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FAMILY MATTERS , N.RK !

﹙ 💤 ﹚ ぃ ──── ❝ IN A WORLD THAT NEVER FELT LIKE HOME, RIKI WAS THE ONLY PLACE YOU BELONGED ❞

PAIRING : best friend ! riki × afab reader

SYNOPSIS : When your parents see perfection in everyone but you, even the boy who’s been your best friend since you were five becomes a painful reminder of what you’re not. Riki has always been nonchalant, always protecting you in quiet ways—even when you didn’t notice—but years of comparison have left you bitter. Between after school badminton matches, whispered rants, and the moments he almost says more, you’ll have to decide if the one person you’ve always had is also the one person you can’t lose.

GENRE : comfort, teen angst and some more angst.

WARNING(S) : mentions of blood/periods, child abuse, teenage angst, reader is neglected as a kid, breach of privacy (reading diary), lack of communication, reader blames riki of all people, use of profanity... if there's more please lmk.

WORD COUNT : 37.4K (got too attached...)

NOTE FROM RIRI , my first ever long published fic on here. and I know this is probably gonna flop lol but let's be honest, instead of throwing it in the dustbin—i wanted to give it a try. so here you go, I know some of it is really repetitive but I tried and I wanna grow. so, please throw some feedback in my direction 🌀

You sit on the swing, your sneakers brushing the sand beneath as you sway gently, back and forth, back and forth. The playground feels loud with other kids’ laughter, yet somehow it’s quiet for you. Your eyes keep darting toward your parents, who are standing a little distance away, lost in conversation with the other grown-ups. Their voices overlap—laughing, nodding, chatting about things you don’t understand.

It makes your chest feel heavy, like maybe you don’t belong here at all. Maybe you shouldn’t have even come with them. What was a five-year-old supposed to do at a gathering where no one seemed to notice her? You thought, just maybe, your parents would find someone who also had kids so you’d have company. But no. They’re too busy, and you’re stuck here, swinging alone, pretending it doesn’t bother you.

“Hey! Why you sitting alone?”

The sudden voice startles you, and your swing slows. You turn your head and see a boy about your age standing a few feet away. He’s holding a chocolate bar—well, what’s left of it—and half his tiny hands are smeared with melted brown streaks. His lips too, shining with chocolate like he’s been eating without a care.

For a second, you scrunch your nose in disgust. Sticky hands, sticky mouth—ugh. But then he bites off another piece, chewing happily, and somehow you can’t help staring.

“Mama and Dada are too busy talking,” you mumble, your lower lip jutting out as you pout.

The boy tilts his head, then suddenly brightens up. “Then why don’t you play with me?”

He grins so widely it almost looks goofy, then marches toward you like he’s on a mission. He extends his little chocolate-stained hand with way too much seriousness for a child. “Riki,” he says, as if introducing himself in a board meeting.

You blink at his hand, hesitate, then carefully slip yours into it, ignoring the stickiness. He shakes it firmly, proud of himself.

“Wanna be friends?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.

Something warm flickers in your chest. Maybe kids don’t need big reasons to be friends—just a smile, a question, a hand held out. So you nod, shy but certain, a smile tugging at your lips too.

“Cool,” he mutters, sounding satisfied. Then without warning, he tugs you right off the swing. The chains creak and the swing sways wildly behind you as you stumble after him, tiny feet scrambling to keep up.

A laugh bubbles out of you despite yourself. “You’re not gonna kidnap me, right?” you tease, eyes wide but playful.

Riki gasps dramatically, pressing his messy hand against his chest like you’ve just accused him of the worst crime in the world. “Me? Kidnap you? Do I look like a bad guy?”

You giggle, shaking your head, your smile refusing to fade. The swing is forgotten, your parents’ laughter in the distance no longer stings. Because right now, you’re not alone anymore.

You let him pull you across the park, his small hand sticky in yours, until you stopped in front of two adults sitting on a bench. You guessed they were his parents.

The lady had a soft glow about her, cheeks pink like she’d just come from the sun. The man rose with an easy smile, kneeling down just as Riki barreled into his arms.

“Dada!!”

“What’s up, my little boy?” his father’s voice was warm, the kind that made your chest tighten. You frowned without meaning to. Why was he so nice? Wouldn’t that spoil him? Your dad never hugged you like that—he always said too much affection would ruin you.

“I made a friend!” Riki pointed at you proudly. His father pulled back just enough to look at you, still crouched at his son’s height. His smile didn’t falter even when you shifted awkwardly in your little pink dress, twin ponytails bouncing as you bowed politely, the way your parents had taught you.

“Aww,” his mother cooed, her eyes soft as she watched you. You tilted your head, confused but shy, lowering your gaze to your shoes.

“How respectful. Such a sweet friend you have,” she murmured, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a small chocolate and held it out to you.

You froze. “But aunty, mama said not to take things from strangers.”

Her smile didn’t waver, not even a flicker of offense. “But I’m your friend’s mother, aren’t I? Still—it’s okay if you don’t want it.”

Before you could answer, Riki snatched it from her hand with his sticky fingers. “I’ll give it to her!” he grinned, holding it out like he’d solved the problem. His mother sighed, part amused, part disappointed, but said nothing. He was only a kid, after all.

“Come on, let’s go,” Riki said, brushing his hands against his shorts and reaching for yours again. You glanced back at his parents, bowed once more, then let him lead you away from the bench.

“Your dad is so weird,” you muttered once you were out of earshot.

“Why do you think so?” he asked absently, his little arms full of tiny badminton bats and a shuttlecock his dad had handed him. You hadn’t even noticed when.

“Because he’s too sweet,” you mumbled, following him back to the swings. The park felt quieter now, almost empty.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Riki asked as he unwrapped the chocolate, holding it out to you again. You shook your head, but his face fell a little. “Take it—you’re my friend, right?” His eyes searched yours with such simple honesty it made you hesitate.

You sighed softly, sitting back on the swing. “How is that good? Aren’t dads supposed to be strict and cold? So we don’t grow up spoiled?” You pointed at a man sleeping on a bench nearby, clothes wrinkled, face tired. Maybe he’d lost another job, maybe he had no home. “Like that uncle…”

Riki didn’t answer right away. He frowned, fiddling with the chocolate wrapper. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “But that’s not his fault. And… isn’t being sweet the best thing a person can be?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The thought was too big, too strange for your little mind to untangle. Instead, you finally took the piece of chocolate from his hand and nibbled on it.

Riki watched you with a small smile, happy you accepted it, but still puzzled by the way you thought. Maybe you’d understand someday. For now, you were just kids—kids who didn’t know yet how the world really worked.

“Forget it. You wanna play?” Riki asks suddenly, brightening up again as he thrusts one of the mini badminton rackets toward you. It’s so small that it looks like a toy, but to you, it feels like something out of the television.

“Woahhhh…” you mutter in awe, eyes wide. You hold the racket carefully with both hands, almost like it’s too precious to touch. You’ve only ever seen players on TV during sports matches, their rackets tall and shiny. This one is tiny, childish—but real.

Then the amazement fades, and a small wave of sadness creeps in. Your lips tug downward as you whisper, “But… how are we gonna play if I don’t know how?” Chocolate smudges your lips as you frown, feeling a little embarrassed.

Riki tilts his head, studying you. For a moment, he looks very serious, as if his little brain is working way too hard for a problem like this. Then his face lights up. “Easy! I’ll teach you. Tomorrow, okay? You’re gonna be at the playground, right?” His grin stretches from ear to ear, full of excitement.

You blink at him in confusion. “But why not now?”

“Because…” he drags the word out dramatically, almost guilty, “it’s time to go home. I wanna watch my favorite cartoon.” His voice softens, like he doesn’t want to admit he’s choosing cartoons over playing.

“Ohhh…” you murmur, your shoulders sinking. Your face drops into disappointment so quickly it surprises even you. From the corner of your eye, you see your parents finally starting to walk toward you, and your chest grows heavier. For the first time that evening, you don’t want them to reach you. You want to stay here, standing with Riki, holding the silly little racket.

Your throat tightens. To your horror, your eyes water, a sting you don’t know how to stop. You sniffle quickly, wiping your face with the back of your hand.

Riki notices immediately. “Are you crying?” he asks softly, his sticky little fingers brushing against your cheek in concern. His touch is gentle, hesitant, almost protective.

You shake your head fast, not wanting him to know. “I just… tired,” you lie, trying to smile even as your voice cracks a little.

He studies you, then slowly pulls his hand away, still giving you that tiny frown of worry. He doesn’t push it though. Kids don’t always ask too many questions when they don’t understand.

By then, your parents are close enough to hear. Riki straightens suddenly, shoulders back, enthusiasm bubbling in him as he blurts out, “Hello, aunty! Hello, uncle! I’m her new friend!” His white little teeth shine as he grins, proud of himself for saying it.

Your mother’s eyes crinkle in surprise before she smiles warmly. “Aww, did our daughter make a new friend? What a little gentleman, hmm?”

Relief washes over you. For once, your mother isn’t frowning, isn’t scolding. She doesn’t even mention the rule about no male friends at home. You breathe easier, your tiny fists unclenching at your sides.

Then you glance up at your dad. He’s smiling too, polite, approving even, at Riki. Bitterness twists in your chest. Why couldn’t he smile at you like that? Why was it always easier for him to show kindness to strangers than to you, his own child? The urge to stomp your tiny fists against his legs flares inside you, though of course you don’t. You just swallow it down, like always.

Meanwhile, Riki’s cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink, his grin still sheepish. “I’ll go now, uncle, aunty! My mama and dada must be waiting for me!” He bobs his head respectfully before running off, clutching the rackets and shuttlecock like treasures.

You watch him dash back toward the other side of the park, his small figure shrinking the further he goes. A pout tugs at your lips as you sink into yourself. It hurts—more than you expected—to watch him leave. You know he has to, of course he has to, but that doesn’t stop the selfish wish that he’d stay just a little longer.

For the first time all day, you feel the weight of something you don’t have words for yet. A quiet ache that lingers as you stand in the fading sunlight, chocolate still sweet on your tongue.

“Stupid girl! Can’t even wipe off the chocolate? And what have I told you about taking food from strangers?” Your mother’s voice cuts sharp the moment Riki is gone, no trace of the soft tone she’d used before.

You flinch at the sudden change, your tiny shoulders curling in. Tears prick your eyes, but you bite them back, refusing to cry here in the middle of the park. She kneels in front of you, pressing a handkerchief so roughly against your mouth that it almost hurts, scrubbing away the smudges of chocolate.

You lift your gaze to your father, watery eyes pleading, your bottom lip jutting out in a small pout. It’s the kind of look that would melt anyone else’s heart—but not his. He glances once, then turns his face away, as if it doesn’t matter. The sting in your chest deepens, heavier than your little body knows how to carry.

“Sorry,” you whisper, voice so small it nearly disappears. You lower your head and let your mother grip your hand tightly, leading you out of the playground. Your father follows silently, his footsteps steady but distant, like he isn’t really there.

Your eyelids grow heavy as you shuffle along, fighting against the sleep pulling at you. Your mother keeps talking, her voice filling the silence. “He was such a cute little boy. But if he knew how messy you were, he wouldn’t like you at all.”

Her words sting, though you’re too tired to answer. Your steps wobble with each drag of your feet, the ground blurring beneath your sleepy eyes. You barely notice when your body gives up, when your legs stop holding you up.

Then suddenly, you’re lifted. Strong arms scoop you off the ground, and before you know it, your head is resting against your father’s shoulder, your tiny legs dangling on either side of him. His back is warm, his stride steady, and for the first time today you feel… safe.

Half-asleep, your small arms loop around his neck, clinging to him. “Daddy… you’re my hero,” you mumble, voice slurred with drowsiness.

His reply is quiet, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it. “Is that so?”

Your mother glances over, and for once her lips soften into a smile, a moment of warmth slipping through.

You sigh, nestling into your father’s shoulder. And even though chaos always waits for you at home, right now, in the fading light of afternoon, you let yourself smile too. For a little while, it feels like home.

⪩⪨

The next day, you spend the morning pacing around the house, clutching your little hands together, trying to think of how to ask. How could you convince mom? She was always tired, always busy. But you had made a promise. You told Riki you’d come. And breaking a promise wasn’t something friends did.

Taking a deep breath, you shuffle into the kitchen where she’s standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, her hands busy in the soapy water. You pad over on your small feet and wrap your tiny arms around her legs, pressing your cheek against her thigh—because that’s all your height allows.

“Moooommy?” you draw out the word sweetly, hoping it will work.

She sighs, not even looking down, already guessing what’s coming. “What is it?” Her voice is tired, her shoulders slouched from the morning chores.

“Can you take me to the playground? Please? I wanna go play with my new friend!” you beam up at her, eyes sparkling. You squeeze tighter around her legs, trying to look as cute as possible.

Finally, she glances down at you, her expression weary. “You just want to run off again? After everything I have to do in this house?” She shakes her head, annoyed, and turns back to the dishes.

You pout, puffing out your cheeks, but you don’t let go. “Please, Mama! Just a little while! He’ll be waiting for me…” Your puppy eyes shine as you tilt your head, your lips curling into your very best begging smile.

But she only sighs louder, flicking her wet hands once in frustration. “If you have so much free time, why don’t you help me with chores instead? The laundry is sitting there, the floor needs sweeping, and here you are thinking of playing.”

Your shoulders slump immediately. You loosen your arms from around her legs and step back, staring at the ground. You know better than to push. When mom uses that tone, pleading more is dangerous.

So you turn, your little heart sinking, and spot your father on the couch. The television glows in front of him, the news humming in the background. He sits quietly, half-listening, phone resting beside him. Your last hope.

Biting your lip, you shuffle over, tugging at his shirt sleeve since that’s all you can reach. “Daddy,” you call softly. When he doesn’t look, you climb awkwardly onto the couch, your tiny hands gripping the cushions as you pull yourself up until you’re sitting right beside him. “Daddy,” you say again, more hopeful this time.

He hums absently, eyes still on the screen.

You lean closer, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Can you take me to the playground? Please? I wanna play with my friend.” Your voice wavers, the words tumbling out quickly like you’re afraid he’ll say no if you don’t get them all out at once.

He blinks, glancing from the television to you, then to your mother still clattering dishes in the kitchen as she mutters to herself about housework and how no one helps her. He presses his lips together, clearly torn. Staying here meant more of her complaining in the background. Taking you out meant peace.

“Okay,” he mutters finally, grabbing the remote and switching the TV off with a click.

Your eyes widen, disbelief flooding in before joy explodes across your face. “Really?!” you squeal, bouncing a little on the couch. Without thinking, you throw your arms around him in a hug, squeezing tightly.

He chuckles quietly, patting your head once before standing up.

You hop off the sofa, practically skipping to the door, your grin stretching ear to ear. “Thank you, Daddy!”

Pulling on your shoes in a hurry, you rush out, your little feet tapping against the pavement as you skip ahead. Behind you, your father follows at his steady pace, phone in one hand, his gaze occasionally lifting from the screen to keep an eye on you. The playground isn’t far, but to your excited little legs it feels like the most important journey in the world.

Your heart pounds with anticipation. You can already picture Riki waiting, badminton racket in hand, that goofy grin on his face.

You promised. And you kept your promise.

Once you reached the park, you glanced back at your dad. He was still glued to his phone, thumb scrolling lazily, barely noticing you as you skipped faster toward the swings. The second your eyes caught Riki sitting there, kicking the dirt as his swing rocked back and forth, you forgot all about your father.

“Yah!” Riki huffed the moment he spotted you, jumping off the swing with an exaggerated frown. “Do you know how long I waited? I thought you weren’t coming!” His arms crossed like he was about to stomp away, but his lips twitched at the corners.

You pressed your lips together, puffing your cheeks before muttering stubbornly, “I promised.” Then, louder, prouder: “And I keep my promises!”

His pretend scowl broke into a bright grin. “Okay, okay. I believe you now.” He nodded seriously, as if stamping approval on your words, before holding out the tiny racket in his hand.

Your eyes lit up. “We’re really playing?” you asked, almost bouncing in place.

“Yep.” He puffed out his chest, looking very much like a little coach, and stepped a few paces back. Holding the shuttlecock in one hand, he called out, “Ready?”

You clutched the racket, nodded eagerly, and then—whiff. The shuttlecock fell flat at your feet.

“Oh,” you mumbled, biting your lip. You tried again. Miss. Again. Miss. After six straight misses, you plopped down on the ground, hugging your knees and pouting so hard your cheeks trembled. “I’m sorry I keep missing. I’m just… bad at this.”

Riki tilted his head, his eyes softening. He walked over and crouched down in front of you. “Hey. It’s okay,” he said with a little shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “When I played with dad the first time, I missed sooo many shots. Like, more than you.”

You peeked at him through your knees, unconvinced.

“You only feel sad if you’re not even trying,” he reasoned, leaning closer, his tiny voice gentle. “But you’re trying. So why be sad, huh?”

Before you could answer, his fingers reached forward, pinching your cheeks just enough to tug your lips into a goofy smile. “See? Like that.”

You couldn’t help it—you giggled, swatting his hands away. “Okay, okay! I’ll play again.” You stood up, dusting off your shorts, determination back in your eyes.

“That’s the ghost!” Riki declared suddenly, pointing at you with a grin.

You blinked at him. “…It’s spirit, Riki.” You corrected him seriously, like a teacher.

He just shrugged, unconcerned. “Yeah, yeah. Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, because fighting with your only friend felt silly.

The game went on, and you lost more times than you could count. Still, Riki never complained. He cheered when you hit the shuttlecock—even if it flew the wrong way—and clapped whenever you tried again. His encouragement made the air light and warm, and you forgot how bad you thought you were.

So much so that you didn’t even notice how late it had gotten until your dad finally walked over from the bench.

“Time to go, sweetheart,” he called gently.

Your lips drooped into a tiny frown, and you waved your hand in a slow goodbye. Riki mirrored your frown, raising his own little hand and wiggling his fingers at you until you turned away.

Even as you trudged back to your dad, a small smile tugged at your face. You had learned something new that day—not just badminton, but the strange, wonderful way a promise could tie you to someone.

Your legs feel heavy as you trail behind your dad, his eyes glued to the glowing screen in his hand. You tug at his pants with your tiny fingers, your voice soft and tired, “Daddy… can you carry me? My legs are soooo tired.”

He finally looks up from his phone, sliding it into his pocket as he crouches down in front of you. “Come on, hop on.”

With a small grin, you climb onto his back, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a sleepy little koala. Your cheek presses against his shoulder as you murmur happily, “Riki taught me badminton today.”

“Is that so?” he hums, his voice warm in a way it rarely is these days.

“Mhm. He’s sooo cool, Daddy. Just like you,” you mumble, half-proud, half-dreamy.

That makes him chuckle softly, his pace slowing as something catches his eye. He points ahead, mischief in his tone. “Does my baby want some ice cream? But no telling Mama, alright? Our little secret.”

Your head pops up instantly, eyes sparkling as you spot the vendor. “Ice cream?! Yes, yes, yes! Ice cream!”

He laughs—an honest laugh that makes your little heart flutter because it feels so rare. “Alright then. What flavor does my princess want?”

“Strawwwberry!” you squeal, tripping over the word but too excited to care.

Still perched on his back, you beam as the vendor scoops the pink swirl into a cone and hands it over. Your dad pays, and you immediately lick the melting sweetness, humming in delight. “Mmm! So yummy.”

The night air feels softer with the ice cream in your hand and your dad’s steady back beneath you. Between licks, curiosity bubbles up, and you blurt, “Daddy? Why did you marry Mama?”

He stiffens just slightly, but you don’t notice, too busy giggling at the strawberry smudge on your lips. “Mama’s always mean,” you complain innocently, “but you’re not. Well, you’re also mean sometimes, but not always.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer, his steps slower now, quieter. The smile he had a minute ago slips away into the shadows, but you’re too busy munching the cone to see.

When you’re done, he gently sets you down a little away from home, wiping your sticky mouth with a handkerchief. “Here,” he says softly, slipping a mint candy into your palm. “So mama won’t know.”

You giggle, unwrapping it quickly. “Best day ever,” you whisper through tiny crunches.

Hand in hand, you step into the house only to hear mom’s sharp voice cut through the air, scolding and frustrated. Your dad says nothing this time, sinking onto the couch with the news playing in the background.

The laughter from earlier feels like a fading dream. Your chest feels tight, like something caged inside, but you don’t quite understand why. You just quietly slip into the big bed you share with them, curling into the middle spot because you’re too scared of sleeping alone—too scared the monsters might find you.

To you, your parents are still heroes, no matter how much they fight. They’re your shield, your safe place. And lately, you’ve found another small safe place too. The playground. Riki. The boy who swings beside you and smiles when you smile, who doesn’t laugh at you when you fail.

He’s only been your friend for a little while, but somehow, with him, you don’t feel so lonely anymore.

At home, things were always confusing. One moment the house would be filled with laughter—your mom clapping her hands at something your dad said, your dad teasing her back—and you’d think, maybe this time, everything will stay like this. But it never did. The laughter would be swallowed up by shouting, voices clashing in the living room, throwing around words you didn’t even know yet

Words too sharp for your tiny ears. You’d sit on the edge of your parents’ big bed, clutching your stuffed toy to your chest, wondering if maybe you were the reason they were angry. Wondering why you felt so small in a place that was supposed to make you feel safe.

⪩⪨

You couldn’t keep it inside anymore. So the next day, when you dragged your feet to the playground, shoulders slumped, badminton racket hanging loosely in your hand, Riki noticed right away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his little brows furrowing, placing one small hand on your shoulder. His touch was gentle, careful, the way kids do when they don’t know how to comfort but want to anyway.

“I’m gonna be a big sister,” you mumbled, your lips twisting into a pout.

For a moment his face lit up. “Oh! Isn’t that good?” His smile was wide, his voice bright, like the news was a celebration.

But you just shook your head hard. The happiness in his eyes faltered when he saw the way yours were glistening with tears.

