almost bored. “You’ll still lose her. Just without the paycheck.”

A knot twisted in your stomach. One part anger, two parts fear.

“She won’t believe you,” you said, but your voice lacked weigh

Wonyoung didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. You both knew Hanni might.

“Fine” Then Wonyoung leaned in, voice soft now. Too soft. “Three hundred.” She let it hang. Knew it would. Knew what it meant to someone like you, someone with overdue bills and plastic bags used as garbage liners and a cracked screen too expensive to replace.

It rang in your head like a siren.

Three. hundred.

It sounded like safety. It sounded like two weeks of silence from your landlord. Like a month of not having to explain things to your aunt.

“I already said no.”

“I know,” she said. “But think about it, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You just picked up your phone and walked out.

Twenty minutes.

That’s how long you’d been sitting on the roof deck ledge, your legs half-asleep, the city humming low beneath you like it didn’t care whether you moved or not. The wind tugged lightly at your sleeves, and the air smells like exhaust.

You still hadn’t replied to any of the four notifications on your screen.

One from your landlord, something about next month’s rent.

Two from a friend asking if you wanted to go out that weekend.

One from your aunt reminding you to eat. Again.

And then, at the bottom is hanni’s contact.

Your finger hovered and tapped.

"Are you free in three days?"

You didn’t hit send.

Not yet.

Because how the hell did it end up like this?

You'd sworn you’d never be that kind of person. The kind that played with people. The kind that lied to someone’s face while secretly carrying a hidden motive. The kind that became the reason someone else stared at their ceiling at 3 am, wondering what they did wrong.

You always thought you'd be better than that.

And yet.

Here you were.

Sitting on a rooftop with a message you had no right to send and a heart that was far too involved for what this wasn’t supposed to be.

You hit send then locked your phone.

None of this was real anyway, right?

Even if, god forbid, some part of you wanted it to be.

-

You couldn’t sleep.

The sheets were too warm, tangled around your legs and god they might as well be trying to hold you hostage. You flipped your pillow over for the third time that hour, hoping the cold side would finally knock you into unconsciousness. It didn’t.

Your phone screen stayed dark on the nightstand. But you kept glancing at it anyway. Waiting for something.

This was stupid.

You weren’t even sure what you were waiting for anymore. An answer? Permission? A reason to back out?

You sighed. Pulled the blanket higher and closed your eyes.

Your phone lit up on the nightstand.

Your phone lit up.

Hanni.

Your breath caught.

3:04 a.m.

You scrambled for it, heart doing something weird in your chest. Thumb swiping before you could think too much.

“Up early, pretty?” you said, teasing—You started calling her that after she let it slip once. “pretty”. Said it under her breath when she thought you weren’t listening. You’d weaponized it ever since, just to see her squirm. She always rolled her eyes and told you to cut it out.

So, obviously, you kept saying it.

But this time—

“…Who is this?”

Not her.

The voice on the other end was wrong

“…Sorry—who?” you asked, suddenly very awake.

“This is Hanni’s father.”

Oh.

“…Right,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “Uh, sorry. Wrong—number?”

He didn’t answer.

You hung up. Fast.

The silence afterward was loud.

You dropped your phone face-down on the blanket and just sat there.

You hadn’t heard from Hanni since the call. She’s probably busy. But now you were waiting. Waiting for the moment you’d get hit with it—literally or verbally, you weren’t sure which.

It came the morning later, in the form of a textbook to the head.

"Ow—what the—?" You looked up from your laptop just in time to see Hanni drop her bag on the chair across from you, sliding into the library seat like she had every right to assault someone.

She raised a brow. “Good reflexes.”

You gawked at her. “You threw a book at my head!”

“Anatomy,” she said, like that explained anything. “Figured you needed to study up on nerve endings. Since you clearly don’t have any.”

You rolled your eyes.

“You.”

“Me?”

She leaned in, “Did you—or did you not—call me pretty over the phone?”

