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considering your athletic reputation as the university’s star outside hitter, you're relatively well-known around campus. that’s her first strike—not that it’s a bad thing, just enough for haerin to put you in a different world in her mind. two sides of a coin. peas of different pods—and so forth. you’re louder, more outgoing, bright in a way that feels abrasive to her more reserved nature.

your friends don’t help your case either. they snicker during lectures while haerin is trying to take notes, organize her planner, or simply pay attention. even in the halls of the building or on the  respective way to your classes—you somehow manage to pass by her at least twice a day—-your friends are making you push them away because they made you laugh too hard and suddenly the quiet of the arts building is filled with your voice.

so, she didn’t really acknowledge you at first despite the connections you shared with two of her friends eunchae and minji. but when you decided to switch majors before your second semester and started spending more time in her building, ruining the comfortable routine and atmosphere,  that was the beginning of her personal second semester curse.

(haerin’s heard of the infamous second semester curse; she figured it’d just be due to a heavier academic load and whatnot, not for it to manifest in the form of you.)

and if she was being honest, you’d never actually done anything to her. haerin was just being a little more judgmental than she liked to admit—or as her best friend danielle would say, “you’re just being the usual haerin”—and you, all bright and loud, were simply everything she wasn’t very fond of. it was easier to dislike you that way.

but today, she finally had a tangible reason to back up her detestation.

“holy shit—” haerin hears you curse, your voice panicked as sneakers squawk against the gym floor.

the world spins a little as haerin presses her palm against her head, wincing. 

you’re already sprinting over, wide-eyed and breathless, guilt written all over your face as you slow down to a stop.

“i’m so sorry,” you blurt, unsure of what to do now that you’re right in front of her. “i swear i wasn’t aiming for you—are you okay? can you stand? should i get someone? oh my god i’m so sorry!”

your voice fully registers in her mind and through the haze of pain, haerin blinks up at you.

of course it had to be you.

of course you had to hit her.

of course you had to look at her like that—so worried, so intense.

and for some reason, that annoys her even more.

“i’m fine.” haerin says through gritted teeth, holding the side of her face that was pummeled by a volleyball. now it makes sense why you’re the star outside hitter, because it hurt. it wasn’t even your worst spike. 

she grumbles, “could you watch where you’re hitting next time?”

“i’m so sorry, really.” you hesitate, hand still hovering awkwardly in the air before it reaches over to haerin’s so you can check the side of her face, but she steps back.

“seriously,” she says, sharper this time. “i’m fine.”

you flinch a little at her tone, guilt flashing across your features before you try to cover it up with a sheepish smile. 

“right, um, sorry.” you say, backing off and biting the inside of your lip. “but seriously, i’m so sorry. you can, um, like, hit me back if you want? you can throw the volleyball at my face in return—ah, um, revenge. eye for an eye? or i can treat you to something… if you…”

your voice dies down at the sight of her glare, and because she’s taken her hand off her face and wow the color is nasty—a dark red that might just fade into a near purple in the next hour.

she looks at you, unimpressed, and flatly says, “i’m not five.”

you laugh under your breath, scratching the back of your neck. “fair. but if you change your mind, i won’t argue back or anything,” you offer, pointing to your cheek dramatically. “free shot. no consequences.”

for a second, haerin truly wants to slap you in the face. she wants to roll her eyes and walk away. wants to keep being annoyed, to keep clinging to that righteous, simmering dislike she’s built up for no reason.

but you stand there so weirdly genuine and stupidly endearing in your own loud, clumsy way that makes it harder for her to hate on you the way she wants to. 

she huffs—loud enough for you to hear and swallow lightly from her terrifying energy—then gives you a small groan before turning and walking away without another word.

behind her, you raise your voice just a bit as you call out, cheerful despite the tension, “i’ll take that as a maybe!”

haerin doesn’t turn around. she just keeps walking, cheeks nearly as warm as the side of her head.

—

the next day haerin has to add a good two layers of color corrector, concealer, and foundation in order to cover up the giant bruise on the side of her face. 

after the incident yesterday, the nurse gave her an ice pack and a “take care!” to compensate for your damage because ‘regular’ university students do not get the same attention as an athlete with a torn acl, unfortunately.

she sits down at her usual spot for her music history class, pulling out her laptop and current reading for the course as she waits for hanni. but before hanni can steal a seat next to her, someone else does.