“Everybody only talks about the new baby,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “They only care about him. It’s like I don’t even exist anymore.” The words spilled out with the frustration you didn’t even know how to name, your palms covering your face as if hiding could stop the tears from slipping out. You were just a kid, but even kids could feel what it meant to be forgotten.

Riki’s small hands awkwardly patted your back. “I notice you,” he said, his voice soft, almost like a secret.

A broken laugh escaped your lips, muffled against your palms. “I know you do… but you’re not big like them. You can’t make them listen.”

“Why does being big matter?” he asked simply, tilting his head.

You had no answer. Just silence, your shoulders shaking as you sniffled, and his tiny hand still on your back, steady like an anchor.

It was in moments like these, sitting side by side in the half-empty park with your rackets forgotten in the grass, that something unspoken tied you together. A bond you didn’t know how to describe but knew you’d keep forever.

⪩⪨

Afternoons became your escape—chasing shuttlecocks across cracked pavement, your laughter echoing louder than the silence of your home. Riki always had snacks tucked into his bag, biscuits or candy his mother slipped in for both of you. He never seemed to notice the way your eyes softened whenever he handed them over, but you noticed the difference between his world and yours.

His house felt warm, not because it was bigger or brighter, but because his parents treated him and his sisters with a kind of love you couldn’t imagine. The way his mom called him in for dinner with a smile, the way his dad ruffled his hair, the way his sisters giggled with him—it was so normal for him, but for you, it felt like a dream.

And then there was Jiho. Your baby brother. Two years old, stumbling around with that endless grin. Everyone adored him. Your parents’ voices softened for him in a way they never did for you. And though you wanted to hate him for stealing away all the love you once had, you couldn’t. He was too small, too innocent. None of this was his fault. Still, every time you watched your mom cradle him close, every time your dad’s eyes lit up when Jiho babbled his name, your heart ached with something you didn’t have a name for yet.

It wasn’t fair. It was never fair.

So you stayed at the park longer. You stayed at Riki’s house longer. Because being with him didn’t feel like being invisible.

The TV was loud, voices from a drama spilling into the room, but your mom’s own voice was louder to you.

“Stop messing around near Jiho while he’s sleeping.”

Her words came tired, like she didn’t even want to say them, but they still pressed heavy on your chest. You sat cross-legged on the floor, dipping biscuits into the warm milk like you always did, trying so hard to be careful, to be quiet.

But then she said it again, sharper this time.

“Can you be quiet? Don’t wake up Jiho with those sounds.”

You peeked toward the crib where Jiho stirred in his sleep. You didn’t want to wake him, not when mom already looked like she was about to snap. She lay on the couch, her eyes half-closed, like the glow of the TV was more important than you. So you tried to stand, tried to tiptoe away before you could ruin anything.

But your foot hit the cup.

The hot milk spilled across your foot, stinging like fire, and you couldn’t help it—the scream ripped out of you before you could swallow it down. “Mo-m!”

Jiho woke with a wail, his little cry filling the room, and everything seemed to break at once. You thought maybe she’d come to you first. She always did, even if she was mad, even if her words hurt. You thought she’d grab a cloth, wipe your foot, blow on it, say something soft. But instead.

A sharp sting exploded across your cheek.

Her hand.

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO MESS WITH HIM OR AROUND HIM!”

Her voice cracked like thunder in your ears. You froze, your tears mixing with the burning on your knee, but the slap hurt worse. It wasn’t just your skin that stung. It was the way her eyes looked at you like you were the problem, like you were too much.

You stared down at your feet because you couldn’t look at her anymore. Your voice was small, shaky, and broken when you whispered, “I’m so sorry, Mom.” but she didn’t even hear it. Or maybe she did and didn’t care.

Your whole body shook as you ran, stumbling toward the door, leaving the spilled milk on the floor, leaving her anger behind, leaving Jiho’s cries echoing in your head. You ran like you always dreamed you could—away, far away, somewhere nobody could tell you you weren’t enough.

The park was empty. The sun was dipping, shadows stretching across the swings. You crawled under the big green dinosaur slide, the plastic still warm from the day. Your cheek throbbed, your foot burned, and you pressed your face against the cool metal floor, trying to make the pain stop.

Your sobs echoed under the hollow slide. Loud, ugly cries that you couldn’t hold in. You wanted someone—anyone—to scoop you up and say you mattered. But no one came. Not your mom, not even Riki.

So you curled yourself small, like maybe if you were tiny enough, nobody would notice you or yell at you or hit you again. Your eyes stung, your body ached, and slowly, slowly, you drifted off to sleep to the sound of your own crying.

And even though you were only seven, somewhere deep inside, you already knew: home wasn’t really home.

After about an hour, you’re woken up by that same sweet voice you always wait here for. “What are you doing here so early?”

You blink, rubbing your swollen eyes with the back of your fists. The voice feels like safety—warm, familiar. “Riki…” you mumble, his name coming out small as you see him standing there. Your cheeks are sticky from dried tears, lips pushed into a wobbling pout as you try so hard not to cry again. But the moment you see him, it breaks.

“Riki…” you repeat, this time a shaky sniffle escaping before your tiny chest caves in. “I– I’m not okay!” The words crack as you burst into messy sobs, the kind that hurt your throat.

Riki just stares at you, wide-eyed and worried. He doesn’t really know how to fix it—he’s just a kid too—but his little heart knows enough. “I know… I’m here… I’m listening.” His hands, small and clumsy, reach forward to hug you. You collapse into him right away, burying your face against the spot where his heart beats. His shirt smells faintly like soap and sunshine, and even though he doesn’t understand everything, he holds you as if he does. His own eyes grow glassy, tears slipping out without him even realising, because seeing you hurt makes him hurt too.

You ugly cry into his chest, hiccupping against him as the words pour out. “Momma… she… she yelled at me… I was only trying to help with brother…” The sobs shake your whole little body, but Riki’s hands keep patting your back in uneven circles, the way he’s seen adults do.

His voice is quiet, careful. “What about your foot?”

You sniffle, following his gaze down to where the skin is red and blotchy. You’d almost forgotten about it, the sting in your chest swallowing everything else.

“I burnt it… I spilled the milk,” you mumble, wincing when his fingers brush too close. “It hurts—don’t touch.”

Riki frowns, his brows scrunching up. His eyes dart between your feet and your face. “Did you… get yelled at because you spilled the milk?”

You nod, lips trembling. His arms tighten around you, and for a moment he hides his face in your shoulder as if he’s the one about to cry harder. He wipes his own tears quickly before using his palm to wipe yours, clumsy but gentle, smudging away the salt from your cheeks.

“Come,” he says firmly, tugging your hand. “You need ice.”

“I don’t wanna go back home…” you whisper, your voice raw from crying. Your nose is runny, your eyes too puffy to open all the way. What hurts most isn’t the burn, it’s that your mom didn’t even notice—and your dad didn’t come looking.

“Then… come to mine.”

You freeze, blinking up at him. “But your parents…?”

Riki shakes his head fast, a faint smile tugging at his lips through the tears. “My mom always says to bring you home. So this would be the first time.” His little hand tightens around yours, not giving you the choice to hesitate.

He pulls you along the tiny streets, both of you sniffling but together. His house isn’t far, and when he stops, you see a simple, neat home, smaller than yours but standing proudly.

“My home!” he announces, chest puffed out as though he’s showing you a castle.

You nod slowly, your hand still in his. The hesitation lingers, but as you step closer, the warm air from inside drifts out, smelling of soup and laundry soap, nothing like the heavy silence you left behind.

“It’s… happy,” you whisper, eyes wide as you take it in. You want to say pretty, but happy feels better—happier than your own house has ever been. And you know Riki wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Riki!! Are you back?”

You flinched at the sound of his mother’s voice. Your hair was tangled, your eyes swollen from crying, and your dress was ruined with sand and dirt from sitting on the ground for so long. You expected her to wrinkle her nose, maybe even scold you for being messy. But instead, her face softened with concern. She looked from her son to you, spatula still in one hand like she had rushed out in the middle of cooking.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did Riki do something? Why are you so…” she trailed off, her lips pressing together. She didn’t want to say “dirty,” even though that was the word hovering on her tongue. She searched for something gentler, more respectful.

“Her mother yelled at her. She spilled milk on her foot, so it’s a little burnt,” Riki answered all at once, too calmly for someone his age, though you could see the traces of dried tears on his cheeks.

His mother’s breath hitched. For a moment, she just stared at you, like the air had been knocked out of her chest. Then she knelt, free hand reaching out to cup your chin and tilt your face up toward her. Her touch was warm, so unlike the sting still burning on your cheek. When her eyes dropped to your feet, her expression crumpled.

“Oh, gosh…” she whispered, her voice breaking. She almost looked hurt herself as she went back inside the kitchen. Before you could say anything, Riki tugged at your hand, urging you gently toward the door. “C’mon.”

“My clothes are dirty,” you murmured, hesitant. The floors inside their house were clean, shining as if someone had spent hours scrubbing them. You didn’t want to ruin them, not when you already felt like trouble.

“Mama won’t mind. C’mon,” Riki insisted, pulling you forward without a second thought. Dirt clung to your dress, flaking onto the spotless floor, but he didn’t care.

Inside, you avoided the couch, too scared of leaving marks on it. Instead, you sank onto the floor, curling up like you were trying to disappear. Your body felt heavy from all the crying, exhaustion pressing down on your little shoulders.

Riki’s mother returned quickly, a small bowl of ice cubes in her hands. Her eyes stayed on you, full of a quiet, aching worry. She knelt again, lowering herself to your level. “Poor girl,” she whispered, more to herself than to you, as she pressed a cold cube against your reddened skin.

You whimpered and tried to pull your leg back, the sting of the ice too sharp, but her hands held you gently, steadying you. Not rough. Not angry. Just firm enough to help.

“Mama…” Riki’s voice was soft, almost pleading. “Can you call her mama and tell her she’s here? She’ll be worried.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. How could he? Riki still believed all mothers worried the same way his did.

His mother’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something, but she closed them again. She only nodded, though the look in her eyes gave her away—she knew more than she let on. Maybe she wanted to call, maybe she wanted to march over there and scold your mother, but she didn’t. Because people didn’t. They told themselves, what happens in someone else’s home stays there.

And so she said nothing. She told herself it was just this once. That maybe it would never happen again. After all, you didn’t show up like this afterward. Not crying. Not broken like that day. But she was wrong. It never really stopped.

⪩⪨

Instead, things only grew worse as you got older. But somehow, with Riki beside you, it never felt unbearable. He had this strange way of making the weight on your shoulders feel lighter, like life wasn’t just about surviving—it was about finding little reasons to be alive. The roof over your head might have been called home, but it never felt like one. The air there was heavy, the walls held too many raised voices, and yet all of that faded into background noise the moment you were with him.

When his parents decided to switch him to your school, it felt like the universe had handed you a miracle. You still remembered how excited you’d been, buzzing with energy in class, waiting for him to walk in and take the empty seat beside you. That decision—simple as it was—felt like one of the best things his family could have ever done. From then on, your days weren’t just bearable, they were good. Really good.

Your mother and his mother began talking more often after that. Usually it was small exchanges—arrangements to pick you up from Riki’s home, or polite smiles when they crossed paths. Oddly enough, Riki never once set foot in your house. He never insisted, and you never invited him. Some things didn’t need to be explained; you both just understood. He was as much a stranger to the cracks in your home as you were.

Your little brother didn’t make it easier. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you treated him gently at first, the way you thought an older sibling should—patient, protective, forgiving. But he grew into everything you hated. At five years old, he was already testing every ounce of your patience.

He tore your books apart, page by page, laughing while you tried not to cry. And your mother? She brushed it off as innocent curiosity. “He’s just a child,” she’d say, lifting your things onto a higher shelf instead of correcting him. That was what stung the most—not his little hands ripping your hard work apart, but the silence that followed. The refusal to tell him it was wrong. And like a sponge, he absorbed that silence, learned from it.

Soon, he began to cry whenever you were near, twisting the narrative until you were the troublemaker. You got scolded, he got away with it.

Badminton became your escape. You and Riki, rackets in hand, the sound of the shuttle cutting through the air—it was your little therapy session. You’d rant about your brother, about your mother, about all the unfairness packed into the small corners of your house. Riki would listen, really listen, his forehead damp with sweat, his silence full of understanding rather than judgment.

Your father, though, was a ghost. He left early, came back late, his presence measured in shoes by the door or the faint smell of cologne clinging to the air after he brushed past you. It wasn’t suspicious—both you and your mother knew he was working hard, harder than most, to keep food on the table and a roof above your heads. You told yourself you should be grateful. You tried to be.

But there was still this invisible wall between you and him, this widening gap you couldn’t bridge. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe it was. You didn’t know. What you did know was that the disconnect ached in quiet ways—you wanted him to see you, but he always seemed too tired to.

Still, on weekends, he tried. He really did. You’d catch him sitting on the sidelines while you and Riki played, his face unreadable, his hands folded over his stomach. Maybe he was proud, maybe he was just catching a rare breath from the chaos of his work life. Either way, those moments became the threads you held onto—the proof that he hadn’t given up entirely.

⪩⪨

“You’re gonna participate, right?” Riki asked, the two of you slouched in your usual hideout—that corner of the school where no one could see you, but you could see each other just fine. Badminton rackets lay abandoned beside you, both of you too drained to move after playing until your legs wobbled.

“In the kids’ badminton tournament?” you asked back, voice muffled as you took a bite of the sandwich Riki’s mom had packed. The bread was soft, the edges a little warm still, and it almost felt like comfort more than food.

“Yeah, that one.” He leaned over to steal a bite from your half without asking, chewing with that casual ease that said this is normal. It never made him jealous when his mom did things for you—in fact, it felt like an unspoken pact between the two of you. His mom filled a role yours never did, and neither of you ever talked about it out loud. You just knew.

“Not joining,” you said without hesitation, wiping your fingers on your skirt. “I don’t wanna get humiliated publicly after losing.”

“Who says you’d lose?” His brows furrowed, as if your words personally offended him.

“Riki,” you sighed, shaking your head. “If my opponent was you, I’d walk off the court before I even tried. You’re way too good. But hey—if you need a hype girl, I’ll scream the loudest for you.” You smirked around another bite, crumbs sticking to your lips.

“That’s not what I meant, dumbo.” His voice dropped into a grumble, but his frown gave him away. “If you won’t participate, I won’t either.” He stood up as if he were really about to leave, racket in hand, but then hesitated, his head tilting in that way he always did when his brain was spinning too fast. “Wait… would your mom yell at you if you signed up?” he asked carefully.

You shook your head, lips twitching at his attempt to connect the dots. “Wrong guess,” you murmured, amused at his determination.

“Then… oh! Is it because if you join, you’ll have to place first, otherwise your parents won’t be happy?”

You didn’t even bother denying it, just muttered, “Bingo,” brushing crumbs off your palms like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was.

Riki’s face fell. He sat back down, mumbling, “Then don’t tell them. We’ll just… keep it a secret.”

“Oh yeah?” You gave him a pointed look, smacking the top of his head lightly. “And when they ask for a guardian’s number and signature, who exactly am I supposed to write? Yours?”

He rubbed the spot you hit, lips pushing into a pout. His voice came quieter, almost sulky. “So you really wouldn’t try? Not even for me?”

That one stung. You froze, sandwich halfway to your mouth, guilt twisting in your chest. You wanted to tell him you wanted to, that you wished things were different—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you shook your head, because saying anything else felt like a betrayal of the rules your parents had written into you.

He didn’t wait for more. With a huff, he grabbed his racket and the shuttlecock, stomping away without looking back.

And that emptiness? It settled heavy in your chest, pressing until your throat burned and your eyes watered. You told yourself not to cry, but by the time you walked home, your cheeks were sticky with tears you kept trying to wipe away. By the time your house came into view, you’d forced yourself quiet, but your eyes were still puffy and raw. You kept your gaze fixed on your shoes, praying no one noticed.

“Mom! Noona’s back!” your little brother’s voice rang out the second you stepped through the door.

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached. Of course he’d notice. Of course he’d announce it like it was breaking news. You turned, glare sharp with all the exhaustion and hurt bottled up in you.

For a split second, he froze, wide-eyed. Your red, swollen eyes must’ve scared him enough that he actually shut up. He looked like he thought you’d kill him right there if Mom wasn’t in the next room. He gulped and quickly looked away, keeping a safe distance as you climbed the stairs. You didn’t even bother hiding your glare—it was sharp enough to make your younger brother freeze for a second before deciding it was best not to push his luck. By the time you reached your room, you slammed the door shut, locked it, and collapsed face-first onto your bed.

The tears came harder now, muffled into your pillow as your chest heaved. Everything felt too much—the pressure at home, the tournament, and that stupid Riki. He didn’t even bother texting you after storming off, and the thought made your stomach twist. You almost wanted to learn every curse word in Japanese just to spit them at him for acting so immature. (Not that ten-year-olds really knew better.)

Instead, you cussed under your breath in your own language when you heard footsteps in the hallway. Yes—three languages: Korean, English, and the language of footsteps. You could always tell who was coming by the rhythm of their steps, and right now, the steady, heavy pace made your shoulders sink. Mom.

“Not even a hello when you came home?” her voice scolded from behind the door.

You pressed your lips together, biting back the words you wanted to say. Go away. Leave me alone. But instead, you exhaled and tried something else—something you’d picked up from all the soap operas she watched. You delivered it flatly, not as a question but as a statement: “I’m joining a badminton kids’ tournament.” There was a pause. “That’s what this is about? Jiho told me you were crying when you came in.”

Your heart clenched. You hated how fast it beat whenever she brought Jiho into things. You wanted to scream at that brat for ratting you out, but instead you muttered, “I wasn’t crying because of that.”

“Then open the door.”

“No. Go away.”

Her sigh was heavy before her footsteps retreated. Relief washed over you, though it didn’t stop the ache in your chest. There was no point in letting her in—she wouldn’t comfort you anyway. She’d probably call you weak for crying over something “so small.” And you weren’t ready to hear that. You hadn’t been ready for years.

Still, at least she hadn’t forbidden the tournament. Small victories. Your dad? He wouldn’t show up either way, buried in his work as always. You doubted he even cared. But somehow, even that faint permission—her not saying “no”—felt like a tiny crack of air in the suffocating space you lived in.

⪩⪨

“Riki!” you yelped, stumbling back a step as you tried to keep up with his hits. He was way too energetic today, smacking the shuttlecock like it had personally wronged him. The tournament was tomorrow, and ever since he found out your mom had finally agreed to let you play, he’d been bouncing off the walls with excitement.

“What? Can’t a guy be happy?” he grinned, smug and mischievous, as you returned the hit with equal force. Your chest tightened a little, the memory from yesterday creeping back in, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Why did you want me to play in the tournament so bad, huh? Do you even know how much it hurt when you just… left like that?”

The shuttlecock shot past him before he could react, and with his usual clumsy grace, he stumbled back, swung too late, and ended up crashing straight onto his butt. You froze for half a second, concern flickering in your eyes—then broke into uncontrollable laughter at the sight of him sitting there in the sand, glaring like a sulking puppy.

“You’re such a meanie. Not even gonna help me?” he whined dramatically, brushing at the dirt on his shorts. Rolling your eyes, you trudged over and offered your hand. He smirked as if the universe had just handed him a golden opportunity. Instead of standing, he yanked you down beside him.

“Riki!” you shrieked, landing hard on the sand. Pain shot up your knee, and you winced as you realized you’d scraped it. “You hurt me, idiot!” You swatted at his arm, glaring at him.

He laughed at first, that same carefree laugh that always got under your skin—but when he noticed the smear of red forming on your skin, his smile dropped instantly. His eyes widened, his hand hovering awkwardly, guilty and panicked all at once.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no—” he stammered, his voice high-pitched in panic. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to prank you, I didn’t think you’d actually get hurt—oh my god—” He reached out without thinking, brushing the edge of the scrape with his thumb. You flinched and smacked the back of his head.

“It hurtssss!” you cried dramatically, clutching your knee.

He blinked down at the little droplet of blood staining his fingertip, frowning at it like it was some dangerous discovery. You gave him a look of absolute disgust. “You’re not about to lick it like a vampire, are you?” you deadpanned.

His head shot up, his face twisting in horror. “What?? Ew! No! Who even does that? I was just—just checking how bad it was!”

You burst out laughing despite the sting in your knee. It was ridiculous, really—if it had been anyone else, you probably would’ve cried and sulked. But with Riki, even pain somehow felt… bearable. “Don’t worry,” you said with a crooked grin. “I’m a strong girl, remember?”

He rolled his eyes at your bravado but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned closer, his hair falling into his eyes, and gently blew over the scrape like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You squealed and kicked your feet. “That tickles! What are you doing?” you laughed, though you didn’t stop him.

“Shh, it helps,” he muttered seriously, mimicking what he’d seen his mom do countless times.

And maybe it was silly, maybe it was childish—but with the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin, and the sand clinging to both your clothes as you sat side by side, none of it really mattered. The world was small and simple in that moment. Just you, him, and the thought of tomorrow’s tournament that made your hearts race in unspoken sync.

⪩⪨

The next day, your mom tied your hair into a neat ponytail — maybe the first time in forever she was actually in a good mood. But, of course, standing right beside her was that little menace, your younger brother, smirking like the devil himself had given him private lessons. You swear, if looks could smack, he’d already be rolling across the ground crying. How could a five-year-old be so good at getting under your skin?

Junhee stood on your other side, beaming like the human version of sunshine, her palm warm as she patted your back. You’d been friends since the moment you stepped into school — or maybe more like she decided you were her friend and that was that. Either way, she stuck. She didn’t know the mess waiting for you at home, but she understood enough.

“You’re gonna do amazing!” she grinned, giving your back another encouraging pat before nudging you gently toward the court.

You silently prayed. Like really prayed. That if God actually existed, He’d spare you the humiliation of going up against Riki. But the universe clearly had jokes, because the moment your name was called, there he was—racket in hand, calm and cocky like losing wasn’t even in his dictionary.

“All the best,” he said casually, like he wasn’t your biggest nightmare wrapped in a ten-year-old’s body.