You paused. Slowly closed your laptop. “Okay, technically—yes. But—”

“At three in the morning.”

“It was meant to be a joke!”

“To my dad?” she whisper-yelled, eyebrows hitting maximum height.

You cringed. “I didn’t know it was your dad! I thought it was you, obviously. I wouldn’t flirt with a grown man at 3am —I have standards ew what the hell.”

“Do you also have a death wish?”

You tried to smile. She didn’t.

“Okay.”

She sighed like it physically hurt her. “He told my mom. Y/N.”

“They think you’re my girlfriend now.”

Your heart did a weird stutter. “And… you clarified, right?”

She tilted her head. “I tried. I said we’re just friends—you know what my mom said?”

You shook your head.

“She said, ‘It’s okay to be shy about it, Hanni. We think she sounds sweet.’”

Your lip twitched. “Don’t,” she warned. “I’m not!” you said, trying very hard not to smile. “I’m being respectful.” “Respectfully shut up,” she muttered.

You pressed your mouth into a tight line. The corners still betrayed you. “At least they’re not homophobic?” you offered carefully. “Yes. that's amazing dude,” she said, deadpan. “Also not the freaking point.”

You cleared your throat, trying to recompose yourself. “Okay. So... what now?” “They want to meet you.” “Sorry—what?” “Dinner,” she said, like it was a minor inconvenience. “Tomorrow” “Dinner?” “Yes.”

You looked over at her, eyes squinting. “Why’d they even call me in the first place?” “They got suspicious,” she said, pulling a notebook from her bag, “ About me coming home late after our study sessions, so they checked my phone.” You frowned. “That’s lowkey invasive.” “They’re my parents,” she said with a shrug. “I kinda don’t get a say.”

—

“Too slutty.”

You groaned as you returned to the room to pick another set of clothes, tossing the leather jacket onto your friend’s already chaotic bed. You pulled out a plain white button-up and stared at it in the mirror.

“Too boring,” you muttered. “I’m not trying to look like her professor.”

Your phone buzzed on the dresser. It was a text from Hanni “How’s the outfit hunt going?”

“Terribly. Do your parents even like leather? Because that’s all I’ve got here.”

The reply came instantly

“Wear whatever man, Just… don’t look like a felon.”

You rolled your eyes. Easier said than done.

Ryujin peeked her head through the doorway, arms crossed and barely holding back laughter. “You know, for someone who sells weed for a living, you care way too much about impressing her parents.”

“It’s not her. It’s the deal. I eat at family dinner, and in return, she shows up at the party next week. Whatever, we both get what we want.”

Ryujin rolled her eyes but smirked. “This is different. you're too invested-.”

Ignoring her, you grabbed a sweater from your chair, pulling it over your head. “Better?”

Ryujin gave you a once-over and shrugged. “Passable. You look like someone who could… I don’t know, work a nine-to-five.”

“Ha! That’s what I’m going for,” you said, grabbing your sneakers. “’Stable and responsible.’”

As you’re putting on your shoes, Hanni sends a follow-up text: “Are you sure you can pull this off? They’re going to ask questions.”

You replied: “dw I’m great under pressure. Besides, your parents will love me😁👍”

Hanni: “...That’s what I’m afraid of.💔”

“Anyways, head outside, I'm here, blue car.”

You sent a little thumbs up emoji as you hurried out sending a little thanks to Ryujin for letting you borrow her clothes

You squinted down the curb until you spotted the car and jogged toward it.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you turned to Hanniwith a smirk. "Well? How do i look”

Hanni barely spared you a glance as she pulled out of your driveway. "You look like someone who got lost on the way to their corporate job and ended up selling weed instead."

"Perfect. Thanks."

She let out a deep sigh, gripping the wheel a little tighter. "Just… don’t overdo it, okay? My mom is wayy too excited to meet you, and my dad is already suspicious."

You raised an eyebrow. "Suspicious of what?"