“hi, i don’t know if you remember me. i mean, you probably do…” haerin glances to her right, jaw tensing at the sight of you and hearing your voice. “i, um, got you this…”

you hand her a small box of strawberry chocolate bites, offering her a small smile to break the tension. 

but haerin doesn’t give in.

“why?” she asks.

“what?”

“i don’t need your chocolate,” haerin responds flatly. “you can go back to your friends now.” she adds, redirecting her attention back on the book in front of her. 

“no, no. please, i—i insist. i’ve been on that end, worse than what you had to endure though, and it’s really bad, just—”

“just because i’m not you doesn’t mean i can’t handle a ball hitting my face. i’m good, are we done?”

haerin notices the look of shock that makes your features twitch slightly. you avoid eye contact then, pursing a smile before pushing the chocolate toward her. 

“look. i’m not the type of person to let these things slide. it might seem small to me, but i want to make it up to you. take these chocolates for now,” you sigh, standing up. haerin looks up at you curiously, her expression never shifting as you finally say, “bye.”

—

there was a noticeable routine throughout the next two weeks that you couldn’t seem to break.

you’d cross paths with haerin often, because apparently fate had a terrible sense of humor, and you made sure to acknowledge her each time. it started off small” a smile, nod, or a soft “hey” in her direction. none of it was overbearing, just… persistent. it’s how you are.

even when haerin pretended to notice (she sure noticed each and every time), you never faltered. if her gaze so much as brushed yours, you’d light up immediately, offering a little wave that would never fail to be left hanging. 

in class, it was the same. she always sat in the same spot — the third row from the front, fourth seat in — and you always scanned the room for her as soon as you walked in. when you found her (which you always did), you’d stroll past, knock gently on the edge of her desk with your knuckles, and smile before heading to your own seat across the room.

haerin didn’t understand any of it.

why were you being so nice to her? what were your intentions?

it was all so… strange.

hitting her in the head shouldn’t have led to… whatever this was. she’d expected you to move on and forget it. you have much bigger things to worry about anyway, as the outside hitter. instead, it felt like you were making a point to force your way into her peripheral vision every single day.

she’d been skeptical, very skeptical. she’d spend a few minutes zoned out, trying to think about what you were up to, and why it seemed so welcoming. but no, haerin can’t give in. that’s not like her, not for someone like you.

it wasn’t until her confusion simmered down that she found herself out one afternoon with her group of friends huddled around a crowded table at a campus cafe, sipping on iced teas.

“remember when you told us about the volleyball-to-your-head incident?” minji asks, switching the conversation topic from the most annoying professor to you.

haerin raises a brow. “yeah, why?”

“y/n’s been spiraling because of it.” minji says casually, twirling her straw. “because of you.”

haerin blinks, caught mid-sip. “...what?”

“yeah.” minji grins. “she thinks you hate her. she feels awful about it.”

hanni nods, a bite of a sandwich halfway to her mouth. “i feel bad for the girl,” she adds around a mouthful, earning a look from danielle. “sorry dani. but yeah, minji was telling me about it kinda. damn.”

“so you’re just going to tell hanni about a story that involves… me? without telling me first?” haerin rolls her eyes playfully.

“okay well to be fair she’s my roommate so how about that.” minji argues. “anyway, ever since the volleyball thing,” she continues, leaning forward like she’s about to drop the craziest news ever (knowing minji, it’s probably not that crazy), “she’s been convinced she made an enemy out of you. like, actually upset about it. she keeps asking me if she should apologize again, if she’s being annoying, if she should just stop trying…”

haerin stares at her, stunned into silence.

you? of all people? spiraling because of… her?

 “maybe she’s just not used to people like you, ‘rinnie. i don’t know her like that but i heard she’s very lively and outgoing and basically your complete opposite.” danielle giggles softly. “and i thought i was bad.”