You tried to smile back, but your face cracked somewhere between courage and panic. Turning quickly, your eyes found Junhee, your mom, and—ugh—your annoying little brother, all watching from the stands.

Your palms were sweaty against the racket handle. The first serve flew, sharp and clean. You hit it back, gritting your teeth. Rally after rally, your arm burned, your legs wobbled, and then—you missed. Once. Twice. A third time. Enough to end it. Enough for him to win.

Losing wouldn’t have stung so bad if it was just between you and him. But losing in front of everyone? In front of your mom? That was a whole new level of misery. Your eyes darted toward the stands, desperate for even one glance of reassurance. Instead, you found clapping hands—not for you. For him. Your mother’s smile stretched wide, your brother cheering like he’d personally won. Not even a flicker in your direction. Not even one.

When the announcement rang out declaring Riki the winner, you trudged off the court, face set in a scowl, your throat tight with words you couldn’t say. “Hey!” you heard him call after you, but you didn’t turn. Not when Junhee was already waiting. Not when shame still burned hot in your chest.

“To a ten-year-old me,” you thought bitterly, “this was the end of the world. Proof that I just wasn’t good enough.”

“You did good, don’t worry,” Junhee murmured, her hand finding its way to your back again. Maybe it was her tone, or maybe it was just the way no one else even tried, but before you knew it, you wrapped your arms around her. No words. Just quiet.

Meanwhile, your mom was busy gushing over Riki, her voice soft and sweet in a way it never was with you.

“You’re my only friend now,” you muttered into Junhee’s shoulder, refusing to spare even a glance in Riki’s direction.

Junhee groaned, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You always say that. And then, like, two days later you’re back on the court with him.”

“Yeah, whatever. I don’t wanna talk about it.” You plopped into the nearest chair, sulking hard.

But no matter how much you tried to brush it off, the truth clung to you like thorns. Watching your mom fuss over someone else’s kid—your best friend of all people—it was like a nail driven straight through your chest. You wanted to scream: Make it make sense. But you didn’t. Because by now? You were already used to it.

Her words cut sharper than she realized.

On the way back home, she couldn’t stop talking about Riki—how she always knew he was bound to win, how he was a “gifted child,” how you should learn from him. Every sentence left a bitter taste in your mouth. You stared out of the car window, trying to tune her out, but the way her voice carried, the way she sounded almost proud to say you should “be more like him,” it made your chest tighten until all you could do was roll your eyes.

⪩⪨

When you turned twelve, it worsened.

She’d hit you playfully, jokingly, for things your brother had done. But it didn’t feel like a joke. Not when her palm stung against your arm, not when your cheeks burned from humiliation. At twelve, you couldn’t help but think—maybe it really was your fault. Everything was always your fault. So, you hugged your pillow at night, burying your cries into it, biting down hard on your lip to keep from sobbing too loud. Slowly, you even grew distant from Riki—not because of something he did, but because he was the root of the comparisons. If he wasn’t so perfect, maybe things would be different. Maybe you wouldn’t feel like you were always falling short.

When sports day rolled around, you wished your parents would stay home. The thought of them watching, of their disappointment if you failed, made your stomach twist. But of course, they showed up. Your brother tagged along too, his little smirk making your insides churn. You could already imagine the taunts waiting for you if you didn’t place at least third.

You stood on the court, gripping your racket so tightly your knuckles whitened, shaking from the weight of all the what-ifs. Across from you was Minjae—your classmate, someone undeniably good at badminton. Maybe not as good as Riki, but better than you. Much better.

“What? Scared?” Minjae smirked, leaning on his racket.

You narrowed your eyes, forcing your voice steady. “You should be.”

He raised a brow, amused. “Ohh?”

The round began.

Riki was on the sidelines, cheering you on with every hit. His voice gave you courage you didn’t think you had, and for once, you were playing well—shockingly well. Each strike of the shuttlecock made your chest swell with pride, even as Minjae started panting from the effort. Both of you were one point away from winning, the crowd leaning forward in anticipation.

And then it happened.

You swung your racket—missed by an inch.

Your heart sank. The shuttlecock hit the ground. Minjae threw his hands up, shouting in triumph. His cheer echoed louder than the crowd’s, louder than Riki’s encouragement, louder than anything else. To you, it sounded like confirmation—confirmation that someone had beaten you. Again.

Back with your parents, you forced a frown into something more neutral, though it didn’t work. You hoped, prayed, they wouldn’t say anything. But of course, they did.

Not in public.

At home.

It was almost cruel how casual it sounded when your mother muttered, “Why did you have to miss that last shot? You were going to end up placing at least third.” She stirred the pot on the stove like she hadn’t just stabbed you in the chest. Your father sat in the living room scrolling through his phone, only shaking his head in disappointment. Your brother giggled. The sound made you want to disappear.

“I tried, okay? I did try!” The words burst out of you. You didn’t even know where the aggression came from—maybe from years of being treated like you weren’t enough. Maybe from realizing you never would be.

“And trying doesn’t matter unless you win,” your dad called out, his voice sharp and dismissive.

Your mom nodded, glaring at you. “Now, you’re going to apologize for raising your voice. Or should I make you?”

Your gaze flickered to the slipper resting near her foot. The air left your lungs. Still, you found yourself whispering, trembling but stubborn: “Why should I apologize when it’s not my fault?”

The words weren’t even fully out before the sting of the slipper landed on your skin.

⪩⪨

“Wait—she hit you with the slipper for that?” Riki’s voice was heavy with disbelief through the phone. You lay curled up on your bed, face buried into your pillow, tears soaking the fabric.

“Yeah,” you sniffled. “She said I shouldn’t yell. But then she went and hit me.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. You hated how powerless you sounded, how small.

You’d tried telling Junhee once, but all she said was, “I don’t believe it. Your mom’s so sweet.” Of course she was sweet—to everyone else. To the neighbors, to your teachers, to anyone who wasn’t you. Sometimes you wondered if you and your mother had been enemies in another life and she alone remembered it.

And your dad? He used to stand up for you. Used to. Now, all he did was nod along with her, back her up, call you a spoiled brat for daring to ask why you were always treated differently. If this was what caring looked like to them, you didn’t want it.

⪩⪨

“How long can I stay here?” you whispered later, sitting on the edge of Riki’s bed. Your eyes were still swollen from crying, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You’d run away—kind of. You weren’t sure how long it would last.

“As long as you want, of course.” He paused, lips twitching into a grin. “As long as you do my homework.”

You smacked his arm, huffing. “You’re so selfish.”

“Am I?” he giggled, before lunging forward to tickle you. The suddenness of it knocked a laugh out of you, and for a moment, you both rolled onto the mattress, giggles spilling into the air.

But then—A knock on the door.

You froze. You weren’t used to parents knocking. At home, doors were barged into, no privacy spared. But here, in Riki’s house, his mother stepped in gently, carrying a tray.

Fresh strawberries.

Your eyes widened. Strawberries were a once-a-year kind of thing at your home, a rare treat. Here, she offered them casually, like it was nothing.

You sat up straight, bowing your head, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you.” And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like you had to shrink to be accepted.

“Always so respectful,” his mother muttered with a fond smile before adding, “You can stay as long as you want, sweetie.”

Your heart warmed at her words, and you bowed your head politely. “Thank you so much, aunty,” you said, your smile stretching wide.

As soon as she left, though, Riki’s expression changed into his usual unimpressed stare. “You’re so respectful to everyone else but treat me like your personal servant,” he complained, dropping onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. A tray of strawberries and a little bowl of melted chocolate sat between you two, and he immediately picked one up, dunked it into the chocolate, and popped it into his mouth like a king at a feast.

You scrunched your nose. “Well, if anything, shouldn’t I be the servant? Look at you, having a rich boy snack like you’re in some drama.”

He smirked and without warning shoved a strawberry into your mouth, making you nearly choke. “Just eat, dummy. I bet you skipped lunch again.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “How’d you even know?”

“It’s obvious,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, his tone laced with that annoying mix of smugness and care. “Your stomach’s been growling since you got here. You were too busy crying and complaining to notice, but I did.” His playful expression faltered slightly, his brows tugging together. “But… I’m kinda upset you didn’t tell me. Do you not consider me a friend?”

You stopped mid-bite, staring at him. His words sounded so earnest that it almost caught you off guard. You forced a smile, teasing lightly to keep the air easy. “If I didn’t consider you a friend, why would I be here, huh? I’ve known you for seven years, Mr. Nishimura.”

“That’s not the right way to eat it, idiot,” he cut in, ignoring your answer as he grabbed another strawberry—half-bitten by him, of course—dipped it generously into the chocolate, and held it up to your lips. “Here. Like this.”

You leaned in reluctantly, took a bite, and immediately recoiled, your eyes narrowing at him. “Gross. Don’t ever do that again. Peasant.”

His grin widened, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Why? Afraid you’ll get addicted to my saliva?”

Your hand immediately grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked it against his face. “Yeah, exactly that.”

“Ah—violent grandma strikes again,” he said through his laughter, pulling the pillow away and watching your irritated expression with delight.

You rolled your eyes and grabbed another strawberry, this time dipping it into the chocolate the “proper” way. When you looked back, though, he wasn’t reaching for food. He was just… staring at you. His grin had faded, replaced with something softer, almost serious.

“Can you promise me something?” he asked quietly, eyes locked on yours.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll always come to me when something bothers you. No matter what it is.” His voice was low, steady, almost too mature for the boy who just joked about saliva.

Your lips tugged into a small smile, though your chest tightened at the sincerity in his gaze. “Of course, duh. Who else is gonna listen to my endless complaining?” you joked, nudging his arm lightly to push the weight of the moment away. “I really hope you’re not pranking me right now.”

“I’m not,” he said simply, still holding your gaze. No grin. No teasing. Just him being Riki in the most honest way.

The room fell into silence after that, but it wasn’t awkward. It was… nice. Comforting. The kind of silence where you didn’t need to fill it with words. You dipped another strawberry into the chocolate, and for once, he didn’t complain about how you were doing it wrong. He just sat there, watching, like that promise meant more to him than he wanted to admit.

⪩⪨

Since that day, it became an unspoken rule. For you, because sneaking into Riki’s room had turned into a habit—even though technically, you didn’t have to sneak anymore. His parents never minded; they adored you, often joking that you were their extra child. But you liked the thrill of rebellion, the way your heart raced as if you were breaking some secret law every time you crept upstairs after a late-night practice session. And for Riki, he had gotten so used to your presence that he would leave the window unlocked without ever asking. It was your little secret.

Many small and big things happened as you both stumbled closer toward their teenage years, but one particular memory stood out in a way you would never forget.

It happened on a regular weekend afternoon. You had been at Riki’s house, hanging around after practice like always. One moment, you had gone to the bathroom. The next, you were locked inside, breath shaky, eyes wide as the sight of dark red stained your underwear.

You thought you were dying.

“Are you mad at me?” Riki’s muffled voice broke through the wooden door, nervous and unsure. His knuckles tapped against it gently, then harder when you didn’t answer. “Why are you not opening? Do you wanna poo poo? Is that why you’re taking so long?”

Your chest tightened, tears spilling over as you clutched your knees. The words escaped in a trembling sob. “I-I’m gonna die. I’m bleeding.”

Riki froze on the other side of the door. His mind scrambled, his small hands shaking even as he pressed them against the cool surface of the wood. “...Bleeding? From where?” His voice cracked, trying so hard to stay calm even though he was on the edge of crying himself.

“My private part.” The words came out barely above a whisper, humiliation burning your cheeks.

“What? I couldn’t hear you. Say it again,” he urged, because he thought maybe—just maybe—he had misheard.

You bit down on her trembling lip before whispering louder, “My private part.”

Riki’s face turned pale. His thoughts went wild—blood was dangerous, blood meant injury, meant danger, meant losing you. And yet, in his panic, his mouth betrayed him. “I should let Auntie know so she can apologise to you before you—”

“RIKI!”

He winced at your shriek, heart hammering in his chest. “Okay, okay, no time for jokes,” he muttered quickly, though the nervous humor had slipped out without meaning to. He thought for a second, voice shaky. “How would you feel if I made jokes while you were bleeding from your—” He swallowed hard, words cutting off. “...Okay, actually don’t say it. I’d die on the spot if that happened to me.”

Your sobs grew louder, echoing in the bathroom. The sound cut right through him. He couldn’t stand there anymore. His legs moved on their own as he ran down the hallway. “Riki! Don’t leave me alone!!” your broken voice cried after him, desperate.

“I’ll be back, I promise!” he shouted over his shoulder, skipping down the stairs two steps at a time. “I’m going to get my sister!”

The urgency in his voice made his older sister’s door rattle with his pounding. Inside, Konon was half-lost in her music, bobbing her head with oversized headphones when the noise finally made her rip them off with annoyance. She swung open the door, ready to scold him—until she saw his face.

Riki was sweating, breathing like he’d just outrun a ghost. His wide, frantic eyes darted up at her as if she were his only lifeline.

“What happened? Why do you look like you saw a demon?” Konon asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“It’s about my friend!” Riki’s words came out in a rush. “She—she’s bleeding from her private part.” His voice cracked on the last words, eyes glossing with tears again. “Should we call an ambulance? Please, I don’t want her to die! We—we even have a school project to finish!” His voice broke, small and raw, as he wiped his tears messily with his sleeve.

Konon blinked. And then—she laughed. She couldn’t help it. Not at you, never at you—but at the sheer panic twisting Riki’s usually calm face.

“Why are you laughing??” Riki snapped, glaring at her as if she were the cruelest sister alive. “Do you not care she’s gonna die?”

“Riki,” Konon said between small giggles, “she’s not dying. She’s just on her period.”

He stopped dead. His eyebrows furrowed, his lips parting as if she had just spoken a language he didn’t understand. “...Her what?”

Konon just sighed, rolling her eyes in amusement before heading back into her messy room. She rummaged through her drawer, pulling out a pad. “It’s called menstruation, idiot. It’s normal. She just needs this.” She waved the pad casually in his face, not even phased by his confusion. “Now, where is she?”

Still unconvinced, Riki hesitated, but his heart ached too much at the thought of you crying alone. “Upstairs,” he muttered skeptically, pointing toward his room. His steps were quick, leading her back, every fiber of his body screaming that he had to protect you—even from something he didn’t fully understand.

The sound of your sobs still leaked under his door when they reached it. Inside, you were a trembling mess, tissues clutched in your fists as you tried wiping blood that wouldn’t stop, underwear ruined, fear clawing at you that something was fatally wrong.

And then came the soft knock. Konon’s voice, calm but firm. “Hey. It’s me. Can I come in? I’ll help you, I promise.”

For the first time in minutes, you felt a sliver of relief. Riki stayed hovering by the door too, fists balled tight, as if guarding you from the world—even though he didn’t yet understand it was the world of growing up you were stepping into.

“Sweetie? Are you in there?” Konon’s voice breaks through your panicked sobs, and you take a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to the cool bathroom door before whispering a broken, “yes.”

The door cracks open just enough for her to slide her hand through, holding out a pad. You blink at it, sniffling as though it might bite you. “What is this?” you ask, staring at the plastic-wrapped mystery.

“Take it,” she says softly. Her tone is gentler than usual, patient even, and you accept it because… well, what other option do you have? You clutch it like it’s some kind of lifeline. “…Am I gonna die?” you whisper, your voice trembling with genuine concern.

“No, you’re not gonna die,” she assures you, crouching slightly so her voice meets you at eye level even though the door is still mostly shut. “It’s just periods. It happens to every girl when she grows up.”

Your brows furrow as you sniff again, whispering, “But… but I didn’t bleed through my private part before…”

Before Konon can answer, Riki—who’s been lurking like a curious cat—blurts, “Wait, wait, wait. She’s BLEEDING?!” His tone is so dramatic that it only makes your panic worse.

Konon shoots him a sharp glare. “Riki. Leave.”

But of course, he doesn’t. He leans against the wall, wide-eyed, whisper-yelling like this is some horror movie. “You mean she’s gonna bleed every month?! Like… every single one?!”

“YES. Now shut. up.” Konon grits her teeth, trying to stay sweet for your sake, but her eyes are promising Riki a very slow death later.

You’re too busy trying not to cry again, fiddling nervously with the pad in your hands. “…But how do I even use this?” you mutter, peeking through the crack in the door.

Konon freezes. Clearly she wasn’t ready for that question. “Uh… okay… so, you… um, you unwrap it, stick the big side at the back of your underwear and the smaller one in the front. It’s… it’s like a diaper, but not. It’ll soak up the blood.”

You nod slowly, not fully understanding but trusting her word. Inside the bathroom, you clumsily follow her instructions, biting your lip in concentration like you’re solving a math problem. When you finally step out after konon had left, your eyes are red and puffy, your nose is still running, but at least you’re dressed again. Riki stares at you like you’ve come back from war. He remembers Konon’s warning and wisely keeps his mouth shut… for all of two seconds.

“You okay?” he asks as you flop onto his bed dramatically, curling into a ball and clutching your stomach.

“Fuck no,” you groan, your voice muffled against his pillow. “My stomach hurts like hell.”

Riki blinks, then concludes with all the seriousness of a scientist. “So this is what turns girls scary every month, huh? My sissy turns into a monster too. You lift your head just enough to glare at him. He freezes, like a deer in headlights, before whispering, “…Yep. Definitely scary already.” The glare intensifies. He gulps and quickly offers you a cookie from his drawer as a peace offering.

⪩⪨

Later, when school lessons finally cover periods properly, you’re absolutely furious. Sitting in the classroom, your pencil snapping in half as you mutter, “Why the hell didn’t they teach this BEFORE when it actually happened?” Riki snickers, elbowing you. “Told you it was like a monster power-up.”

You jab him in the ribs.

But if that was embarrassing, nothing tops what he does at fourteen.

One afternoon, he comes your home bruised, shirt collar crooked, one knee torn open and bleeding. You gasp when you see him limp inside, cotton and antiseptic already in your hands before he can even sit down. “What happened?!” you scold, kneeling in front of him.

He shrugs, wincing as you press the cotton to his wound. “Some guy sat in my seat.”

“…And?” you ask slowly.

“…And I wanted to sit beside you. So I fought him.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “You WHAT?”

He tries to play it cool, lifting his chin. “I wanted to sit there, beside you.”

You let out an exasperated tssch, blowing on his scraped knee before dabbing it again. “You idiot. You could’ve just asked me to sit with you on another bench! Was there any reason to fight someone twice your size?”

Riki winces again but smirks like he thinks he’s cool. “Look, I could’ve won, okay? He’s just… a little stronger.”

“Yeah, yeah. At least you admit it.” You shake your head, trying to suppress a laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. Your laughter slips out anyway, and his cheeks flush pink as he shoots you his best glare. “Don’t laugh at your hero.”

“Oh, so now you’re my hero too?” you tease, grinning as you tape a bandage onto his knee.

He grumbles something under his breath, and even though you pretend you don’t hear it, you catch the words “…Always will be.”

⪩⪨

Junhee had been leaning against the railing for a while, eyes following you and Riki. She nudged Minjae with her elbow, whispering like she’d just uncovered the biggest secret in school. “Dating or not?”

Minjae tilted his head, squinting in the most exaggerated detective-like way as if the truth would suddenly appear if he stared hard enough. “Has to be dating. Have you looked at her—she’d literally be blowing on his wound like some drama heroine.” His tone was smug, like he’d just solved a crime.

Junhee rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Please. They’ve been doing that since they were kids. Every time one of them tripped, scraped, or cried, the other would be there. It’s just… them.” She said it with a sigh, like she was tired of explaining the obvious.

“Yeah, but doing it as kids and doing it as teens?” Minjae raised a brow, the corner of his mouth curling up. “Totally different thing. They’re probably dating and just keeping it secret. Wanna bet? A full month of homework on the line.”

Junhee finally turned to look at him, unimpressed. “You’re too confident for your own good.” But she extended her hand anyway, that competitive spark in her eyes. “Fine. If they’re not dating by the end of the year, you’ll be my homework slave. If they are, I’ll be yours.”

They shook on it, sealing what might’ve been the most intense deal of the semester.

Safe to say, Junhee walked away victorious. By the end of the year, Riki and you were still… Riki and you. Chaotic, inseparable, loud, but oblivious to every outsider’s assumption. Minjae groaned through every assignment he had to finish for Junhee, and for weeks, he’d glare daggers at the two of you whenever he spotted you together. Sometimes he’d throw in a muttered, “Unbelievable,” under his breath.

You noticed, of course. One day you asked Junhee about it, since she was good friends with him. She just shrugged with that “don’t ask me” look. So you let it go. Maybe Minjae was just being his usual weirdo self.

That evening, you dragged yourself home, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion only fourteen-year-olds seemed to feel after a long day of school and drama. All you wanted was to collapse into bed, bury your face in your pillow, and pretend the world didn’t exist. But then your mom’s voice cut through the quiet of the house, sharp and expectant.

“Did you finish your homework?”

You froze for a second before answering. “Just doing it, Mom!” you called back, hoping your voice sounded convincing enough. Dragging your feet to your desk, you pulled a random math book out of your bag, flipping it open. A pencil found its way between your fingers, tapping on the paper as though deep thought was happening—even though you hadn’t solved a single equation.

A moment later, your door swung open. The hinges creaked, and even though you’d been expecting it, your heart still jumped. Privacy wasn’t a concept in your house. The “no locking doors” rule wasn’t just a rule—it was law. You’d argued about it once, but where else could a fourteen-year-old go? You learned to live with it.

Your mother stepped in, her eyes scanning the scene: you at your desk, pencil poised, homework open. She gave the briefest nod. “Good.” That was it. No smile. No pat on the back. Just that single word before she turned and left, the door swinging shut again.

It was rare, her saying anything close to approval. “Good” was the highest form of praise she allowed herself, like the word might burn her tongue if she lingered on it too long. And as much as you told yourself it didn’t matter, it always stung. Which was probably why, every time Riki told you he was proud of you—no matter how casually, no matter if it was over something as small as answering a quiz question right—you felt the burn of tears behind your eyes. You’d bite your lip and laugh it off, but deep down, his words filled a space that had been empty for a long time.