Hanni shot you a deadpan look. "Of me going home late because of you. Of the fact that I suddenly have a ‘girlfriend’ and never mentioned it. Of literally everything. He’s a cop, by the way."

"A cop?"

"Ex-cop. Still terrifying."

You inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to throw yourself out of the moving car. "And you’re telling me this now??"

"Would it have helped?"

You opened your mouth, then shut it. Yeah, probably not.

—

The second you sat down, he leaned forward. “So. How did you two meet?”

Right…Straight into it, then.

You glanced at Hanni. She looked a little caught off guard too, but recovered quickly, her leg brushing against yours under the table.

“Oh,” you said, buying time, “We had a class together. Chem lab. One of those forced group activity things. We got paired up.”

It wasn’t a full lie.

Her dad nodded slowly. “And you’re taking…?”

“Psych,” you replied.

He didn’t nod nor smile “So, not medicine.”

You smiled anyway. “Nope. I’m more into the mind than the body.”

A pause.

“And what made you decide on that?”

You hesitated—not because you didn’t know, but because something about the way he looked at you made it feel like your answer might go on something like a permanent record.

“I guess I like… figuring people out,” you said eventually. “Why they do things. Even when it doesn’t make sense. It makes me slower to judge.”

Something shifted in his expression—almost approval. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

Her mom smiled. “That's very thoughtful. Hanni did say you were insightful.”

Your eyes flicked to Hanni. She pretended to focus on pouring water.

Then came the next bullet.

“And how long have you two been… seeing each other?”

There was the briefest hitch in your breath.

Hanni turned to you slightly, mouthing: Say three months.

You nodded, whispered: Got it.

Then turned back to her parents with a bright, and very confident smile.

“A year.”

Hanni’s leg jerked under the table as she kicked you hard, and her dad’s head snapped to look at her—eyebrows raised in silent surprise.

You barely flinched. “Time flies when you’re in love.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” her mom gasped. “Hanni’s never brought anyone home before.”

“Seriously? I’m the first?”

That was… surprising. She was literally the most dateable person you’d ever met.

Hanni muttered, half into her napkin, “Unfortunately.”

Her dad didn’t let up. “And how exactly did you and Hanni… get together?”

You grinned. Oh, you had this one ready.

“She chased me.”

Hanni choked on her water. “I—excuse me?”

“Obsessed,” you added. “She kept texting me. Kept showing up wherever I was, super romantic stalker behavior, really.”

Hanni’s dad slowly turned his head to stare at her.

“She’s joking,” Hanni nervously laughed.

“Am I?” you said, winking.

Her dad raised an eyebrow. “Is she?”

You grinned.

Hanni looked like she was considering homicide.

Thankfully, her mom stepped in, placing a gentle hand on her husband's arm. “Oh, I just love young love.”

Then, with a sudden brightness, she perked up. “The roast! I think it’s done. Hanni, dear, would you get it from the oven?”

Hanni stood up like the chair was on fire, shooting you a final don’t fuck this up look before vanishing into the kitchen.

The moment she was gone, silence settled in.

“Y/N.”

Oh no.

You turned back to find her dad watching you—not coldly, but still very much in dad mode.

You straightened your back. “Yes, sir?”

He sighed, rubbed his thumb along the edge of his glass. “I hope I didn’t come off too harsh earlier.”

“She’s never brought anyone home before.” He continued,. “It’s not that I don’t like you. I just—”

“I get it,” you cut in gently. “You love her. You want her safe. You want the best.”

His eyes searched your face for a second, like he was testing if you meant it. Then, finally, a quiet nod.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he added, softer this time. “It’s… nice to see her with someone stable.”

You swallowed.

That part was almost funny.

“Mhm. Yeah.” You forced a small smile. “Though—if I may? Just an opinion.”

He gave a cautious look. “Go on.”

You glanced toward the kitchen, then back. “I think you should let Hanni… be a little more free. She knows what she’s doing. She’s smart. And careful. But she can’t breathe if the leash is too short.”