“plus, she thinks you’re like a ghost or something. she sees you everywhere, apparently,” minji adds with a laugh. “she’s kinda going insane.”

for a long moment, haerin just sits there, her fingers gliding along the condensation on her cup. the irritation that she pairs up with you in her head fizzles away just a little.

she hadn’t realized it got to you that much. she never realized how much you truly cared about how she was affected by your killer spike.

maybe, haerin thinks, maybe she’d been a little too quick to judge. 

maybe you’re not just loud and obnoxious. maybe you’re just trying to mend things.

“i guess i’ll be a little nicer. you can’t blame me though, that bruise was purple. i’m just glad it wasn’t that close to my eye.”

“i’ve had worse.” minji snickers, earning a glare from her.

—

today, you have your music history class. 1pm on tuesdays and thursdays, seventy-five minutes long, and one of two classes you have with kang haerin.

you also share the class with two of your teammates: kazuha, the most reliant, talented setter you know, and yunjin, whose killer vertical and presence at the net make her the best middle blocker in the region. 

while the two are a dream combination on the court, they’re a nightmare in any academic setting.

out of the three of you, you tend to be a little more reserved, which says a lot. your composure breaks without fail because they’re so loud and unfortunately so hilarious that it makes you cackle and completely lose any self-awareness in class, or anywhere in general.

yunjin’s nudging you as you three walk up the stairs, teasing you as soon as you reach the second level of the building.

“are you ready to be ignored by kang again?” she snickers, grinning from ear to ear. “i think she hates you even more after all of whatever you’re doing.”

“oh shut up.” you groan, shoving her with your shoulder. “look, i’m trying to be nice. do you know how fucking bad it is to get hit in the head with a volleyball? dude, that wasn’t even my best. it was practice. i feel so bad… one time i got hit by ryujin’s spike and—”

you shiver, remembering how puffy and purple your face had been after the game against your rivals. you looked like you’d gone ten rounds in a boxing ring.

and you can’t stop thinking about haerin after, pinching the bridge of her nose at the thought of her. the faint swelling after the incident, the way her concealer couldn’t quite cover the bruise. the fact that she hadn’t said a word about it, just sat there stiff and silent the next day in class.

“—i need to make it up to her.” you mumble under your breath, almost to yourself.

“wow. i’ve never seen you so sorry.” kazuha hums thoughtfully, sipping on whatever flavored latte she has in her hand. then, she nudges you, nodding her head toward the woman you injured two weeks ago. “but seriously, it’s impressive. i’ve never seen someone make being nice this tragic— hey, now’s your time to shine.”

you glance up.

it’s nine in the morning and you always pass haerin on your way to your first class of the day. today is no different. 

she’s put together, headphones in, and headed straight towards you. 

you feel a lump in your throat. every day, every time, you say hi. and every day, every time, she ignores you.

but you can’t help yourself. you swallow lightly, raising a hand and smiling at haerin. to your surprise—she looks up and meets your eyes, holding the contact for a second longer than usual, something almost unreadable shimmering along the surface before she shifts her gaze forward like it’s nothing, continuing down teh hall.

she acknowledged you. 

you turn to watch her walk away, stunned. “guys, maybe she doesn’t hate me.” you gasp under your breath.

“or maybe: you’re delusional.” yunjin clicks her tongue. “there was probably something on your face.”

“was there?” you say in a slight panic, pulling out your phone to check yourself out. there’s nothing but your plain old face, the face that haerin looked at for four whole seconds.

you can’t be delusional, there’s no way.

when you go to your next class, your spirits are still lifted. you step into music history half an hour later. kazuha and yunjin are already in their seats since you left them to go grab something from your car, and by the time you glance over they’re laughing at something on yunjin’s phone. you linger longer by the door, adjusting your hoodie.

out of habit, your eyes find haerin—third row from the front, fourth seat in—posture perfect with her laptop in front of her, earbuds out now.

something is different this time when you look at her, because she’s already looking at you.

you feel your breath catching. a flash of nervousness rushes through your body and you have no clue why. she blinks once, twice, then quickly turns her focus back to the screen, fingers typing calmly like nothing had happened.

still—you catch yourself smiling, chest a little lighter than it had been all week.

something is different. you can feel it.

and for the first time you can relax your shoulders, because it feels like you’re not just fighting this silent losing battle anymore.