Badminton had long slipped out of your life, and you couldn’t help but miss it. Back then, it came with the crushing weight of expectations, yet you still found comfort in the sound of the shuttlecock, in the way your body moved instinctively across the court. Now, it was forbidden territory. Your days weren’t spent chasing birdies across a net but staring blankly at diagrams of the human heart, all the while wondering why the one beating in your chest felt so hollow and lonely.

It was just you and your pitifully low grades. Not because you were stupid—you knew that much—but because somewhere along the way, you had lost the will to even try. And when you did try, when you sat down to actually study, your mother’s sharp words—“What’s the point of studying if you can’t bring in the grades?”—would slice through the fragile focus you’d built. They made you want to give up entirely, so eventually, you did.

Riki noticed. He always noticed. He tried to rope you in with group study sessions, dragging Minjae, Junhee, and you together in one room. But the truth was, those evenings ended up being less about textbooks and more about whispered gossip, inside jokes, and laughter that never stayed quiet. Still, he tried. He explained the topics you stumbled over, walked you through problems patiently. But even he couldn’t keep sacrificing his own grades for the sake of yours.

⪩⪨

Slowly, you began to feel the space between you grow. He still waited for you after school, still walked you home, still made time for you the way he always had—but the bond felt… thinner. You clung to the rituals, though, as if they were proof that nothing had changed.

By sixteen, everything else about you had. Your bob cut was long gone, replaced by silky black hair that fell down your back, always tied up in a ponytail to prevent shedding (your paranoia after googling about hair loss was unmatched). You had bangs now, cut professionally—because the last time you’d tried to do it yourself, the mirror had nearly made you cry. That memory alone was enough to swear you off scissors forever.

Riki had changed too. Taller, sharper features, and—according to everyone else—undeniably attractive. The steady stream of confessions he received from other girls should have been easy to ignore, but instead, they left an ugly bruise on your self-esteem. You weren’t jealous because you wanted him, but because nobody had ever confessed to you. Nobody had looked at you like that. And it left you wondering if maybe you weren’t good enough to be seen, to be chosen.

So you turned to paper. A diary became your confidante, soaking up the words you couldn’t bring yourself to say aloud anymore. You stopped telling Riki about the cracks in your home life, about the little battles that left you exhausted before the day even began. Instead, you pressed those secrets between pages and ink, letting your thoughts bleed into lines only you would ever read. It wasn’t that Riki was replaced—he was still there. Just… not for everything anymore.

“Read it!!” your mother screams, her voice slicing through the walls like a blade.

Your cheek burns from where her palm struck, the sting spreading across your skin until it feels like your whole face is on fire. You hold it with trembling fingers, stunned, the echo of the slap ringing louder in your ears than her words. Your father stands beside her, stiff and unreadable, anger tucked behind his frown. Your brother, Jiho, watches wide-eyed—half shocked, half entertained, as though he’s enjoying the spectacle of you breaking apart.

You don’t cry. You can’t. The shock cages your tears in your throat, suffocating you from the inside out. The diary shakes in your hands. That little book that held your secrets, your quiet desperation, words you never said out loud—your only safe place. And now, ripped open. Violated.

“Read it!” she shouts again, louder this time, her voice raw enough to rattle you. You flinch so hard it feels like your bones crack. A single tear escapes anyway, sliding down your cheek as your lips part to obey. You force the words out, your voice stuttering, cracking, fragile: “m-my mom… she… she makes me not want to live and she—”

The sentence dies in your throat. Another slap lands. Harder. Your diary slips from your grasp, pages fluttering as it crashes to the floor. Tears finally spill freely now, blurring your vision, and you stare at her through them—stare at the same sharp glare she’s always had for you. But for a second, just one second, her eyes flicker. They hesitate. And then she doubles down.

“You ungrateful brat!” she spits, voice breaking but cruel all the same. “What have I ever not done for you? I just wish you were never born!”

The words are a knife twisting into your chest. Her arm lifts again, her palm ready to strike, but your father catches it midair. His grip is firm, his expression tight, as if he’s urging her to calm down. And when you glance at her, you see it—tears in her eyes. Tears. Why? Why is she the one crying when she’s the one shattering you piece by piece? Why does she get to weep and play the victim while you’re left bleeding silently inside?

Jiho just shakes his head, disappointment etched across his features. But what does he know? He doesn’t understand a damn thing. If this is family, if this is what family means—then you don’t want it. You really don’t.

“Stop crying!” your mother yells, her voice cracking like thunder. “You did this! It’s your fault!”

Something inside you snaps. You lift your head, voice shaking but louder now, daring to fight back: “Yeah? My fault? I don’t even get the grades, so what? That makes me useless to you?”

Your words quiver, your lips trembling as you choke them out. You turn desperately to your father, eyes searching, pleading, hoping he’ll be different. That maybe he’ll stand by you. But he doesn’t. He looks away. Cold. Detached. And then his voice comes, low and cutting, sharper than any slap. “What? Stop looking at me. Your mom is right. You don’t help in household chores and you don’t get good grades either. So what are you good at, if you're not useless like you say?”

The words gut you. They gut you deeper than her hands ever could. You don’t even feel the tears anymore—they’re just pouring, endless, leaving you hollow. “Is that what you think?” you whisper, lips quivering, heart breaking open in front of them. “Then okay… I’m useless.”

You can’t breathe in this house anymore. Your legs move before your brain catches up. You grab your phone with shaking hands and rush toward the door, the walls around you closing in as though they’re eager to trap you here forever. But you break free.

The world outside feels too big, the air too sharp. Your legs tremble as you stumble forward, wiping your tears, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. And there he is. Riki. Waiting, just like always, leaning against the familiar spot with that patient calmness only he seems to carry. His eyes catch yours instantly, his brows furrowing, that frown you dreaded and needed all at once. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s always known. And you don’t even have to say it.

“Did you hear that?” you asked awkwardly, wiping at your wet cheeks as you stepped out of the gate. Your steps were rushed, desperate to leave the house behind before you broke again. You knew they wouldn’t chase after you—your parents were far too proud for that.

“I did,” Riki said softly.

“The entire thing?” you sniffled, glancing up at him. He nodded, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides. You could see him hesitate—half wanting to hug you, half afraid that if he did, you might shatter completely.

“She slapped me…” The words came out bitter, almost like a joke you’d told too many times. By now, the sting of it wasn’t new. And Riki… he was almost used to hearing it. “Why?” His voice was quiet, careful, as if afraid he’d scare you off.

“Because I wrote about her in my diary.” You shoved a Kopiko into your mouth, the sweetness doing nothing to hide the sour burn in your chest. Punished for just writing down what you felt. For just speaking your mind. What kind of messed-up logic was that?

“Oh…” he mumbled. And then, as the two of you reached the empty playground you used to haunt as kids, Riki finally gave in. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. He was taller now, broader too, so when you cried into him, it was like leaning into a wall that wouldn’t collapse. Your “cool girl” mask slipped, and you sobbed until your throat ached.

“Stop pretending you’re fine. I know you’re hurt…” His voice was quiet, rough. One of his hands cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over the faint, angry mark her slap had left

“Riki… why is it always me? Why am I the only one who has to hurt like this? Why couldn’t I just have a normal family like yours, or Junhee’s, or Minjae’s? Everyone else runs home after school, but me? I… I dread it. Because home doesn’t feel like home. It feels like hell…” You hiccuped through the words, pressing your cheek harder against his chest, like maybe if you stayed there long enough, the ache would go away.

“I know,” he muttered, and there was so much helplessness in those two words that it made your chest tighten. He let his hand fall, watching you burrow closer into him, desperate for warmth. “Does it hurt?” he whispered, almost childishly. “Like… mentally or physically?”

“It hurts both,” you admitted before he could question more. “Inside and outside. All of it.”

He sighed, tightening his hold for a moment. “I’m taking you home. A little ice will help.” His chin rested gently on top of your head before he pulled away.

Your tears had slowed by then, replaced by the hollow grumble of hunger. You patted your pockets and found them empty. Great. No money either.

“Don’t worry,” Riki said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “My mom probably already made snacks.” He expected you to protest, to tease that they were his snacks, but instead you just nodded. That small shift made his throat ache. He turned away quickly, blinking back tears you weren’t supposed to see.

“Why are you crying?” you nudged his shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. You were so used to pain, you brushed it off like it was nothing. Forgave too easily. It scared him.

“I’m not crying,” he muttered. “I’m just… angry. Angry this happened to you. They’re supposed to protect you, not…” He trailed off, jaw tightening, hand reaching instinctively for yours. His grip was firm, like he needed to tether himself before he drowned in your sadness.

You squeezed back gently, almost smiling. “I’m fine, Riki. Really.”

But he knew better.

“I’m fine. I’m really fine,” you murmur, though the words wobble as if they’re too fragile to stand on their own. By the time you and Riki reach his house—a place that has always felt more like home than your own—you’re already slipping into the familiar rhythm. No knocking, no pretending. Just the two of you rushing upstairs before anyone can ask questions.

He closes the door behind you with a quiet click, the sound strangely heavy in the air. You drop onto his bed in a starfish sprawl, limbs spread out like you’re trying to claim some piece of comfort for yourself. The ceiling blurs above you, but when you glance over, his eyes are fixed on you—unmoving, unrelenting, as if he’s trying to memorize every crack in your armor. Your heart stutters. For the first time all day, not because of fear, but because of him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, pushing yourself upright, suddenly hyperaware of every flaw on your face, of the redness around your eyes.

Riki doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand lifts—hesitant at first, then certain as his palm cups your cheek. You close your eyes, a sharp breath escaping when the warmth of his touch meets the sting that still lingers beneath your skin. You bite hard against the tears threatening to spill again. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. The slap, the words—I wish you weren’t born. They echo louder inside your skull than any physical pain.

“Maybe she’s just stressed,” you whisper, clinging to excuses like lifelines, your voice brittle, breaking.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you against him. His chest is solid, grounding, but his voice is anything but calm. “That doesn’t give her the right to slap you.” His tone trembles with frustration, his hand rubbing circles against your back, desperate to soothe but unable to disguise his anger. “You’re always stressed because of her—do you lash out at people? Do you hit anyone when you’re breaking down?”

You swallow, guilt clawing at you. “But… Riki, that’s my mom.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes burning, his voice almost sharp. “So what? If you were stressed, would you hit a little kid? Would you break someone smaller than you just to unload what’s eating you alive?” His words dig deep, stripping away the fragile defenses you’ve built, forcing you to face the truth you don’t want to admit.

“I… wouldn’t.” The confession falls out, small, unsteady, but true.

His chest rises and falls unevenly, as though every second of silence between you is choking him. Then it spills—the words he’s been holding back for far too long. “Do you know how much I fucking dread seeing you cry? Do you know what it does to me? I’d lie awake at night thinking about what I would’ve done if I were you, and I can’t. I can’t, because none of it makes sense. The people who are supposed to protect you—why the hell are they the ones breaking you?” His voice cracks, raw and furious all at once.

You can only stare, breath hitched, heart pounding at the sheer weight of his anger—for you, never at you.

“I even told my mom,” he admits, softer now, as though confessing a secret. “She wanted to step in, but you always begged me not to push. I respected it, even when it killed me. But you need to understand—family isn’t supposed to feel like this. Family isn’t chains that keep you trapped. Family isn’t meant to tear you down until you hate yourself.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “Family is the people who stay through the storms. Family is the ones who make sure you’re not alone when it gets unbearable.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your chest tightens, a mix of shame, grief, and something else—something warmer that burns under your ribs when you look at him.

“I don’t know why I’m saying all this,” he breathes out, pressing his forehead lightly to yours for a second. “But I want you to know—if they can’t be your family, I will. I’ll be it. I’ll always be it.” His arms close around you again, firm but tender, one hand stroking your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

Anyone walking in would never believe you’re just friends. The way he holds you—careful, precious—says more than words ever could. And maybe, for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re replaceable.

“Please,” his voice trembles as he rocks you gently. “Please don’t let their words be the measure of your worth. You’re more than that. You always were.”

Something inside you breaks, but in the gentlest way. Your hand lifts, almost on instinct, clutching the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face against his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath your ear, steady, grounding, a lullaby you never knew you needed. It doesn’t take long for your eyelids to grow heavy. Exhaustion drags you under, but not before you hear him murmur against your hair, soft and resolute, “I promise this pain won’t last forever.”

You hum faintly in response, already slipping into sleep. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, his fingers tracing soothing lines across your hair. His lips twitch, not quite into a smile—because he can’t bring himself to—not yet. Not until he finds a way to end this pain for you.

⪩⪨

And so, after Riki’s stubborn insisting—on his parents, on you, on everyone—you find yourself sitting at the dinner table, fidgeting with the loose cuff of your sweater. Your family and Riki’s family all gathered in the same space, around the same table, as if this were just some normal evening. The excuse for the dinner was simple: “It’s been too long since the families met in person.” Maybe the last time was when you and Riki were still running around playgrounds, your hands sticky from popsicles and your knees bruised from climbing too high. But this? This feels nothing like that innocent memory.

You’re restless, your leg bouncing under the table, but then your eyes catch the spread before you—and despite yourself, your stomach flutters with excitement. The table is covered with steaming bowls and plates of authentic Korean food. Dishes that take hours of effort, the kind of food you don’t get to eat often. You had helped a little here and there, chopping vegetables, stirring broth, but most of this was your mom’s doing. And as much as there are days you wish you could distance yourself from her, you can’t deny that her cooking is the one thing that still feels like home. It’s frustrating—how you can resent someone and still crave the taste of what they make.

“The kids have grown so much,” Mrs. Nishimura says warmly, breaking the silence as she folds her napkin across her lap. Her voice tries to glide over the heaviness in the room, trying to smoothen the edges. Your mother hums, a polite smile tugging at her lips, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “And as they are teenagers, we should be a little more understanding of how they feel,” she continues, still smiling as she glances between you and Riki.

The words sting like a dart hitting the bullseye. Your mother’s head snaps toward you instantly, her glare sharp and accusing. You flinch before you can stop yourself, shaking your head quickly under her gaze. It wasn’t me. I didn’t tell her anything. You want your eyes to say it for you, to plead it, but you already know she won’t believe it.

Under the table, Riki’s fingers find yours. His hand closes around yours firmly, steady and grounding, as if he knows exactly what that silent exchange meant. You squeeze back once, clinging to that little comfort while your heart beats too fast.

Across the table, the men seem unaffected by the tension. Your father and Mr. Nishimura are already deep in conversation about politics, their voices rising and falling in animated agreement. It’s strange how easily they bond, like they’ve known each other all their lives. The mothers, though—your mother and his—eat in near silence, every move sharp, deliberate, the air thick with unspoken words.

You try to focus on your food instead, dipping your spoon into the hot soup, savoring the rich, layered flavor you’ve missed. It tastes like home, like the past, like something that could have been safe if only the circumstances were different. When you glance sideways, Riki is wolfing down his food without hesitation, chopsticks moving quickly, cheeks puffed slightly as he chews. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but when his eyes flick up and catch yours, there’s something in them—a reassurance, a quiet “I’ve got you.”

He told you this would be just a normal dinner. Just two families eating together, catching up after years. What he didn’t tell you was that his mom had no intention of letting your mom’s behavior slide quietly. That her comments tonight would be knives hidden in smiles. And from the way your mom’s knuckles are white against the chopsticks she’s gripping, you know—deep down—you’re going to pay the price when this dinner ends.

“You’re lucky to have a son like Riki. Good at sports, good at academics. Our daughter just keeps… slagging off.” The familiar words sliced through the air like they always did, sharp but dulled from repetition. You should’ve been numb by now—God knew you’d heard them often enough—but somehow they burned more when said in front of others. Said in front of him. Your chopsticks froze mid-air, rice slipping back into your bowl. A flicker of shame and irritation sparked in your chest, and you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend you’re used to it.

“She draws really nicely, though,” Mrs. Nishimura said, voice warm as she tried to cushion the blow. “And her English is excellent.” you looked up at her in surprise, that small kindness striking harder than expected. Someone noticed. Someone saw something worth defending in you. But before the gratitude could settle, your mother’s scoff flattened it. “Those skills aren’t useful.” The words landed like a slammed door.

Mrs. Nishimura, however, didn’t back down easily. “They can absolutely be turned into a successful career, Mrs. Yoon. Art, design, translation—”

“She’s going to be a doctor,” your mother cut her off, tone sharp as she looked at you, daring you to contradict her. “Not an artist, or whatever else. Right? I’m not forcing this on you, am I?”

Your throat tightened. The rice in your mouth felt like gravel as you hurriedly swallowed, choking a little before Riki’s hand rubbed circles on your back. The tiny gesture kept you from bolting from the table altogether. “R-right. I… I want to get into medical school,” you murmured, voice small and brittle.

Riki’s eyes flicked toward you, disbelief written plainly on his face. He knew. You could see it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, in the storm gathering behind his usually calm gaze. His mother, too, seemed to catch on—but she said nothing, likely aware that interfering further would only make things worse.

You lowered your gaze and focused on the food, suddenly tasteless despite its richness. One by one, you gathered empty plates and stacked them, muttering that you’d clear the table. Riki wordlessly followed, carrying dishes into the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Once the door swung shut behind you, the silence broke. He set the plates down, then pulled you into a hug so sudden you stiffened before melting into it. His chin rested against your hair as his frown deepened. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, guilt dripping from every syllable. “I didn’t know it’d turn out like this. I thought… I thought it would help. I thought it would make things better for you.”

You laughed, a sound with no humor in it. “Hey, don’t apologize. You tried, Riki. You actually tried. No one else bothers.”

“But still,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to cup your face, his hands warm against your cheeks. His voice dropped lower, soft but heavy with conviction. “I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me. I know how much you already go through.” his eyes searched yours, as if memorizing the cracks in your mask. You pushed his hands gently away, forcing a small smile. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

Before he could reply, the door creaked and in waddled Jiho—your eleven-year-old nightmare of a brother—clutching his stomach and letting out a dramatic burp that echoed through the kitchen.

“Ugh, seriously?” you muttered under your breath.

Jiho grinned wickedly, ignoring your glare. “Enjoyed the food, dear sister?” His tone was sugary sweet, the kind that made your skin crawl.

You gritted your teeth. “Enjoyed being a pig, dear brother?”

Instead of biting back, he smirked and turned his attention to Riki. “Hyung, you should stay away from her. She beats people up like a beast. She’s just pretending to be nice in front of you.”

Riki’s lips twitched, caught between amusement and discomfort. You groaned and smacked the back of Jiho’s head lightly. “Go upstairs before I actually prove your point.”

Jiho yelped but didn’t retreat just yet. Instead, he tiptoed closer to Riki, cupped his hand around his mouth, and whispered something in Riki’s ear—something that made Riki’s brows furrow instantly. Then, with a devilish grin, Jiho dashed out of the kitchen and thundered up the stairs, leaving only his laughter echoing behind.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, groaning. “I hate him. So much.”

Riki looked at you, still processing whatever Jiho had said, his expression a mix of discomfort and—something else.

You nudged Riki with your elbow, eyebrows raised. “What was that? What did that little brat whisper to you?” you muttered, your stomach twisting with curiosity, almost growling for the truth.

Riki shook his head with a tiny laugh, brushing it off too easily. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, that gentle smile tugging at his lips before he turned away and slipped back into the kitchen. But you weren’t convinced—not even a little. You knew Jiho, that devil in disguise, and you had a sinking suspicion he had spilled one of your secrets. The dread sat heavy in your chest like a stone.

From the dining room, you heard the scrape of chairs against the floor—your parents were standing up, their voices mingling with polite goodbyes. You lingered at the edge of the hall, awkwardly hovering by the door before bowing to the Nishimuras as they prepared to leave. They bowed back politely, and you felt your lips curve into the faintest smile. At least Riki seemed to have enjoyed the food—even if it wasn’t what he usually ate. Being japanese, he probably didn’t have korean food like this very often, so in some twisted way, you counted that as a win for the night.

By the door, you noticed your father still in conversation with Mr. Nishimura, his face lit up with an ease you rarely saw. Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time your dad smiled that much—he was usually the quiet type, a little too comfortable hiding in his shell. You figured you must’ve inherited that introvert gene straight from him (lucky you). Seeing him with a friend—actually connecting—was strangely heartwarming.

Your mother though… she was another story. The way she kept glancing at you, lips pressed thin, made your stomach churn. You could practically feel the scolding simmering in her throat, waiting for the Nishimuras to leave so she could unleash it.

The door clicked shut behind them, and immediately, Riki shot you a look. The kind of look that said, I’ll keep ice packs ready in case you have to crash at my place tonight. You rolled your eyes. Clearly, this boy had zero faith in your ability to defend yourself. Still, you weren’t about to wait around to see if his prediction came true. Quick escape was the best strategy, so you spun on your heel, ready to bolt upstairs before the storm hit.

“Wait.”

The single word froze you in place. You turned back slowly, bracing yourself. The sharp edge in your mom’s voice told you all you needed to know—she wasn’t finished with you yet. “Do you… badmouth me to your friend’s mother? Is that what you do now—talk about family matters outside of home?” your mom’s voice came sharp and steady, each word hitting harder than the last.

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t tell them anything… I swear, Mom… I didn’t,” you said quickly, shaking your head like the faster you denied it, the truer it might become. But she didn’t say anything else. She just turned and walked away toward the bedroom she shared with your dad. No yelling, no lecture—just silence. And somehow, that silence was worse. Because yelling meant she cared enough to get mad. This? This was like you weren’t even worth the words.

Your dad lingered for a second, his expression unreadable, then followed after her. The lump in your throat burned now, and you blinked fast. It was almost a relief when Jiho spoke. “Hey, noona… don’t think too much.” His voice was small, almost hesitant, and when you turned to him, your eyes were already glimmering with the tears you’d promised yourself you’d only let out in your room.

You couldn’t stand the softness in his voice. Not from him. Not right now. “Shut up,” you muttered, brushing past him, climbing the stairs before he could see more of your face. He trailed after you, his footsteps light but insistent, until you slammed the door shut between you.