He didn’t respond right away.

“...You’re not what I expected.”

You tilted your head. “Is that a good thing?”

“We’ll see.” He smiled.

And from the kitchen came the sound of Hanni yelling “It’s fine, it’s just a little smoke!”

-

“See? I told you I got it,” you said, laughing as you leaned back on your hands.

Hanni groaned, dragging her palms down her face. “That was so embarrassing.”

“They loved me,” you teased, kicking at a loose pebble by your shoe.

She peeked at you through her fingers. “My dad looked like he wanted to run a background check.”

“He probably did.”

Hanni laughed. Briefly. Just a breath of it. Then her hands dropped back to her lap.

And maybe it was the way she went still for a second that made the next words come out the way they did.

“So… about the party?”

You meant it light—casual. But the air changed the second it left your mouth.

“Right,” she said, not looking at you. “The party.”

You didn’t press.

A breeze passed by, brushing her hair against her cheek. She exhaled.

“I… don’t think I can go.”

You paused. You kept the smile, but it felt wrong now—stiff at the corners.

“Oh,” you said. Tried to keep your voice from dipping. “Why not?”

“I know I said I would,” she added quickly. “And I meant it. I did. It’s just…”

Her eyes dropped to a chipped patch of wood near her feet. The porch creaked faintly as she shifted.

“Something came up?” you offered.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

You don’t believe her. Not fully. But you don’t push either. You just watch her thumb run over the same corner of fabric again and again, like maybe she thinks she can rub the moment away if she tries hard enough.

“I mean,” you said gently, “you don’t have to stay long. You can come late, leave early. I’ll walk you in. I’ll walk you out. Whatever makes it easier.”

She doesn’t look at you.

There’s this beat where it feels like something invisible’s pressing in around your chest.

“Why are you pushing this so much?”

You blinked.

“…What?”

She turned toward you a little, brows drawn but not angry. Just… searching.

“What’s in it for you?” she asked.

You blinked again, slower this time. The porch creaked faintly under your shifting weight.

“What do you mean?”

“This. All of this.” Her voice didn’t rise, but something in it curled tight. “Why do you want me at this party so bad?”

You straightened a little, suddenly aware of how your hands were resting in your lap, your thumb rubbing over the side of your palm like a nervous tic.

“Because I want you there,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “Is that weird?”

She didn’t answer.

You kept going, “Do I need a reason to want to hang out with you? I thought that was kind of the point.”

Still, nothing.

You fumble for something else. Anything. “I just thought… I don’t know. It’d be nice. If you were there.”

And for a second, you think she softens.

But it’s not toward you. It’s not the kind of soft that says maybe she’s changing her mind. It’s like she already has.

She stands up. Slowly. Like she’s waiting to see if you’ll say something that changes the moment.

You don’t.

“I should go,” she says, quieter than before.

“Hanni—”

She turns, and the porch creaks. The door groans a little as you wait for the slam.

But it doesn’t come.

She closes it softly.

—

The clock blinked 12:00 in that soft, judgmental way only digital clocks can—like it wasn’t just keeping time but reminding her that she was still here, still stuck, still on the same page of the same notebook she’d been staring at since the sky was pink.

The page in front of her was a mess—ink smudges, arrows drawn and redrawn until they tore the paper, chemical formulas that no longer made sense under the dim light of her desk lamp, and at the very bottom of the page, almost invisible, a small dot where her pen had rested too long.

She let her head fall forward with a soft thud against the desk, cheek pressed to her open notes, breathing in that dry-paper scent, that weird combination of ink and highlighter and the faint, lingering smell of the strawberry lotion she applied earlier that day just to feel a little more like a person and a little less like a panic machine.

Was she being too much?

Too guarded, too reactive, too quick to assume the worst of someone who’d—God—looked at her like she mattered? Someone who'd laughed like she was easy to love and touched her guitar with careful hands and eyes full of awe, not like it was an instrument, but like it was an extension of her?