Leaning back against the door, you exhaled. He was the reason this happened. If he hadn’t opened his mouth downstairs, you wouldn’t be standing here with your chest heavy and your stomach in knots. Your life had been so much simpler before Jiho was born. But no matter how many times that thought crossed your mind, you couldn’t make yourself hate him. At the end of the day, he was still just a kid—like you.

A knock came a moment later. No voice. Just the dull thud against your door. You groaned, rolling your eyes. “Who’s there?” you asked, your tone dripping with irritation. No answer. Just silence. You frowned. “I’m not in the mood for your taunts, Jiho. I swear I’ll hunt you down if it’s you.” Still nothing. You waited a minute, maybe two, until curiosity got the better of you. Pulling open the door, you looked down.

On the floor sat a pile of snacks—chips, cookies, candy packets—and a folded note. Blinking in surprise, you crouched to pick it up. The handwriting was messy, rushed, definitely Jiho’s. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You held the note for a long moment, the words blurring as your eyes filled. A shaky sigh left your lips, the kind you let out when you’ve been holding too much inside. Carrying the snacks in, you shut the door quietly this time.

Tears slid down before you could stop them. Maybe it was just the shock of Jiho being kind for once. Maybe it was that you’d been bracing for cruelty, and kindness felt like a trap. It wasn’t comforting, not the way you thought it should be. It felt… strange. Unsettling. Like you were the odd one out for not knowing how to accept it. You wiped your eyes quickly and even laughed a little at yourself before setting the snacks aside on your desk.

The homework on your bed sat untouched. Biology. Not even a subject you cared about. And tomorrow you wouldn’t even have that period. You could always copy Riki’s work anyway. He’d roll his eyes, pretend to be annoyed, and then hand it over.

But your mom’s words wouldn’t stop circling in your head. Doctor. As if. As if you were even cut out for that kind of future. You couldn’t imagine yourself saving lives. If anything, you could picture yourself sitting on the other side of the table, a patient, not the one in the white coat. And the way she’d asked if she was forcing it on you—like she didn’t already know she was.

Your feet carried you to the window before you even realized. Outside, a couple walked slowly down the street, sharing an ice cream, their hands brushing before finally intertwining. Their laughter floated faintly in the summer air. “I wish that was me,” you whispered, lips tugging into a pout.

Life had been nothing but bitter lately, every day tossing you something harder to swallow. Was it really too much to want something sweet for once? Something that felt like it belonged to you? Didn’t you deserve that too? “Would I even experience that at all?” you whispered to no one, the thought hanging heavy in the dim room.

And suddenly, like a dam breaking, you were washed over by a wave of emotions you couldn’t stop. The sobs ripped out of your chest before you even realized it, your knees giving in as you stumbled toward the bed. Grabbing the nearest pillow, you hugged it tight against you as though it could fill the emptiness pressing on your ribs. Your body shook with every sob, muffled into the fabric, and for a moment the world blurred with tears.

You had always told yourself you’d never fall for someone. That love wasn’t for you. That you were better off keeping your walls high, your heart locked away. But deep inside… you wanted it. God, you wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted someone’s arms around you, someone whispering that it would all be okay. You wanted the simple, stupid intimacy of sitting shoulder to shoulder with someone who cared, of kisses that didn’t feel like fantasy, of hands that would reach for yours in silence.

And yet—your heart twisted—how could you ever have that? With the way your luck had been since birth, with the way life seemed so determined to break you down, wasn’t that hope already stolen from you? Why would anyone choose you? What was there to even choose?

You couldn’t name a single thing you were good at, not one thing that felt like a redeeming trait. Your parents’ words echoed cruelly in your ears—you weren’t pretty enough, not smart enough, not athletic enough. Not enough. Never enough. You pressed the pillow harder against your face, crying harder, the ache in your chest almost unbearable. It felt like you were doomed forever, like you’d already been sentenced to live without the warmth you longed for.

⪩⪨

By morning, your eyes were swollen and raw, your face blotchy no matter how much you tried to fix it. You lingered in front of the mirror, dabbing at your reflection as though you could erase the proof of your weakness. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to know you cried—it felt humiliating. Vulnerability wasn’t a luxury you thought you deserved.

At the table, your parents didn’t speak to you. Not even a glance. The silence was louder than shouting, and somehow it stung worse. You didn’t bother eating breakfast, your throat too tight, your stomach too heavy with anger and sadness. You shoved on your shoes, glaring at the house once before stepping outside, as if your anger could burn holes into its walls.

The flowers that usually softened your mornings stood in their usual place, swaying gently with the breeze. On any other day, their colors and fragrance would’ve tugged a small smile from you. But not today. Today, even they annoyed you—their cheerfulness, their beauty, their resilience felt mocking. You hated them for daring to be bright when you felt so utterly dark.

At the gate, Riki was waiting. He noticed you instantly. “Did you get beaten last night?” he asked, half-serious, half-trying to lighten the mood with a laugh. But the smile faltered when he saw your face. His brows drew together, concern flickering in his eyes. “...Did you not?”

“Shut up, Riki.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, thick with leftover hurt. “Nothing happened. They were just… disappointed. And that hurt way more, not gonna lie.” You bit down on the tremor in your throat, looking at him with a frown.

Without a word, he reached for the bag slung on your shoulder and shifted it onto his own, so now he was carrying two. “You don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off.

“Just let me. You’re already carrying too much… including the guilt of thinking you’re doing something wrong by telling me your problems.”

You froze, blinking at him. “How do you—?”

He only smiled faintly. “I just figured. Guess I know them better, huh?”

Something in your chest cracked open, a small smile breaking through your tears despite yourself. He knew. He really knew.

But as the two of you reached the school gate, your thoughts shifted again, sourness creeping in. You frowned at him, unable to stop the words spilling out: “Why’d you pick computer science and not arts?” He just shrugged with a soft smile. “It’s okay. We still get to walk back home together after school, right?”

When he handed your bag back, you stumbled under the weight shift, managing to steady yourself, but the sudden absence of his help left you feeling oddly hollow. “Sure,” you muttered, upset, though you weren’t sure at what—or who. Him? Your parents? Yourself? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. You walked ahead of him, forcing your feet forward, even though the knot in your chest stayed.

Math was first. The shared class every student had to suffer through. You used to love math—numbers had once felt like puzzles waiting to be solved, a rare place where you found comfort. But now? Now math was just another reminder of how you didn’t fit anywhere. Another subject demanding too much from a brain that was already exhausted. You couldn’t help but wonder why you had to learn any of this. Wasn’t knowing how to add and subtract enough? It wasn’t like solving equations would fix your life, or teach you how to heal, or show you how to stop aching inside. And yet, you dragged yourself into the room anyway, carrying your bag, your puffy eyes, and the invisible weight no one else could see.

“Here!!!”

Your head snapped toward the voice, that familiar brightness cutting through the otherwise half-empty classroom. “Junhee!” you called, rushing to her side. Relief washed over you just seeing her, and without a second thought, you plopped your bag down next to hers and sat beside her. “I thought you weren’t gonna come,” she muttered, confusion clear in her tone as her eyes scanned your face.

“Why would I not come?” you frowned, already pulling out your math notebook, trying to act casual.

“Well… that’s what Riki said. That you’d… you know, need ice packs after last night.”

Your jaw dropped. For a second, you just stared at her, heat rising in your face as your eyes shot to the back row. Sure enough, Riki was there, lounging on the last bench like he owned the place. The second he felt your glare burning holes into his skull, he raised his hands defensively, mouthing a silent not my fault—as if he hadn’t just doomed you.

“Do you two… do dirty things together?” Junhee blurted, leaning closer, her voice lowered but her curiosity blatant. You practically choked on air. “W-what?! No!!” you shook your head so fast it almost hurt, your hands flailing like that would somehow erase the image she’d just implied.

“Then why’d you stutter?” she teased, eyebrows wiggling as if she’d caught you red-handed.

“Because you caught me off guard!” you hissed, your cheeks flaming.

“Then what did he mean by ice packs?” she pressed, leaning her chin into her palm. “Does it mean he went too rough on you or—”

“Junhee!!” you nearly yelled, smacking her arm as your eyes widened to saucers. She was way too amused by this. “Okay, okay, fine,” she giggled, clearly enjoying your suffering.

Taking a deep breath, you forced your voice steady. “It’s not like that. Riki just… he thought I’d hurt myself or something. I’ve been having nightmares lately, so he said it as a joke. That’s all.”

The lie slipped out smoother than you expected, but it still left a bitter aftertaste. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Junhee—if anything, she was the one person at school who made you feel seen—but… telling her meant exposing a part of you that you weren’t ready to show. You’d learned the hard way that people didn’t always handle your truths with care. And when you’ve been hurt enough times, keeping things locked inside feels safer than handing someone else the key.

“ohh, I see.” Junhee mumbles, still kind of suspicious, but her attention drifts away when the teacher finally walks in.

You let out a quiet sigh of relief, though in your head you’re already making a note to smack Riki later.

The class drags on, chalk scratching against the board, footsteps echoing with every move the teacher makes, and your stomach growls loud enough to make you want to curl up. You forgot lunch—of course you did. And now every sound feels sharper, every second heavier, until it’s unbearable.

Junhee leans closer, her voice a soft whisper, “you okay?”

You barely open your mouth when the teacher’s gaze flicks toward you, suspicion already in her eyes. Junhee reacts faster. “Her head hurts. Can she just keep her head down?” she blurts out.

The teacher narrows her eyes, clearly not convinced. “really?” The word stretches out, and suddenly you feel every single classmate staring at you. Heat rises in your cheeks. You just nod weakly, wishing you could disappear under the desk. The teacher mutters something about “kids these days being so weak” before turning back to the board, chalk tapping again like nothing happened.

You bury your head into your arms, shutting the world out. The irritation, the exhaustion—it all just folds over you, pulling you into an unexpected sleep. Somewhere through the haze, you feel Junhee slip her uniform jacket around your shoulders, tucking you against the chill of the wind sneaking through the windows. She pats your back once before returning to her notes, letting you rest.

Behind you, Riki watches in silence. He wants to do something—anything—but you’re the one who set the rule: no talking at school, no rumors, no shipping. So he waits.

Another period ticks by. Chemistry. The air smells faintly of chemicals, the teacher’s voice rising and falling, but you don’t stir. Junhee glances at you now and then, deciding it’s better to let you sleep. Whatever’s weighing you down must be heavy enough if you’ve given in to rest in the middle of class. And so she just lets you be.

“Hey, wake up. It’s lunch.” Junhee’s gentle nudge pulls you out of your hazy sleep, and the loud growl of your stomach betrays just how empty it is. The bell rings a second later, sharp and echoing through the classroom, making you flinch as you sit up too quickly. “Already?” you mumble, rubbing your eyes as you glance around the room—beside you, in front, behind—trying to piece together how much time has passed.

Junhee raises a brow, her lips tugging into a faint smile. “Girl, you’ve been sleeping since morning. Were you really that tired?” She pulls her tiffin out of her bag and starts unwrapping it, clearly planning to head to the cafeteria once you’re ready.

“I guess my body really needed that break,” you admit, stretching your stiff arms before sighing. Then the thought hits you, uninvited and annoyingly sharp. “By the way, where are Riki and Minjae?” You frown under your breath, the irritation bubbling up at the idea that Riki didn’t bother waiting for you. Seriously, how mean does he have to be sometimes?

“They went early,” Junhee says simply, organizing her food. “Minjae was starving.” You gape at her, the annoyance growing. “He didn’t wait up for me?”

Junhee just shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, chill. They knew I was here with you, so they figured there was no need for him to stick around. Don’t overthink it.”

You nod, though you’re far from satisfied. If anything, the mental tally of how many smacks Riki deserves has now doubled. Maybe even tripled.

When you unzip your bag, the disappointment sinks in all at once. No lunch box. You only now remember how angrily you stomped out of your house that morning, storming past the rows of flowers your mother had carefully tended in her shop’s front yard. The thought stings—you’d walked right past her world of blossoms, but she hadn’t even noticed you’d left without lunch. Or maybe she had, and just didn’t care. That possibility makes your chest feel heavy. You take a deep breath, trying to bury the ache before it spills over.

“I forgot lunch,” you mutter quietly, half-hoping Junhee won’t hear, half-expecting her to just leave you to deal with it. But she doesn’t. Instead, she slips her hand around your arm and tugs you up from the bench. You blink at her in confusion as she pulls you along the hallway.

“And?” she says simply, her tone leaving no space for arguments. “You’re sharing with me.” By the time you realise where she’s leading you, you’re already inside the cafeteria. She drops her bag onto an empty table, sits down, and without hesitation shoves a foil-wrapped sandwich across to you.

“Jun, I can’t.” You stare at the sandwich like it’s contraband, guilt tightening in your throat. The thought of taking her food makes you feel small.

“You’re eating it,” she interrupts firmly, eyes narrowing in that no-nonsense way only she can manage. “No arguments.” Something about her tone silences you completely, and for once you feel tiny in front of her. With a sigh, you peel the foil back and finally take a small bite.

And God, it tastes good. Maybe it’s the fact you haven’t eaten since morning, or maybe it’s just because Junhee is Junhee, but it feels like the best thing you’ve ever had. She hums softly, munching on her half of the sandwich, and though she doesn’t say it out loud, the smile tugging at her lips tells you she’s glad you’re eating.

You drop your gaze to your lap, chewing slowly as the warmth spreads in your chest. It’s not sadness this time—not the kind you usually drown in when you think about your family—but something gentler. Something heavier, too. You never expected this much kindness from anyone, not when even your own family couldn’t show you half of what Junhee just did without thinking twice.

“Hey, cry baby, just eat up. No time to cry.” Junhee teased, nudging your elbow with hers as if it were the easiest thing in the world to pull you out of your thoughts. Her grin was playful, but her eyes were softer than she let on. You puffed your cheeks and shook your head, forcing a smile. “I’m not crying.”

“Oh, you were! Don’t lie—I saw you.” She exaggerated her voice, even scrunching her face into a ridiculous expression that made you laugh. Honestly, if someone took a picture right now, it’d be meme-worthy.

“Fine,” you admitted between chuckles. “So what if I was? Not like everyone has such a great friend, you know.” That wiped the smug look right off her face. She looked away instantly, cheeks turning a little pink, and you smirked. Pushing your luck, you added, “Yeah? Ever heard of someone sharing their lunch when they’re still hungry? Even Riki wouldn’t.” Junhee waved her hand like you were being dramatic, though the corners of her lips twitched in the tiniest smile. “Stop it.”

But oh, how wrong you were. If Riki knew you hadn’t eaten, he probably would’ve shoved his whole lunchbox at you without blinking. He just… wasn’t here, and maybe it was better you didn’t know that side of him yet.

Before you could tease her again, a voice cut through the cafeteria hum. “Isn’t that the girl who keeps topping from the last?” You froze. The words weren’t even whispered that quietly. They slid under your skin, sharp and cold.

Junhee’s head snapped up immediately. “Who was it?” Her tone wasn’t playful anymore—it was dangerous, the kind that silenced the tables nearby.

“Junhee—” you tried, but she was already standing, her chair scraping back.

“I ASKED WHO WAS IT?” she barked, her voice echoing across the room. Conversations around you died mid-sentence. People turned to stare. You could practically feel the tension thickening around the tables. Your stomach flipped as her eyes locked on a nearby bench. One of the girls there shifted nervously, avoiding eye contact, and that was all Junhee needed.

“Junhee, please, no.” You tugged her arm, voice low, desperate, but her glare at you was sharp enough to make you swallow your words and let go. You could only watch helplessly as she strode over, her presence towering. The girl shrank back instantly, her face pale.

“You were the one who made that comment on my friend, weren’t you?” Junhee’s voice was low but steady, laced with steel.

The girl stammered, trembling. “I—I didn’t know she was y-your friend.”

Junhee’s lips curled into something close to a scoff. “And? Even if she wasn’t my friend, that doesn’t give you the fucking right to insult her.”

The sharpness in her words made the girl flinch, nodding furiously, eager to make this end before Junhee’s infamous temper proved the rumors true.

And there you were, standing just a few feet away, your heart pounding in your chest. Junhee was brave in all the ways you weren’t. Somehow, that was exactly why you’d clicked—her fire balancing out your quiet fear.

“what? Cat got your tongue? A nod isn't gonna do it. Get up and go to her. On your knees. And apologize.” Your head shoots up in shock, eyes widening as Junhee’s voice slices through the murmurs in the room. A few students gasp, some stifling laughter, but no one dares say anything. The girl who had been giving you a hard time freezes in her spot, her face draining of color as every gaze shifts onto her.

Your eyes flick back to Junhee, half-stunned, half-worried. “umm, Jun… isn’t this too much?” you whisper, tugging lightly at her sleeve, but she doesn’t even look at you.

“just shut up. I really need to teach these people a lesson so that nobody bothers someone else like this ever again.” her tone leaves no room for argument. Sharp, final. And you know better than to push when it comes to Junhee—her word has always carried weight, even when she’s saying it casually. So you shut your mouth, pressing a finger against your lips as if sealing them. Your stomach twists with guilt and surprise as you watch the girl slowly stand, trembling, the sound of her chair scraping against the floor echoing far too loudly in the silent cafeteria.

Every step she takes toward you feels heavy, forced. Her fists clench and unclench at her sides, and when she finally stops in front of you, her pride crumbles. She sinks onto her knees, shoulders hunched, voice shaking as she mutters through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, shame burning across her face, and for a second you almost want to tell her it’s fine—that she doesn’t have to do this. But the words don’t leave your throat. You’re too stunned, too thrown off by the weight of what just happened.

Junhee leans back in her seat, satisfied. She doesn’t gloat, doesn’t smirk, she simply nods like justice has been served. The girl quickly scrambles back up, not daring to look anyone in the eye, and bolts out of the cafeteria—probably to cry in the bathroom where nobody can see.

Your heart twists uncomfortably. The image sticks with you, and yet, in the same breath, you can’t deny the relief that follows. Relief that Junhee had stood up for you so fiercely, even if her way was… intense. Odd, maybe. But effective.

That day, one thing becomes painfully clear—Junhee’s methods might not be the gentlest, but she knows how to silence anyone who tries to mess with you. And somehow, that makes you admire her even more.

The rest of the day blurs past. Teachers drone on about formulas, reactions, and paragraphs, but your mind isn’t really there. It lingers on the girl’s trembling voice, Junhee’s unwavering tone, and the way everyone looked at you after. By the time the final bell rings, your chest still feels heavy. You don’t even notice Riki until he’s walking beside you. His voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “why are you looking at me like that?”

He notices the glare you’re giving him, the way your lips press into a thin line, and for once, you don’t hand him your bag like you usually do. Instead, you sling it onto your own shoulder, jaw tightening. “why am I looking at you like that?” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes. “you didn’t wait up for me during lunch.”

He blinks, taken aback by your sharp tone. “i thought you had Junhee. And besides, Minjae wanted to eat early.” His voice is calm, almost casual, but it only fuels your irritation.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “oh really? Then she’s my best friend from today onwards. You’ll just be a friend.” You walk ahead, quickening your pace like you want to put distance between the two of you. Riki immediately skips a few steps, catching up, his pout evident as he nudges your arm.

“really? You gonna forget your best friend of years for a girl you just met a few grades back?”

But you don’t respond. You just keep fast-walking, stubborn, avoiding his gaze. The silence between you stretches, prickly and awkward. So he cuts in front of you suddenly, blocking your way, making you bump into his chest. You try to swerve past, but his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist, holding you still.

“am i seriously not your best friend anymore?” His voice is quieter now, softer, paired with those stupid puppy eyes that always used to make you cave. But this time, you don’t. You meet his gaze and answer, firm: “yeah. You’re not. Have you ever even taken my stand? She’s probably the only person who has taken my stand and that too… verbally.” The memory of the cafeteria flashes in your mind. You know he understands what you mean. You know he remembers the way he stood frozen while Junhee raised her voice.

“oh.” It’s all he says. Just that one word. His grip loosens, fingers slipping away from your wrist as he takes a step back.

You try to lighten the push against his chest, but he doesn’t fight it. He just turns, walking a different path home. His voice is barely audible as he mutters, “then be best friends with Junhee only.” And then he’s gone, leaving you standing there with your heart sinking into your stomach.

You continue walking alone, the quiet settling over you like a heavy blanket. Each step feels slower, heavier, as the guilt creeps in. You curse yourself under your breath. Why did you even get so mad? Why did you say all that? He was a kid too. He didn’t know what to do back then. He didn’t know how to stand up for you. How could he?

But even as you reason with yourself, a small voice at the back of your mind whispers: Junhee would’ve. And that thought lingers all the way home.

You step into the house, the faint chill of sweater weather still clinging to your skin. All you want is to disappear into your room, bury yourself in the safety of your blanket, and forget the world. But as you take your first step toward the stairs, you hear it—crunch. Your heart sinks.

You glance down, and your eyes widen in dread. Under your foot lies a crushed model car, its shiny red paint scratched and wheels bent out of shape. Jiho’s car. That idiot still plays with it like he’s six, and of course today—out of all days—you had to step on it.

“NOOO!” a scream erupts behind you. Jiho stands frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, a glass of water slipping from his hands. The shatter rings out across the living room, water spraying across the tiles. And then—his loud, piercing wail.

You mutter under your breath, “Fuck.” The last thing you want is another family drama. “Jiho, it’s just a car. Shut the fuck up.”

“MOM!” Jiho howls like he’s been stabbed. “She broke my car and she’s swearing at me!”

You barely have time to roll your eyes before your mother comes storming out of her room, panic and irritation written all over her face. But the moment her gaze lands on Jiho, she softens—like always. “What happened, baby?” she asks, crouching by his side.

“She broke it,” Jiho hiccups, “and she doesn’t even care.”

Your mother’s eyes flick to you, sharp and cold. “Of course she did. After all, she doesn’t consider us her family anymore.” The words hit you like a slap. Not again. Not after last night.

“When have I ever said that, Mom?” you snap, your voice cracking, but not from fear—from frustration. From exhaustion. Jiho immediately falls silent, his crocodile tears drying up as he senses the tension. He knows when to shut up, when to let the storm move away from him.

“Your actions tell enough,” your mother shoots back, her tone laced with bitterness.

Something inside you twists. Your chest burns. “Oh, really? Then what about your actions? Did you even notice you didn’t give me lunch today?” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to keep it steady.

Her arms fold across her chest. “I thought since you’re always so bothered by me, you’d cook for yourself.”

The air leaves your lungs. For a second, you just stare at her, the weight of her words pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe. Then, in a voice lower, quieter, but edged with raw hurt, you whisper, “Fine. Then know this—your daughter is dead to you from today.” And you leave before she can say anything else.

You take the stairs two at a time, vision blurring as the first tear slips free. The door slams behind you, muffling the world outside. And then you crumble. You throw yourself onto your bed, face buried in the pillow, the sobs tearing out before you can stop them. “Why? Why me?” Your voice is muffled and shaky, hiccups catching in your throat. Your phone lies abandoned beside you, screen dark and empty. No calls. No texts. Not even a single notification from Riki. The boy who used to be your safe place feels a million miles away.

“Guess even you’re gone,” you whisper, hugging your pillow tighter, tears soaking the fabric.

Dinner comes and goes downstairs, but you don’t move. You just curl up under the blanket, body trembling as waves of loneliness wash over you. “God, do you hate me that much?” you whisper to the ceiling, voice breaking. “Isn’t this much personality development enough? Why are you still hurting me?”

Your chest heaves, each sob making you feel smaller, more fragile. You sneeze once, then twice, but you don’t even care enough to reach for tissues. You just hold your pillow like it’s the only one left who’ll listen, shivering as the night grows colder. Your mind spins in cruel circles. Would anyone ever marry me for me? Would anyone ever love me without gold to pull them close? And if I have no gold… will I just stay alone forever? The thoughts are sharp, cutting into you, and you cry harder, biting your lip until it stings.

Eventually, exhaustion takes over. Your tears slow, your sobs turn into sniffles, and your body sinks deeper into the mattress. Wrapped in your blanket, with your pillow hugged tightly against your chest, you drift into a restless, shivering sleep—empty stomach and all. Maybe this is just training for the future, you think drowsily before sleep swallows you half.

“I don’t want to die alone… there must be someone for me, right? Or—” your voice cracked as you buried your face into the pillow, “—do you want me to date women?” The words slipped out, half a sob, half a joke, but they fell flat in the silence of your room. All that came back was the sound of your own shaky breathing. You were so tired of feeling alone, of carrying that weight in your chest. But were you really alone?

A bitter thought pressed against your heart: you had Riki. He’d been there since you were five. Always there. And yet—your chest ached in the hollow places that even his presence couldn’t fill. The ache pulled you down into an uneasy sleep, your body curled tight beneath the blanket, shivering even though the room wasn’t that cold.

⪩⪨

When you woke, it was to silence. The kind that didn’t feel peaceful but wrong. The house was still, no hum of conversation, no creak of movement—just the low, haunting calls of owls perched outside, their glowing eyes catching in the dark like tiny lanterns. You hugged your phone close, already dialed to 112, thumb hovering in case something—someone—was waiting for you in the shadows.

The kitchen tiles were freezing beneath your feet. You opened the fridge carefully, its dim light spilling out like a secret. It was ridiculous—sneaking in your own home. You almost laughed at that thought, but hunger clawed harder than humor. Your eyes landed on the frozen fish. Already cooked. Good enough.

The pan hissed as you placed it on the flame, the sharp crackle of oil filling the quiet. You clutched the spatula like a weapon, flipping clumsily. You didn’t care about technique—you were starving enough to chew your own arm if it came to that. And as the smell filled the kitchen, so did the ache in your chest. Not because of hunger this time, but because of him.

Your dad.

How he never checked on you. How somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your father and had simply become your mother’s husband. You’d stopped expecting anything from him, but still—the disappointment clung.

By the time you turned the gas off, your legs were trembling from weakness. You plated the fish quickly, sprinkling over some chopped onions and tomatoes that had been sitting in the fridge, squeezing lemon across it like you’d seen on TV. It looked messy, but to you it smelled like salvation.

You crept back to your room with the plate, shutting the door softly behind you. The main light stayed off—too risky. Your brother had a radar for food. So instead, you turned the lamp on the dimmest setting, creating a cocoon of faint gold.

The first bite nearly made you cry. Not because the fish was good—maybe it wasn’t—but because it was warm and yours.

You ate slowly, savoring each piece like it was the last thing you’d ever get. Then, with the plate licked clean and your stomach finally quiet, you rinsed your hands in the tiny sink in your room. Still… even full, even safe in bed, something felt off. A heaviness sat in your chest, pressing down. You brushed it away, told yourself it was nothing. Curled up under the blanket again.

And eventually, you drifted off.

The next morning, you woke up with a blocked nose and swollen red eyes.

“Not again,” you groaned, glaring at your reflection in the mirror. You dabbed some cream over your puffy eyelids, silently wishing they’d settle down for once. Still, you forced yourself into your uniform, ignoring the weird heaviness in your body. With a deep sigh, you hurried out of your room and down the stairs—nearly slipping midway.

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath, catching yourself before you tumbled. Shoes half-laced, you rushed out the door, already rehearsing the apology you owed Riki for unloading on him last night. But he wasn’t there.

You froze for a moment, staring at the empty spot where he should’ve been waiting. The air suddenly felt colder. “This fucker,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. “What, is he on his period or something?”

Irritation flared as you stomped toward the nearest convenience store, refusing to go back home and beg for breakfast when your mom had already made it clear she wouldn’t cook for you. You grabbed a handful of snacks and stuffed them into your bag, jaw tight. Fine. Lunch problem solved. And knowing Riki, he’d probably show up later anyway, begging for a share. Greedy bastard.

By the time you passed through the school gates, a wave of dizziness made you slow down. You shook it off. No big deal. Just hunger or lack of sleep, whatever. You slipped into class, ready to collapse into your seat—only to find Junhee sitting right next to Riki.

Of course she was. And he wasn’t even looking at you. Not once. Just smiling and chatting away with her like you didn’t exist.

Your fists clenched. Your chest tightened. The petty, ridiculous urge to march over there and rip his hair out nearly won.

“Are you even listening?”

A hand on your shoulder jolted you out of your spiraling thoughts. You blinked, realizing how deeply you’d been invested in a conversation you weren’t even part of.

“Why? You like Riki or something?” Minjae asked, leaning back in his chair beside you. His eyes studied you, a little too amused for your liking.

“What? No, obviously not.” You groaned, tugging at your sleeve as your lips pulled into a pout. “I’m just pissed they’re both ignoring me. Especially when I needed to vent.” Your voice softened into a mutter as you dramatically rested your head against his shoulder. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be sitting next to Riki?”

“He told me he wanted to sit with Junhee.”

Your frown deepened, the muscles in your jaw tightening. Of course he did. “Does he… like her or something?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Immediately, regret clawed at your chest, making you want to crawl back into your room and bury yourself under the covers.

Minjae shrugged. “Not sure. But look at him—he’s literally smiling at her like she’s the funniest person alive.”

You didn’t dare look. The burn in your eyes was already too much. Quietly, you buried your face in Minjae’s shoulder, whispering against the fabric of his uniform, “You’re my only true friend, Minjae. Don’t betray me like those two rats.”

He froze for a moment, clearly taken aback. His hand lifted, hovering, before gently brushing against your forehead. “You’re burning up. You’re sick. You should’ve stayed home.”

But you only sank deeper into his shoulder, muffling your words through your small sobs. “Maybe it would’ve been better if I had stayed in bed instead of witnessing… this heartbreak.”

Then something weird you felt in your lower abdomen. You gasped and pulled back immediately, eyes wide. Did you just—you scrambled, fumbling through your bag until you found what you were looking for, then bolted from the classroom. Luckily class hadn’t started yet.

Minjae sat there stunned, his arm still half-raised from when you’d been leaning on him. He debated chasing after you, but before he could move, Riki suddenly shot up from his seat and rushed after you. Junhee, still beside him, raised a brow and turned toward Minjae, confusion written across her face.

“What just happened? Why did she run out like that?”

Minjae let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “Not sure. But why are you sitting with Riki? She was on the verge of tears.” His voice carried disappointment, like he hadn’t expected this from Junhee at all.

Junhee blinked. “Wait—what? Riki just said he wanted to get back at her. I didn’t realize it would make her that upset.”

The two exchanged a bewildered glance, both looking toward the door where you and Riki had just vanished.

“Wait!” Riki’s voice echoed down the hall as he ran after you. But you had already disappeared into the women’s restroom. He stopped dead in his tracks, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. It was almost time for class, and he was pretty sure no one else was inside—but still, he couldn’t exactly storm in after you.

Riki taps his foot against the tiled floor, shoulders pressed to the wall, hoodie pulled low over his face like it can somehow hide the embarrassment of standing outside the girls’ washroom. His ears burn every time someone passes by. He looks like he’s plotting a heist, not waiting for you.

When you finally step out, wincing slightly, his head snaps up. “Riki. Just leave,” you mutter, brushing past him.

He falls into step beside you, lowering his voice. “...red days?”

You stop mid-stride, glaring up at him. “Why would you care? You shouldn’t care about that.” Your voice is flat, but there’s a sharp edge to it, the kind that threatens to cut.

He exhales through his nose, eyes darting away. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just—upset after yesterday. I handled it stupidly. Immaturely.”

“What’s the difference, Riki? How are you any different from them?” you snap, your steps quick and uneven. “You say you’re there for me, but honestly, it feels like a lie. You’re slowly becoming just like the rest—hurting me just because you’re upset.”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks a little, harsher than intended. “Don’t compare me to them.”

“It’s the truth,” you fire back, blinking away the sting in your eyes. “You know what’s going on at home. And yet—you still had to pull that stunt this morning. I thought you were the one person I could trust with this, but if you’re just gonna be petty and take revenge too…” Your throat tightens. “How am I supposed to trust you then?”

“Please don’t say that.” His voice softens as he turns to you, holding out his hands. When you don’t move away, he laces his fingers through yours, grounding you. His gaze is heavy, searching your face. “You don’t mean it.”

“Maybe I don’t,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “But I was upset. I even prepared how I wanted to apologize. And then—you weren’t there. Not outside my house. Not waiting. And when I got to school, trying so hard to pretend it was just a normal day—you were with Junhee.” Your voice breaks as tears spill before you can stop them. “You took the only other person I could talk to. You’re so bad.” Your words crumble into a quiet sob.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, pulling you against him before either of you can think. His arms lock around you like if he lets go, you’ll vanish. “I knew what you were going through and still—I messed up. I’m sorry.”

You bury your face into his chest, clutching his uniform shirt. “No… I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You’ve been here since we were kids, and I—” Your voice shakes. “I’m so sorry.”

He presses his face into your hair, trying to hide the way his own eyes burn. “Let’s not fight again, okay?” he murmurs into your hair, his hand stroking it gently.

The shrill bell cuts through the moment, forcing you both to step apart. He frowns when he sees your flushed face, presses his palm lightly to your forehead, and winces. “You’re burning up. Why couldn’t you just stay home?”

You try to laugh it off. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he mutters, but he still holds your hand as the two of you walk back to class. Inside, the teacher’s not there yet, but all heads turn. Nobody misses the sight of your hands locked together. Riki ignores them and pulls you down into the seat next to his. For once, he doesn’t care about rumors.

You whisper, anxious, “Everyone’s staring.”

He shrugs, shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it over your shoulders without hesitation. The class immediately erupts into a chorus of teasing “ooohh”s like they’re watching a live-action drama.

“Just shut up,” Junhee’s voice cuts from the back row, surprisingly sharp. The noise dies down at once. You silently thank her before leaning toward Riki. “…Do you like Junhee?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “What? No. Ew. Why would I ever like her?”

You smack his arm lightly. “You could’ve just said no. Why ‘ew’? She’s a nice girl.”

“Of course you’d say that,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

⪩⪨

The day drifts by in a blur after that. Riki ends up caught with his phone in class, sentenced to detention. You shake your head, disappointed, though you know deep down you were the one begging him earlier to check the time for Illit’s new song premiere.

Junhee leaves school early, her schedule different from yours. And somehow, even with everything that happened, you realize—you don’t feel as heavy as you did this morning.

And you wished you had just left with her earlier—because now it was raining. Raining hard. And, of course, you hadn’t brought an umbrella. Not that you would’ve anyway, even if you’d known. Why would you? The sun had been shining like it was mocking you all morning, and now suddenly the skies decided to throw a tantrum.

“No umbrella?”

You turned at the sound, blinking up at Minjae as he placed a warm hand on your shoulder. You shook your head sheepishly. Without hesitation, he shoved his umbrella into your hands. “Wait—no, no. Take it back. How are you gonna get home?” you asked, panicked, fingers curling around the handle but already trying to hand it back.

He just shook his head, almost amused. “I’ve got good immunity, don’t worry. But you—” his eyes softened as they scanned your tired face, “you’re already sick. I don’t want your fever to get worse. So just… take it. Go.”

And before you could argue again, he turned and walked off into the downpour. No hood, no hesitation. Just striding through sheets of rain like some kind of main character in a drama, the water soaking into his uniform but not once making him falter.

You stood frozen, guilt twisting in your chest, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Carefully, you opened the umbrella and stepped out, watching his figure shrink in the blur of gray.

The rain hit the ground so heavily it made tiny puddles burst at your feet. You hated it—the way muddy water could splash up on your clothes, the way it clung to your shoes. Rain was only nice when you were inside, wrapped up in blankets, not when it turned the world outside into a soggy, cold mess.

Somewhere nearby, frogs croaked like they were celebrating. You kicked a pebble, sighing, one hand tightening on the umbrella handle. That’s when you realized. Oh, hell. You still had Riki’s uniform jacket draped over you. You pulled it closer instinctively as the wind whipped against your skin. It smelled faintly like him—soap and something fresh—and the realization made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to name.

The streets were quiet, everyone else having already run for cover. By the time you reached your gate, you noticed how alive the garden looked—flowers glistening with raindrops, colors brighter as if they loved the storm. You folded the umbrella, toes curling against the cold porch as you slipped off your shoes and socks. That’s when you noticed a frog trying very hard to climb your stairs. With a squeak, you darted inside and slammed the door before it could follow.

Unfortunately for you, the little creature hopped right into your abandoned shoes on the porch, curling up like it had just signed a rental lease.

You pressed your back to the door, catching your breath, before your thoughts wandered back to Riki. A pang of guilt twisted in your chest. He was out there—probably still being punished, still getting drenched—all because of you. And that thought sat heavy in your heart, no matter how warm Minjae’s umbrella and Riki’s jacket kept you.

“Noona! Whose jacket is that? You got a boyfriend?” Jiho’s voice cut through the hallway, his grin wide and irritating as always.

“Just go do your homework,” you muttered, brushing past him. You didn’t have the energy to deal with his teasing. Upstairs, you shut your bedroom door behind you with a soft thud, peeled out of your damp uniform, and changed into something warm before collapsing on the bed. The day had drained every last bit of you. Too many odd, heavy moments—the way Riki had acted out of character, Minjae handing you his umbrella so casually—it all swirled in your head until your eyelids grew too heavy to fight.

You slipped into sleep curled on your side, the sound of rain steady against your window. Somewhere in the haze, you felt the blanket shift, tugged higher around you, and the faint aroma of chicken soup drifted in. Your forehead burned, and through the fever haze you caught snippets of sound: slippers brushing against your floor, the faint clink of a faucet turning on and off in the bathroom. Even in sleep, you knew someone was there.

When you woke, there was a damp cloth cooling your forehead and a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup waiting by your bedside. You sat up slowly, your body aching, and cradled the bowl in both hands. The warmth seeped through your fingers as you slurped at the broth, each sip grounding you. That’s when your gaze dropped to the pair of worn slippers at your door—your father’s. A lump formed in your throat. He must’ve come in quietly, set the cloth, left the soup. And if he had… then mom must’ve made it for you.

You hated moments like these. They always left you raw. Because if they were capable of this kind of tenderness—of showing you warmth and care—then why not more often? Why only now, when you were too weak to fight back? A single tear slipped down before you could stop it, and you swiped it away quickly.

So you just kept eating, letting the simple comfort of hot soup chase away the overthinking. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was enough that mom had cooked this with you in mind.

Your phone buzzed, breaking the silence. The group chat lit up with messages, your classmates reminding you about unfinished biology homework. You sighed, dropped the bowl on the side table, and reached for your phone, the rain outside still drumming on the glass like an unshakable rhythm. “Guys, I’m too tired to write it. I’ll just take the punishment instead,” you texted in the group chat, tossing your phone aside before closing your eyes. You wanted to sound calm, unbothered, maybe even bold—but your heart told a different story.

⪩⪨

The moment you woke up the next morning, panic hit you like a storm. Your hands shook as you flipped through your untouched notebook, dreading what would happen.

Beside you, Riki slid into his seat like nothing in the world could faze him. He glanced at you once, catching your restless expression, then silently pulled your notebook toward himself. Without a word, he began copying his homework into yours.

On the other side, Junhee raised her hand with practiced innocence. “Ma’am, I’m a little confused about this question… isn’t rough endoplasmic reticulum because of the presence of ribosome?” Her tone was serious, almost too convincing.

The teacher, Ms. Kwan, adjusted her glasses and leaned over Junhee’s desk, ready to correct her. All the while, Minjae sat sprawled in his chair, doing his best to look invisible, one leg bouncing nervously under the desk.

You watched the three of them in silence, your chest warming despite the tension. These were your friends—the kind who would bend rules, distract teachers, and risk trouble just so you didn’t have to face it alone.

By the time Ms. Kwan circled back to your row, Riki slid your notebook across the desk as if nothing had happened. You straightened in your seat, forcing composure as she flipped through your work. Her sharp eyes lingered on your pages a moment too long before she gave a skeptical nod and moved on. Relief washed over you, though you caught her frown when she checked Riki’s work right after. She didn’t say anything, though—just clicked her pen shut and strode to the front. “Alright, class. We’re starting a new project. Pair up—groups of two.”

Immediately, chatter filled the room. You barely glanced at Riki before your hand shot out, gripping his wrist. “Don’t even think about teaming with Minjae. You’re with me.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by how serious you sounded, but he didn’t fight it. Your grip only tightened until you saw your names recorded together in the teacher’s diary. Victory.

The rest of the day blurred. Classes were dismissed so everyone could get a head start, which left you sitting in the library booth with Riki, surrounded by notes, books, and scattered pens. Your fever had lessened after the soup last night, but fatigue still weighed you down.

For a while, you tried to focus—scrolling through your phone for research, typing out fragments of information—but your thoughts drifted. Questions you didn’t want to face bubbled up: What are you even doing with your life? What if you fail? What if everything collapses?

The weight of it all pressed on you until you let your head drop against Riki’s shoulder. He shifted under you, clearly confused, but said nothing and continued working, letting you lean. You sighed, staring at the screen without really seeing it. At one point, you even considered using ChatGPT, but the thought of risking suspension made your chest tighten. You couldn’t drag yourself—or him—into that kind of trouble.

“...I’m hu—” Before you could finish whining, a small packet hit your lap. You looked down to find chips, tossed carelessly by Riki. He didn’t even look up from his notebook. You shot him a glare but ripped the packet open anyway, munching between words. “Thanks,” you muttered, cheeks puffed. He didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.

Hours slipped by like that—you watching him, him working steadily. There was something about his calm, the quiet way he focused, that pulled you in. It was strange how just existing beside him eased some part of your chaos.

At some point, you must’ve drifted off. The last thing you remembered was the soft scratch of his pen. When you woke, his handkerchief brushed your lips, wiping away a faint trace of drool. His voice was low, gentle. “Hey. Time to leave.”

You blinked at him sleepily. “Already?”

He nodded once.

Stretching, you sat up and finally noticed the mess of papers and wrappers you two had left behind. You groaned at the sight, but Riki was already tidying, stacking papers neatly, tossing trash aside. You watched him, exhaustion weighing your shoulders down. “I’m so tired of everything,” you whispered without meaning to. The words slipped out raw, heavy with more than just schoolwork. “Like… so damn tired of it all.”

Riki paused mid-movement, his gaze lifting to yours. For a long moment, he just stared, his expression unreadable. His lips parted, like he was about to say something—something important. But he stopped. Swallowed hard. And whatever truth sat on his tongue that night never made it out.

⪩⪨

After that day, the rumors started spreading like wildfire. Whispers in the hallways, snickers behind cupped hands, and the occasional bold classmate asking directly—everyone seemed convinced that you and Riki were secretly dating.

“Are you two not together?” one of your classmates asked, eyes glimmering with curiosity as though they already knew the answer and just wanted to hear you confirm it.

You shook your head quickly, a small laugh escaping as you tried to brush it off. “No, of course not. We’re just friends.”

The words left your mouth easily, like second nature, but the weight of them was different for Riki. He stood a few steps away, pretending not to care, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly. His gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, almost as if he was waiting for you to say something else—something more. He didn’t understand why your answer made his chest feel heavy. It was the truth, and yet it stung like a lie.

That afternoon, he didn’t walk home with you. Neither did Minjae. Only Junhee tagged along, and though you didn’t want to admit it, the absence of the other two left the walk home strangely quiet. Too quiet. “This is weird,” you muttered under your breath.

Junhee glanced sideways at you before draping an arm casually around your shoulders. Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp with curiosity. “Be honest with me. Do you really not like Riki? Not even a little?”

You froze for a second before giving her the most logical answer you had. “Of course I like him. He’s a great friend of mine.”

Junhee raised a brow. “So you wouldn’t mind if I dated him, then? If I held his hand, hugged him, maybe even—”

“Junhee, stop.” You cut her off immediately, a little too quickly, your voice sharper than intended. “Don’t say stuff like that about him. It’s… weird.” The word hung in the air, heavier than you expected. You walked a bit faster, hoping she would drop it, but Junhee only smirked knowingly.