She didn't know. And she hated not knowing.

Uncertainty was an itch she couldn’t scratch. It crawled under her skin, filled the silence in her chest, made her legs bounce and her throat tighten and her hand reach, again and again, for the only thing that had ever calmed her down when her thoughts grew too loud.

The guitar was resting by the bed, just where she'd left it that morning, leaned against the wall like it had been waiting for her. It always waited.

She picked it up carefully, fingers brushing over the frets.

She tried to strum—just a chord, anything, but her hands didn’t want to move the way they usually did, and her brain wasn’t offering her the usual pour of melodies. It just gave her you.

You, watching her play with your chin in your palm and your eyes too bright for the dim room. You, nodding to her rhythm like it was something sacred. You, the soft exhale of breath after the last note, like you’d been holding it the whole time.

You, handing her a bunny bandage after she pricked her finger on a snapped string

And suddenly, even the strings didn’t sound right, God—even music had too much of you in it.

She sighed and placed the guitar back down, careful not to let it clatter. She’d scratched it once, two years ago, on the leg of her desk, and it still made her stomach flip every time she saw that shallow scar on the side—because she remembered crying after, like it was a person she’d hurt. Like it had feelings.

She sat on the bed for a while, not doing anything.

Her phone was beside her, lit up with unread messages. The one from earlier still sat there, unopened from an anonymous number.

“You really think she’s not playing you?”

She hadn’t responded. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

Should she show you? Should she say sorry for how quick she’d pulled away, for the look she’d given you when you asked about the party, like you were offering a trap and not a night to be near her?

She didn’t know. And she hated that, too.

The competition was in a week. She needed to study. Needed to focus. No distractions, no parties, no goddamn feelings.

And yet here she was, letting her whole night warp around someone’s stupid laugh and someone’s stupid stammer and someone’s stupid eyes that didn’t know how to lie.

Ironic, really. You’re a psych major.

You should’ve been better at lying.

She turned her head toward the shelf by the corner of the room, eyes falling on a pink party hat, that had crinkled at the edges and had tiny stars glued to it by a child’s hand.

It had dust on the tip.

She hadn’t touched it in years.

Minji’s birthday. That’s where it was from. She remembered the park, the cake, Minji’s mom tying the hat ribbon too tight under her chin, making her sound like a squeaky toy when she laughed.

And she remembered a kid.

A kid, just like her, who wandered a little too far from the picnic table and got bitten by a cat that didn’t want to be touched. She didn’t cry, though. Just sat there, hand pressed to her other bitten hand.

She had a Hello Kitty bag that day, full of nothing useful—stickers, crayons, a couple of mints she wasn’t supposed to eat—but she did have a Band-Aid. She remembers holding it in her hand, about to walk toward the kid.

And then the rain came down like the sky had decided to interfere, and Minji’s mom pulled her back toward the car, and the Band-Aid never made it past her fist.

She remembered watching through the foggy car window as the girl sat under the slide, ankle swelling, rain soaking the top of her head like she didn’t even notice.

And she remembered how, even then, she thought—I want to be like her.

The kid with the brave face and the quiet mouth and the line of medals that came later. Hanni clapped from her seat while you stood on the stage.

And then one day, she was gone. Disappeared between semesters like the girl were never there to begin with.

She remembered checking the park that summer. Looking for something familiar. But all she found was an orange cat curled up in the tunnel. Waiting, like it had been left behind, too.

Waiting for what?

She still didn’t know.

Like how she didn’t know whether to risk it.

Fine.

She’ll go to the stupid party.

---------------

a/n: if you made it to the end—WOWWIEE. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING I LOVE YOU. LET’S KISS.

alsooo if you’ve seen any of my unfinished series or smau lurking around… pls be fr… what do you wanna see continued 😭🙏 drop it in the replies or inbox pls i am weak for feedback ily fr tee hee

10 likes and i wont do my school works

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