“If it feels weird, then it means you like him.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing off her words. “That’s not how it works.”

“Oh, but it is.” Her tone was playful, yet there was a hint of truth behind it that made your stomach twist. “Think about it. All the things you’ve done with him that feel normal, even comfortable… now imagine doing the same with Minjae. If it feels different, if it feels wrong—then maybe you’ll finally understand.”

She let go of your shoulder and split off toward her house, leaving you alone with her words. You sighed, heading toward your own home, but the theory echoed in your mind. Against your will, you began running through moments in your head—moments that felt too natural with Riki but would’ve felt strange with Minjae. Like sharing snacks without a second thought, or leaning against him when you were tired, or the way he’d grab your wrist lightly to guide you through crowded halls. With Minjae, those things would feel awkward. With Riki, they felt… right.

Meanwhile, across town, Riki was dealing with the same kind of pestering—but from Minjae. “You feel your heart flutter when you see her, don’t you?” Minjae pressed, his grin mischievous as he leaned closer, as though he were interrogating him.

Riki scoffed, brushing past him. “What’s that got to do with her?”

“Everything.” Minjae’s voice sing-songed, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s the most obvious sign, idiot. You like her. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

“Listen,” Riki muttered, his tone firm though his ears warmed. “If I liked her, I’d know. I’m not that dumb.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking away with his bag slung over his shoulder. And yet… Minjae’s words lingered in his head. Because now that he thought about it—there were times. Small times. Times where he did feel something flutter in his chest when you smiled, when you looked at him longer than a second too long, when your laugh bubbled out unexpectedly.

That night, you lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling. At his home, Riki lay in his own bed, headphones in but no music playing. And despite the distance between you, both of you were thinking the same exact thought. What if I actually liked my best friend? The question didn’t feel as strange as it should have. And maybe that was the scariest part of all.

One of the memories that stood out was how you once fell asleep on your desk in the middle of class. Your cheek pressed against the notebook, pen slipping from your fingers, exhaustion clear on your face. Riki, without saying a word, had quietly reached over and turned your notebook so that the cover would hide your face from the teacher’s view. He even leaned forward a little, blocking the line of sight with his own shoulder. And when the teacher eventually caught on and narrowed their eyes at your desk, he had casually rested his head too—like he’d been the culprit all along—ready to take the punishment in your place.

At the time, you hadn’t thought much of it. You’d just laughed it off later, wondering why he would do something so dumb for you. And truthfully, Riki himself couldn’t explain it either. It wasn’t something he’d planned or even thought through. It was instinct—like his body moved before his mind could.

Then there were the times you’d show up at his house after another one of those exhausting days, eyes red and voice shaky from holding in your tears at home. You’d collapse onto his couch or bed, unable to carry the weight anymore, and he’d just pull you into his chest without asking questions. His arms would hold you steady, his chin resting lightly on your hair, as if to remind you that no matter how chaotic everything else was, you belonged somewhere—right there, in his arms. You never saw it as anything unusual before. He was just Riki, your best friend. But now, looking back, you realized… if someone else had held you like that, if someone else had been the one to make you feel safe enough to break down—you might have fallen for them without even noticing.

There were his doodles, too. Silly little things scrawled across the margins of your notebook during class. Tiny stick-figure versions of you smacking him with a badminton racket, or a crooked drawing of a family with him circled in red, proudly labeled as the “real protector of all.” You had scolded him countless times for scribbling over your notes, rolling your eyes at his nonsense. But now that you thought about it, it had been his quiet way of cheering you up, his way of leaving pieces of himself for you to find later when you were bored or tired. He never explained why he did it, and maybe he didn’t even know himself—but the thought warmed you now more than you wanted to admit.

Or the way you’d reach out to fix his tie without even realizing it. It was just habit by now—he’d show up half put-together, and you couldn’t stand it. So you’d tug his tie straight, smooth the wrinkles, and step back like it was nothing. But if you pictured doing that with Minjae, or any other guy, the idea immediately made you cringe. With Riki, though? With him, it had always felt natural. Comfortable. So much so that when your classmates teased you both with dramatic “oohs” and “aahs,” you’d rolled your eyes and brushed it off… but secretly, you wondered if you’d react the same way if it were someone else fixing someone else’s tie in front of the class. Probably. Maybe even louder.

And then there were the library moments. When you’d rant endlessly, blaming him for things that weren’t even his fault—like getting scolded because of something he started. Anyone else would have grown tired, would’ve walked away or snapped back. But not Riki. He’d stay. Always. Sitting beside you with his chin propped on one hand, tapping his pencil against the table. Every time you zoned out mid-rant, he’d poke your cheek with the eraser, grinning when you snapped back at him. It had been his little ritual, one you hadn’t thought twice about. But now… you realized how rare that patience was. How rare it was for someone to stay, even when you weren’t being fair to them.

That night, lying in your bed, hugging your pillow to your chest, your mind kept circling back to these little fragments—these small, ordinary things you had brushed off for so long. They didn’t feel ordinary anymore. They felt precious. They felt like pieces of something bigger, something you were only just beginning to name. And when your heart fluttered at the thought of his laugh, or your chest ached at the idea of him with someone else… you finally admitted to yourself that maybe Junhee was right. Maybe this wasn’t just friendship. Maybe—just maybe—you’d been in love with your best friend all along.

During matches, you were always the loudest one cheering for him. It didn’t matter if he won or lost—you were the first voice he heard, screaming his name, clapping until your palms stung. And no matter the result, your arms were open for him afterwards, wrapping him in the same warmth that always made the world a little softer.

He would look at you after every match, eyes scanning the crowd until they found yours. You’d quit the sport long ago, but he hadn’t—and though part of you sometimes missed playing together, you never once blamed him for staying. If anything, you wanted to support him in the way he always supported you.

Now, lying on his bed with his arms folded behind his head, Riki thought about those little moments and couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. He thought about the both of you as kids, about the way nothing had really changed between you—except for the way his heart felt heavier now whenever he thought of you. Somewhere along the way, without realizing, he had lost his heart.

Because why else would he have spent his entire pocket money at the arcade just to win you a bunny keychain? Why else would he have insisted on getting himself the matching bear one so you could clip them to your bags, side by side, like a secret sign that you belonged together? Friends, he told himself at the time. They were just matching friends. But now, the word sat wrong in his chest. “Friend” didn’t feel big enough anymore.

Even on FaceTime, he found himself slipping. That one study session with you, Junhee, and Minjae had proved it. You were bent over your book, hair falling into your face, and he hadn’t even realized he’d been staring until Minjae called him out. Everyone laughed, and you brushed it off like a joke. But later, lying awake, you couldn’t help but think: What if it wasn’t a joke? What if he really was looking at me the way I look at him? The session had ended awkwardly, and though everyone said goodnight as usual, there was a strange tension that clung to the silence afterward. You went to bed with those memories buzzing through your mind, and for the first time, you let yourself admit: maybe you did like him. Maybe Junhee had been right all along.

But another fear came crashing down just as quickly—what if it wasn’t real? What if you only liked him because he was always there for you? What if it wasn’t love but just… attachment? That thought scared you more than anything else. Because hurting him… was the last thing you’d ever want.

⪩⪨

“Read the instructions properly and solve the questions.” Miss Kwan’s sharp voice echoed through the exam hall, pulling you back to reality. You swallowed hard, staring at the pre-final exam paper in front of you. Your mind was blank. Not because you hadn’t studied, but because you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the boy just two rows away, calmly solving his paper as if nothing in the world could shake him.

You glanced at Riki, frowning. He looked so focused, pen scratching smoothly across the page. How can he concentrate so easily? Doesn’t he think about me the way I think about him?

The truth was—he hadn’t studied at all last night. He’d spent the entire evening tossing and turning, mind circling around you, around the way your laugh lingered in his ears and the memory of your hand brushing his. The answers he was writing now were purely things he had memorized before, running on autopilot while his heart refused to quiet down.

Desperate, you glanced at Minjae. Maybe he’d at least pass you some hints. But the boy’s page was almost entirely blank. He was staring at the paper like it had betrayed him. “I’m doomed for sure,” you muttered under your breath, fighting the urge to cry.

Minjae, already halfway to giving up, pressed his palms together as though in prayer. Miss Kwan’s taunt wasn’t far behind. “If you can’t solve this paper, don’t even dream about passing the finals.” You and Minjae exchanged a look that said it all—you were both done for. Meanwhile, Junhee scribbled furiously, and Riki’s pen never seemed to stop. It felt unfair. So unfair.

That unfairness followed you to dinner that night. Your parents’ voices were sharp, comparing you once again to Riki. “Look at him. So good in school, so disciplined. Why can’t you be more like?”

“So what if he’s good?” The words burst out before you could stop them. “Maybe I’m just good at something else!” The silence that followed was worse than the scolding. Your father’s voice cut through, cold and final: “Pass the finals. Or don’t bother showing your face here.”

The appetite drained from you instantly. Pushing your plate away, you walked out into the night, the weight of their words pressing down harder than the dark sky above you. And then—you saw him. Riki. Standing outside with an umbrella, as if he had known. As if he’d been waiting for you all along. He stepped forward quickly, lifting the umbrella to shield you from the drizzle. His silence wasn’t awkward. It was steady. Comforting. But something inside you snapped. “Do you enjoy it, huh?”

“What?” His brows furrowed in confusion.

“You like it, don’t you? Being perfect all the time. Topping every class. Getting praised by everyone while I get yelled at just for existing in the same room as you.” Your voice cracked, eyes stinging. “Is that why you’re even friends with me? To make yourself feel better? Is that it?”

“hey that's not…” he started, but you stepped back, shaking your head.

“Just leave me alone for once,” you whispered, voice breaking. You stepped out from under the umbrella, letting the rain soak through your clothes as you walked faster, tears mixing with the downpour.

“Please stop!” His voice rose behind you, desperate. He was scared you’d slip on the wet pavement, scared you’d keep running away from him forever.

“I said leave me—” You didn’t finish. Because his lips crashed onto yours. The umbrella clattered to the ground. His hand cupped your cheek, the other gripping your wrist as though you might vanish if he let go. His eyes were closed, lips trembling against yours with urgency and fear. Yours stayed open at first, wide with shock. Your knees wobbled, the rain streaming down your face as if begging you to shut your eyes, to just feel. And when you finally did, everything blurred—the sound of rain, the ache in your chest, the trembling of your heart.

When he pulled back, both of you were breathless, faces inches apart. He didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers curled tightly around yours, anchoring himself in the storm. You stared at him, chest heaving. Then you shoved at his chest with all your strength, making him stumble backward. “W-why’d you do that?!” Your voice cracked, tears spilling freely now. “That was my first kiss, you bastard!”

He froze, lips parted, raindrops sliding down his face. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He didn’t know how to explain it—how the words had failed him, how the feelings had taken control. “I—I don’t know,” he whispered finally, touching his fingers to his lips as though the kiss still lingered there. A shiver ran through him, sparking down his spine. He wasn’t lying when he admitted to himself, silently, that he wanted to do it again.

Once he saw those tears welling in your eyes, Riki’s first instinct was to rush over, to wipe them away with the sleeve of his hoodie like he always did whenever you cried. But this time… he froze. After what just happened—after that kiss—it felt wrong, almost too much. His chest tightened as he watched you turn away, your shoulders trembling, and walk back home without saying a single word. No glance back. No explanation. Just silence.

Your clothes clung to your skin, heavy with rainwater, but the storm outside wasn’t nearly as loud as the storm inside your chest. That kiss—his lips against yours—kept replaying over and over again in your mind. The way it came right after your outburst, tangled with anger, confusion, and longing… it left your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break your ribs. Even when you touched your lips with your finger, you swore you could still feel him there.

You carried it with you. Into the bathroom where the mirror only made the memory sharper. Into your room where even fresh pajamas couldn’t wash the feeling off. Into your bed where sleep refused to come because every time you closed your eyes, the scene played again. That moment, that kiss, that boy.

Days slipped by, each one heavier than the last. You couldn’t bring yourself to sit beside him in class, couldn’t bring yourself to laugh at his stupid doodles in your notebook anymore. You avoided his eyes, his presence, even his shadow. And Riki, the boy who never once failed to walk you home, never once left you behind, suddenly wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t call. He didn’t wait at the corner like he used to. It was like the kiss broke some invisible bridge between you, and neither of you knew how to fix it.

You feared it—feared this was it. That whatever the two of you had, whatever strange bond that made him sit with you through your storms, was gone for good. And that thought alone made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t put into words. At night, when your pillow grew damp beneath your cheek, you found yourself whispering into the dark, I just need him back. Even if it’s not as a friend. Even if it’s something more. Just… don’t let him disappear from my life.

Junhee and Minjae noticed, of course. They weren’t stupid. They exchanged looks every time you came in with puffy eyes or when Riki walked past with his head lowered, shoulders slumped. They tried everything to drag you back together. Junhee once “forgot” her homework just to rope Riki into helping you solve a question you pretended to struggle with—but the room only filled with awkward silence. He wouldn’t look at you, and you couldn’t breathe when he was too close. Their tricks fell flat, leaving them sighing in defeat as they watched two people too stubborn—and too scared—to speak.

Meanwhile, at the Nishimura household, Riki wasn’t much better. He lay sprawled on the couch, clutching a pillow like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“What’s up with him? He’s acting like a zombie,” Konon asked, raising an eyebrow as she kicked lightly at the couch. Mrs. Nishimura chuckled from the kitchen, arms crossed. “He’s just riding that teenage wave, dear. Remember when you moped around for weeks? Exactly like that.”

Konon rolled her eyes, leaning down to shake her brother’s arm. But the moment she saw his face—eyes swollen, lids red from lack of sleep—her teasing stalled. “Wait… what’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you—” she gasped, then smirked. “—broke up already?”

Riki groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. “Please, just leave me alone, dear sister,” he muttered in a tone so polite it almost sounded wrong. He shoved at her halfheartedly, but even his strength seemed drained.

“Ohhh, so it is a breakup,” she sang, backing away before his infamous temper snapped. Her giggles echoed down the hall while Riki curled deeper into the couch, face pressed into the pillow like it could swallow him whole. “Can’t a guy just have a little privacy?” he muttered to himself, voice muffled and cracked.

In the kitchen, Mr. Nishimura raised a brow at his wife. “Is it really a breakup?” His wife only shrugged, lips twitching into a small smile. “Who knows. But it sure looks like one.” Neither of them moved to comfort him. They poured tea, as though heartbreak was just another passing cold he’d grow out of.

And across town, you hid your own heartbreak in silence. Because you knew if your family found out—if your mother discovered that Riki of all people had kissed you—she’d lose her mind. She already hated that he was always around, always by your side. To admit you let him close enough to kiss you? That wouldn’t just be another fight. That would be a death sentence. So you held it all in, lying awake in your room, both of you trapped in the same ache, both too afraid to reach across the space the kiss had left between you.

“She’d probably not only disown you but his reputation in your mother’s eyes would get tainted,” you thought, almost laughing bitterly. Honestly, you would’ve done the same if the roles were reversed. You already knew how her dialogue would go, too—word for word. “We provided you a roof over your head and this is how you repay us? Betrayal?!” Blah blah. Cue dramatic hand gestures, guilt trips, and at least two days of the silent treatment.

But you didn’t get much time to dwell on the imaginary lecture, because Jiho leaned closer and whispered something that made your body stiffen. “W–what?”

“You look like you’ve been kissed,” he muttered, almost too casually, but his eyes were way too sharp. “Was it Riki, huh?”

Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. You forced out a laugh, shaking your head so fast it looked rehearsed. “Obviously not. We’re just friends.”

“Oh?” Jiho tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Cool. Just asking.” He returned to scrolling on his phone, but the glare he’d given you lingered in your head like a scar.

You avoided his gaze, sat at the dining table, and prayed—begged—that he wouldn’t bring it up at dinner. The clinking of plates was too loud, the silence too heavy.

Your dad was the first to notice. “Why are you so giddy?” he asked suddenly, squinting at you like you’d been caught sneaking snacks at midnight.

You almost choked on your rice. Three pairs of eyes—dad’s, mom’s, and Jiho’s—zeroed in on you.

“I—it’s nothing,” you stammered, shoving food into your mouth like it could save you. You kept your head down, finished quickly, and excused yourself before anyone could interrogate further.

The second you shut your bedroom door, you leaned against it, heart hammering. Calm down. Calm down. Instead, you grabbed your phone and did what you always did when reality got too loud—you went delusional online. You typed, “How do you know if you’re in love with someone?” into the search bar and waited.

The answers popped up in neat bullet points. You started scrolling.

When it feels like home with them. You thought about Riki—his annoying smirk, the way he’d toss you snacks without asking, the quiet way he’d listen when you rambled. He always felt… safe. Even when he was teasing, even when he was immature. He was steady. Home. One box ticked.

When you can just exist together without doing anything. Your mind flashed back to afternoons spent sprawled in his room—him bent over homework, you lying on his bed scrolling through your phone. No need for words, no need for effort. It just was. Normal, you told yourself. But is it?

When seeing them happy is a reward. You frowned. That one confused you. You were happy when Junhee or Minjae smiled, too. So what made Riki different? You bit your lip, scrolling further.

When you have someone already in your head while typing this question. Your stomach dropped. Okay, that was… kind of unfair. Obviously, you thought of him when searching this up. Who else would you be thinking about? You kept scrolling, but your breath hitched at the next one.

When you can’t stand the thought of them gone from your life. You froze. You could live without Riki, right? You had to. Life would go on. But the thought of him vanishing—never speaking again, no more teasing, no more warmth, no more safe silences—Your chest twisted, and you hated it. With Junhee or Minjae, you knew you’d be sad, but you’d move on. With Riki… the thought alone made your throat tighten like you were already grieving something you hadn’t even lost yet.

You hugged your knees to your chest, staring at the glowing screen. Maybe I do love him. And with that terrifying realization, one thing was clear—there was no going back to how things used to be.

⪩⪨

The two of them smear cream onto the half-baked cake like they know exactly what they’re doing, but to Riki it just looks like a disaster in the making. He squints, skeptical, shifting the bowl in his hands. “Are you guys sure this is… how it’s supposed to be made?” he asks, his voice quiet but full of doubt. His hand almost reaches out for a taste before Junhee smacks it away with the reflexes of someone who’s swatted him before.

“Just do as we say.” Junhee doesn’t even look at him as she commands it, already busy arranging strawberries like she’s on a cooking show. Minjae hums in agreement, too focused on folding another piece of paper. And just like that, Riki finds himself cornered—dominated in his own home by the two of them. It’s not like he could stop them anyway. He sighs as he watches them take over, shaking his head at the mess of cream and crumbs.

“Don’t shake your head, lil mistake. Go put the decorations on.” Junhee shoots him a glare sharp enough to shut him up, and Riki sighs again, resigned, moving to string up the letters on the wall. Beside them, Minjae carefully places an origami butterfly he had made—folds crisp, delicate wings catching the light. He really is annoyingly good at it.

“I just hope she likes this,” Riki mutters under his breath, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His chest feels heavier than it should, weighed down by the thought that maybe—just maybe—he trusted the wrong people with something this important.

Meanwhile, you’ve curled up in your room, sleep stealing you before you can fight it off. When you open your eyes, Riki is there, leaning over you, glowing faintly in the dim light. Your breath stutters. He looks too close, too warm, too real.

You gulp, frozen, until his lips brush yours. It’s soft—hesitant at first—but when you kiss him back, it deepens. Your lips move together like you’ve been waiting for this without knowing it, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer—Until your knee knocks painfully into the edge of your table. You jolt awake, realizing you’d been twisted up in an awkward position the whole time. Just a dream. A dream about him.

You drag a hand down your face, cheeks burning even though no one’s here to see. And when your eyes flicker to the calendar on the wall, your stomach twists. It’s your birthday. Seventeen. The number looks big and small all at once. You wait for the smile to come but… it doesn’t. The thought of celebrating feels hollow. Still, you force a smile onto your face, the kind you’ve practiced too many times, and head downstairs. Maybe—just maybe—someone will say it. A simple happy birthday.

But your parents walk past you without even glancing your way, too wrapped up in themselves to notice. Your brother frowns at you, confused, like you’re acting strange for no reason. The forced smile cracks. “Do you… really not know that it’s my birthday?” you ask him quietly, your voice trembling despite how hard you try to keep it steady. You think about the cake you made for him three months ago, the balloons you blew, the way you remembered every small detail.

His brows knit together. “It’s your birthday?” The confusion on his face makes it clear—he has no idea. None at all. Something inside you deflates. You bite down hard, forcing out a shaky laugh. “Oh? Of course not. I was joking. It’s tomorrow.” And he believes it instantly. No questions. No second look. Your mother doesn’t even glance up, doesn’t even care to ask what you’re talking about.

The tears come before you can stop them. You wipe one away quickly, angry at yourself for letting it fall at all, and walk straight out the door. The air outside is sharp, cool, and it stings a little more than it should. Maybe no one else will remember. Maybe no one will care. You shove your hands into your pockets and head down the street, deciding that if no one else will make today feel like your birthday, then you’ll do it yourself. You’ll buy a small pastry, something sweet enough to trick your heart into thinking today matters.

But before you can even step inside the bakery, your phone buzzes in your pocket. “Hey…umm... Riki… he’s unconscious, just come here, please.” The panic in her voice sends your heart plummeting. Without a second thought, you’re out the door, phone clutched in your hand. The air still carries that damp sweetness after rain, brushing against your hair as you sprint down the street toward his house.

Unconscious? What happened? Your chest aches with worry as you push his front door open. It’s quiet—too quiet. His parents never come home on weekdays, so you don’t stop to question it. You head straight for his room, only to find it swallowed in darkness. Fumbling for the light switch, you hear the faint clatter of utensils somewhere inside. Relief sparks for a moment as you call out softly, “Junhee? Minjae?”

But before you can take another step, an arm slides around you, hand covering your mouth. You gasp, eyes widening, until you’re gently pulled down to the floor and pinned. When your gaze adjusts, you see him. “Riki?” Your voice trembles. “She said you were unconscious—”

Instead of answering, he just holds you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder as if he’s afraid to let go.

You squirm, cheeks heating. “Oh, please. Can you not? You already stole my first kiss.” The words slip out sharper than you intend, but your heart is hammering too fast to take them back. He lifts his head, eyes catching yours in the dark. “And? That was my first kiss too.” His voice is low, steady. “And I’d do it again. Every chance I get.”

You freeze, breath stuck in your throat. “Then… do it.” The challenge falls from your lips before you can stop it. And he does. His mouth presses against yours in an instant, warm and desperate, and the world tilts. You gasp into the kiss but your hands betray you, clutching his shirt as if you’d been waiting for this. Your lips move with his, and the ache of missing him pours into every stolen second. It doesn’t feel like payback. It feels like coming home.

“W-what—” Junhee’s voice cracked as she and Minjae flicked on the lights, both frozen in place. They were holding a cake, wide-eyed as they took in the sight of you and Riki kissing on the floor.

You caught them staring and instantly pushed Riki off, scrambling to your feet. “W-what’s all this?” you blurted, hoping your confusion would steer the attention away from what they’d just witnessed.

Junhee blinked, still processing. “Uh… your birthday, but—”

“Oh my god,” you cut in quickly, forcing a laugh as you gave her a sheepish smile. “You guys are way too good.” Your tone was light, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you. Junhee looked like she wanted answers, but she let it go—for now.

“Happy birthday, birthday girl,” Minjae said, stepping forward. He held out a small box, awkward but genuine. Inside was a handwritten card, his neat but slightly shaky handwriting filling the page. It wasn’t expensive, but somehow, it felt warmer than any polished, pricey gift you’d ever gotten from your family. Junhee finally set the cake down with a sigh. “Happy birthday. But seriously—” her eyes cut toward Riki, “if I find out he hurts you, I won’t let him get away with it.”

“You sound like a jealous boyfriend,” Riki muttered, smirking as he wiped his lips.

“Shut up,” Junhee shot back, rolling her eyes. The two of them bickered, and you couldn’t stop laughing—even through the tears that were threatening to spill. Because in that moment, standing there with them, you realized: your friends felt more like family than your real family ever had.

You giggled as you blew out the candle. “My girl’s growing up so fast,” Junhee murmured, hugging you from the side. She didn’t need to say it out loud, but you knew she had figured out the truth about your messy home life. Junhee was smart that way.

⪩⪨

From that day on, something shifted in you. You studied harder, cut back on phone calls with Junhee, barely played around with Riki. It was like you had transformed, throwing yourself into finals with everything you had. And still—Riki surprised you. You thought he’d avoid the subject of that kiss, but instead, he asked you out on your birthday night. You said yes, even though fear gnawed at you—the fear of ruining the friendship you cherished so much.

At home, your parents seemed to notice your effort. They stopped criticizing as much. Your mom even started leaving sliced apples on your desk when you were in the shower. She didn’t say anything, but those small gestures spoke louder than her words ever had.

The dinner table was different too. No more constant comparisons. Instead, your mom brought up random moments—like how you’d won a gold medal in relay back in third grade. You didn’t really care anymore, but deep down, that younger version of you—the little girl who just wanted to be seen—was giggling and kicking her feet at finally hearing the words.

Still, the thought haunted you. If they could compliment me now, why couldn’t they do it back then? Why didn’t they tell that little girl she was enough? You remembered too well—the night your dad shoved your medal aside because it wasn’t academic. You’d cried into your pillow, believing you weren’t worthy of their pride. If you could, you’d hug that child so tightly, shielding her from the ache she was never supposed to bear.

One evening, it spilled over.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked at dinner, voice trembling. “Why now—when I’m finally trying to heal? Don’t do that to me. Just… don’t.”

Your mom blinked at you. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t praise me for my past,” you snapped, pushing your empty plate away. “Every time, Jiho was the one in the spotlight. I was five when it started, and nobody even noticed. Don’t you regret it? Don’t you feel anything about it?” The silence was unbearable. She had no answer, and that stung worse than anything. You shoved back your chair and stormed off to your room.

Your dad and mom exchanged helpless looks at the table, regret written all over their faces. But regret couldn’t rewrite the years you had craved their love. Regret wasn’t going to give you back the childhood you’d been denied.

⪩⪨

“Is this pretty?” you asked Junhee as the two of you waited outside the restaurant. You tugged slightly at the blue ruffle top and tugged at your baggy jeans—the outfit was her choice, after all.

Junhee just grinned, giving a quick nod. “Pretty as hell,” she muttered, and you laughed at her bluntness.

“Look,” you whispered, pointing subtly, “they’re here.” Riki and Minjae walked toward you both, and your stomach did a little flip. You glanced at Junhee, who looked completely unfazed. Somehow, she didn’t even seem the slightest bit nervous. “Why aren’t you nervous? I mean, I’m not the only one dating here, you know,” you murmured.

Junhee leaned closer, whispering in your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Actually… I’m just zoning out.”

You burst out laughing. “Geez, girl.”

By the time Riki and Minjae reached you, you couldn’t help but notice how normal and relaxed they both acted. The two of them had started dating not long ago—what began as a silly bet had somehow turned into actual love—and it showed in their easy, natural banter.

You had wanted to walk in with Riki, hand in hand, but the way Junhee gently grabbed your hand told you instantly: maybe a double date wasn’t such a great idea. “So, what are you ordering?” Junhee asked, nudging you as you scanned the menu. She sat beside you while Riki sat across, Minjae mirroring him. Both guys seemed focused on their menus, though Riki’s gaze occasionally flicked up, sneaking glances at you.

You could feel his eyes on you even as you checked your purse to see how much you could spend. “I guess… whatever you guys want is fine,” you finally said, trying to sound casual, though your heart was hammering.

Riki noticed you glance up and down the menu, the slight hesitation in your movements. He caught the way your fingers fiddled with the edge of your top before settling on a dish. “You sure? You’re looking like you’re about to solve a math problem instead of pick dinner,” he teased softly, leaning back in his chair.

“So, I’ll be having carbonara,” you finally say, passing your menu to Riki. You feel your hands fidget as you glance at your purse, already calculating if this was within budget.

Minjae follows with a grin, “Then I’ll have the steak.” He’s tight on money too, but today he wants to splurge just a little.

“I’ll have salmon and risotto,” Junhee announces casually, swiping her credit card like it’s nothing. She watched a K-drama last week with that exact meal and insisted it looked aesthetic enough to deserve ordering. You can’t help but roll your eyes a little, but also admire her confidence.

“I’ll take a seafood platter,” Riki says without hesitation, barely glancing at the menu. Your heart tugs a little—this was going to cost a fortune, wasn’t it? You start scanning your purse again, mentally figuring out if you could chip in.

The waiter scribbles down the orders. “Sure, will be in a minute,” he mutters.

Riki notices your nervous glances, your hands hovering over the menu as if you’re still calculating costs. He doesn’t say anything, but the faintest corner of his lips curl up. He’s got this covered, he thinks. He bought enough to cover yours too, not wanting you to stress.

When the food arrives, your carbonara looks… fine, but honestly, it doesn’t smell appealing. You stare at it, suddenly wishing you had picked the seafood platter instead.

Junhee, meanwhile, isn’t touching her food. “Let me take pictures first—this looks so aesthetic,” she says, snapping photos of everyone’s plates. Minjae and Riki exchange a look of mild irritation, clearly impatient but letting her have her moment.

“Are you done?” Riki asks quietly, voice low, eyes flicking between his plate and yours. His stomach growls slightly, though he masks it well. Minjae’s stomach audibly growls as well.

Junhee finally nods, engrossed in posting the photos online. Meanwhile, you stare down at your carbonara with a pout. The smell is too much. You just want something edible. Riki leans over, fork in hand. “Here,” he says softly, cutting a small portion of your pasta and twirling it for you. He brings it closer to your lips. You shake your head, recoiling from the smell.

He frowns, tilting his fork slightly to taste it himself. His eyes light up. “Hmm… not bad,” he mutters, swapping plates silently. He gives you his seafood platter and takes your carbonara. Your eyes widen. “You… you didn’t have to.” Riki shrugs casually, though his lips twitch upward in amusement. “I want you to enjoy your meal. Simple as that.” Your face brightens, cheeks flushing lightly at the small gesture. You dig into the seafood, instantly loving it.

Minjae, meanwhile, is struggling with the steak. “Which fork do I even—ugh, forget it,” he mutters, stabbing it with one he thinks is right. He bites down and his eyes widen. “Okay… wow. Yeah, this is worth it,” he says, a little too loudly, making Junhee roll her eyes.

You try peeling a shrimp from your platter but fumble awkwardly. Riki notices and silently slides your plate closer to him, deftly peeling the shrimp with careful fingers. You freeze, cheeks heating instantly. “You’re… you’re too good at this,” you whisper, trying not to sound flustered, though your voice betrays you.

Riki smirks lightly, handing you the shrimp once it’s peeled. “I like seeing you happy,” he says softly, almost under his breath. Junhee, still glued to her phone, nudges your arm lightly. “You’re turning into a tomato,” she whispers, grinning knowingly.

You bury your face slightly in your hands, heart racing, as Riki leans back, watching you with that faint, soft smile only you ever seem to notice. “He’s feeding you like you’re both married,” Junhee teases, eyes sparkling with amusement.

You freeze for a second as Riki gently brings a peeled shrimp to your lips. You gulp, heart fluttering, and open your mouth. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the restaurant doesn’t exist—you’re just two people caught in your own little world. Junhee and Minjae are talking somewhere off to the side, but you can’t even focus on what they’re saying.

He cracks open a crab leg for you with ease and hands your plate back, wiping his fingers on a tissue before picking up the carbonara. “You’re hopeless,” he mutters under his breath, watching you chew the shrimp he peeled.

Junhee and Minjae, distracted from their conversation, burst out laughing at the exchange. “Look at Riki though! He actually knows how to treat his girlfriend right,” Junhee points out. You and Riki share a soft laugh, glancing at each other. Meanwhile, Minjae fusses over his steak, theatrically cutting a piece and feeding Junhee.

“Here you go, my fussy princess,” Minjae says, grinning as Junhee playfully smacks him on the head. She fusses over him, adjusting his napkin like a tired mother, and all of you laugh, even as she looks completely confused by your amusement.

You dip another shrimp in the sauce and devour it, watching Riki slurp down the carbonara. You had judged his choice earlier, but honestly, seeing him enjoy it—and seeing him care enough to switch plates—makes you grateful beyond words. Some sauce smudges your lips, and Riki reaches over with a tissue, gently dabbing it away. Junhee and Minjae break into dramatic gasps, and you’re frozen, dumbfounded but secretly thrilled. You pick up a fork and feed him a piece of shrimp in return, laughing softly.

“Can you two not do that in PUBLIC?” Junhee gasps, a hand over her mouth. Minjae nods, as if he hasn’t just let Junhee feed him from her own fork.

“You should be the last person to point that out, Jun,” Riki teases, rolling his eyes but smiling softly at you.

Almost done with the meal, everyone’s satisfied but still craving something sweet. Junhee pipes up, “How about we share dessert? That way, we spend less.”

You glance at Riki. “Do you want dessert?” you ask quietly. He squeezes your hand across the table. “Yeah… let’s do it.” You smile back, a little heart swelling at the gesture.

“I’ll only share dessert with Junhee,” Minjae adds, winking. You pout playfully, but Riki gently intertwines his fingers with yours and whispers, “Okay, then we’ll share another dessert—just us.”

Soon the waiter brings the desserts: chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream for you and Riki, and strawberry shortcake for Junhee and Minjae. Your eyes widen at the chocolate cake, molten and soft, and the ice cream looks perfect. You go straight for the ice cream while Riki lunges for the lava cake, and your spoons clatter against each other. You giggle.

“Guess you’re stealing my part,” he says, eyes glinting with playful mischief as he watches you savor the ice cream. He scoops the gooey center and pretends to complain while feeding it to you. You devour it happily, cheeks flushed with delight.

Minjae plucks the strawberry off Junhee’s shortcake and pops it into her mouth before she can protest. “I thought you were gonna eat that!” she mutters, laughing. He bites his cake, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide. “Totally worth it,” he says, grinning. Junhee retaliates, playfully shoving a large piece of cake toward him. Minjae opens his mouth to catch it and almost chokes, causing you and Riki to burst out laughing.

“You already took my heart, now you’re trying to kill me?” he gasps dramatically, wiping cake crumbs from his lips.

“I didn’t know it would end like this, I swear,” she says, laughing as the four of you dissolve into happy chaos.

When the check comes, you reach for your wallet, but Riki shakes his head, pulling it from you. “How about you just treat me on future dates? For now, let me do this.” You can’t help but smile, heart swelling. He’s always been sweet, but moments like this make it impossible not to feel… full, in a way words can’t describe.

As you step out of the restaurant, you hug Junhee and Minjae goodbye, the air filled with that soft, unspoken warmth that comes with a perfect evening. Riki stays close, hands brushing yours occasionally, and for the first time in a long time, you feel completely at ease. Safe. Happy. And maybe, just maybe, exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You walk beside Riki, the evening calm and the streets quiet, lined with orange-glowing streetlights. The air smells faintly of rain that had passed earlier, carrying that clean, fresh scent you both liked. Normally, you’d be chatting, teasing him, but tonight, you’re unusually quiet, lost in your thoughts. The double date had been perfect, yet your mind keeps drifting to finals and the looming uncertainties of the future.

Riki seems to notice without saying anything. His hand brushes against yours, and before you can react, he gently intertwines his fingers with yours. The simple gesture alone makes your chest feel lighter, like he’s silently telling you he’s there.

Finally, you give in to the pull of your worries. “What if I don’t get into a good college? What if I end up… stuck, while everyone else moves forward?” Your voice is low, almost lost to the quiet night, but Riki tightens his grip just slightly, letting you know he’s listening. He glances at you, holding your hand firmly, observing you the way he always has since childhood—calm, patient, and unwavering.

You keep talking without thinking, words tumbling out. “My grades… they’re not as good as Junhee’s. And my parents… they’ll just compare me to you again. I don’t know if I can handle more of that.” Your voice cracks, trembling with vulnerability, and Riki stops walking immediately. His stillness makes you pause too, the weight of the night pressing down.

“You don’t have to be like me. Or Junhee. Or anyone,” he says, voice steady, calm, and entirely sincere. You know he means it because he always does, the certainty in him making your chest ache. He reaches out, tugging your sleeve lightly so you turn to face him. “You’ll get where you’re supposed to go. And if it’s not where you thought, I’ll still be there. Cheering for you.”

Something inside you loosens, and you hug him immediately, burying your face in his chest. You don’t cry—just hold him like you’ve wanted to do ever since dinner at the restaurant, silently leaning into him as though his presence alone could shield you from everything else. “You make it sound so easy,” you mutter, voice muffled against his shirt.

He smirks faintly. “That’s because you make everything too hard,” he teases softly, then his voice drops a notch, gentler now: “But I’d rather you rant to me a hundred times than keep it all inside.” His hand moves almost awkwardly, palm against your back, a subtle, practiced motion that reminds you of all the little ways he’s comforted you since childhood. Somehow, even now, it feels completely right. You hesitate for just a moment, but then hug him back, the quiet intimacy of the gesture grounding you both. It’s your first truly public, tender moment together, without teasing or banter.

He squeezes you lightly, firm and reassuring. “Besides… no college, no grades, no parents… none of that decides if you’re worth something.”

You look up at him, streetlight catching the side of his face, and it hits you—really hits you—how much he means it. How much he means to you.

The moment stretches between you, heavier than usual, wrapped in the quiet night, a soft foreshadowing that everything will change after finals—but for now, you’re here. Together. Safe. And somehow, that’s enough.

⪩⪨

After the final exams ended, you couldn’t help but stand outside the results board a few days later, heart hammering in your chest. The crowd around the board was bigger than expected, people jostling and whispering, and you immediately frowned—crowds had never been your thing. Still, curiosity got the better of you. Before you could inch closer to see your marks, a familiar voice called out. “Hey! Over here!”

You turned to see Riki waving, phone in hand. He sprinted toward you, breathless, a wide grin on his face, and without a second thought, wrapped you in a tight hug. The warmth of him enveloped you instantly. “Did you… top?” you asked quietly, almost forgetting your own results in the excitement of his presence.

“No… but,” he pulled back just enough to grin at you, eyes shining. “You passed with flying colors!”

You blinked, confused. “You’re serious?”

He held out his phone, showing the picture he had taken of the results board. Zooming in, you squinted at your own name, seeing the marks clearly. Your heart skipped—was that really you? Capable enough to pass with marks you had never imagined for yourself? “Your hard work paid off,” Riki murmured, pulling you into another hug. His grip was firm, protective, and you hugged back, smiling through the relief that this chapter of stress was finally closing.

Just then, Junhee’s teasing voice broke through. “What did you get, stupid?”

You pulled away and saw the two of them playfully fighting. You looked at Riki and couldn’t help but smile—he returned the grin effortlessly. At least their relationship was blossoming just like yours.

“I’m your boyfriend, stop calling me stupid,” Minjae muttered, a mock glare in his tone.

“You’ll always be my stupid,” Junhee shot back, before running off as Minjae chased her, giggling and scooping her up. You pulled out your phone, quickly snapping a picture to tease them later.

“They’re cute,” you murmured softly, still watching the chaos. Riki leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “And so are we,” he whispered.

“Oh, shut up. We’re the cool couple,” you replied, smirking. But his fingers found your sides, tickling you mercilessly. You glared, laughing, and he just gave you that cheeky grin—the one that made it impossible to stay mad.

⪩⪨

When his birthday came at the end of the year, you were already packing for college. Both of you had secured places in colleges in different cities, but you wanted to make sure his birthday was special. You stepped into his mostly empty old house, cake in hand, and called out. “Riki!”

He appeared at his bedroom door, eyes widening at the sheer size of the cake. “For whom?” he teased instantly.

“For my boyfriend, so don’t even dare eye it,” you replied with a laugh, setting the cake carefully on his empty desk.

“Oh? Then? You shouldn’t step into a strange guy’s room,” he countered, moving swiftly to playfully grip your waist and pin you to the bed.

You gasped at the sudden energy, eyes wide, cheeks flushing. “What? You should expect that, especially when you come into someone’s room without checking if it’s your boyfriend,” he said, but his lips were already brushing the corner of your mouth.

He whispered, “Look at me,” before pressing a proper kiss to your lips, deep and lingering. Your hands were free now as his hand roamed under your shirt, grazing the edge of your bra. You pushed him gently but firmly, voice trembling, “Not now! We said we’d wait.” He pouted, muttering, “I forgot. But sure.” Though you knew, even as he said it, he was reluctantly respecting the rule you’d set.

“Happy birthday, Riki! Happy turning 18. Now you’re dating a minor,” you teased, smirking despite your flushed cheeks. He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh right? A minor that’s gonna turn 18 in a month or so,” he muttered, but when you hugged him immediately afterward, all trace of his annoyance melted away.

“I’m just so happy we didn’t stop talking back then,” you whispered, pressing close.

“I know. I love you,” he replied softly, placing a kiss on your forehead before pulling you onto the bed with him, curling around you in a warm embrace. Cake could wait—this moment, this closeness, was more important.

“Please don’t fall in love with another guy over there,” Riki mutters softly, burying his face in your shoulder as he hugs you tight. His voice is light, joking, but the slight tremor in it betrays the insecurities he can’t quite hide. “I know I’m not great at reading minds, but I can read your heart just fine.”

You chuckle, cupping his face gently. “Of course I won’t, dummy. Even if someone gave me gold, I’d still pick my trash over everything.”

“Wait—are you calling me trash?” His pout is playful, but you can see the faint glimmer of worry in his eyes.

“Of course not,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “You’re the diamond.”

He doesn’t let go. He just hugs you tighter, as if holding on would make the distance easier to bear. You return the embrace, feeling the same pang of longing yourself. “Don’t worry,” you murmur. “We’ll still meet during holidays.”

“As if that’s supposed to make me happy,” he mutters, tightening his hold. “I’m used to being by your side every day.” You hug him back just as tightly, heart aching in a mix of love and fear. Soon, the warmth and the exhaustion of the day carry you both into sleep.

“I love you,” he whispers sleepily, legs tangled with yours under the blanket. “I love you too,” you mumble, your words garbled in sleep. He smiles, even half-asleep, pulling you closer and letting your head rest on his chest.

The birthday cake still sits on his desk, untouched—a quiet reminder of celebrations waiting to happen, just like your life, ready to begin.

⪩⪨

The four of you hardly got time to talk these days, and when you did, it was chaotic—full of background noise, dropped calls, and everyone talking at once. But Riki? He called you every single morning and night. Sometimes he even begged to keep the video on while he fell asleep. He just wanted to see your face, to have you there even if you weren’t physically in the room. And secretly—you had no idea—he kept your photo frame on his bedside table, just to stare at when he couldn’t sleep.

“I don’t have charging, Riki,” you mumbled one night, almost apologetic, as he whined at you to stay on the call. You were sharing a room with a classmate who was already dead asleep, leaving you alone with him on the screen.

Hesitantly, you plugged in your power bank, and there he was—gripping his pillow to his chest, eyes soft and a little sleepy, smiling at you like you were the only person in the world. Watching him like that, it hit you how much he just… needed to see you, and how much you’d come to need him, too. He joked that it cured his insomnia, but honestly? You wouldn’t want it any other way.

You didn’t know if you liked having him more as your best friend or your boyfriend. And maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Because one thing was clear: Family isn’t about blood. It’s about who sticks around, who actually cares.

And for you, that was Riki, Junhee, and Minjae—your little chaotic, loving, ridiculous family. People you chose, people who chose you back, people who’d stay even when the rest of the world didn’t. They were your home, and no matter what, you’d carry them in your heart forever—even if the world forgot.

And in that moment, seeing Riki’s sleepy little smile through the screen, it felt like everything was going to be okay. After all this was the family that mattered.

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