—

you see her again thursday morning, but yunjin and kazuha aren’t there to witness your five seconds of embarassing yourself. 

today her hair is up in a bun and she’s wearing a plaid long-sleeve button paired with wide-leg sweatpants—she looks good, and now that the thought pops up… when hasn’t she?

“hey,” you blurt out before you can even think about what to say after. “good morning.” you add with a friendly smile.

she slows down, her brows twitching just barely as she looks at you like she’s thinking of what to say. maybe she’ll utter nothing and walk off. maybe she’ll reprimand you. to be honest, you don’t really care what happens next because it’s better than nothing.

“hi.” she says quietly, flatly. she breaks eye contact and walks right past again.

your smile widens, and each step down the hall feels brighter.

—

the week ends for most people with relief, but not for you. most friday’s are spent at the university’s court for practice, running a few warmup laps around the small court to get you going.  

everything continues on normally: your team pairs up to pepper for ten minutes before moving into spiking drills, setting, receiving, and perfecting minor details before moving on to scrimmages. it’s a routine you could never get tired of, one your body knows by heart. even when you’re sore and dreading practice, you love it.

what breaks the usual routine is a certain someone showing up twenty minutes before practice ends. 

haerin walks through the door with two of her friends. you recognize danielle and hanni since they’re a weekly feature on your teammate minji’s instagram stories. while everyone gets back into order, your eyes linger on haerin. what you don’t expect is for her to lock eyes with you for a split second, a moment that makes you stop in place, before she breaks the contact. 

you catch the group sitting in the bleachers, sparking a sudden urge to try a little harder.

the last twenty minutes of scrimmage consist of you doing very well. your turns are sharp and precise, your spikes heavy and quick—even some of your teammates are shocked at the sudden boost of energy. you’re playing almost as well as you would in a real game, and maybe it’s because of a special someone in the crowd. maybe it’s to distract her from the fact that one of your spikes left her in the nurse's office.

when practice ends, you run a few laps with your team before stretching together, though not without trying to sneak a peek at haerin to find that she’s already doing the same. you have to fight back a smile each time.

and after everyone finished changing, you caught up with minji, nudging her arm with your elbow.

“hey buddy,” you greet with a teasing tone. “nice blocks today. your vertical is getting better by the day!”

“thanks,” she laughs. “and… buddy? since when did start using that?”

“since now?”

“you sound ridiculous,” minji sighs. “so, what did you need from me?”

“i already told you! you’re doing better… and… well, i have a question.”

minji sighs once more.

“what’s with your little friends showing up?”

“no,” minji starts, raising her eyebrows. “what’s with haerin showing up.”

“no…”

“...yes,” she counters. 

you huff, rolling your eyes as you step back onto the court. minji’s friends are still sitting in the third row of the bleachers, laughing at something from what you can tell. and then minji looks at you from the side, raising her brows again and tilting her head, motioning for you to follow her.

you hesitate when minji starts heading over, but give in anyway.

“i’ll just say hi,” you mutter, more to yourself than minji. your teammate shrugs. 

when you arrive, they’re already headed down the bleachers—it’s a little terrifying. haerin is second after danielle, with hanni trailing behind. you watch as danielle leaps over to hug minji, then catches you while her arms are wrapped around your teammate.

“oh hey!” danielle beams into minji’s ear. “you must be y/n?”

“yeah, right on!” you respond with the same energy. 

then your eyes land on haerin, who’s fixing the collar of her t-shirt before meeting your gaze once again. the energy in your body dims down, your jaw tenses, and you feel like a movie character when the background blurs behind and it’s just them.

“hi haerin.” you greet warmly. 

she scans you again as if she’s figuring out whether or not you deserve a response. you gulp shallowly.

“hi.” she responds. her friends turn their heads toward her, clearly amused. then, her lips curl up just barely, almost imperceptibly. if you weren’t so hyperfocused on her you wouldn’t have caught it. “i’m surprised you didn’t hit anyone in the face.”

your heart beats against your chest like it’s trying to escape. 

minji bites back a laugh as you awkwardly chuckle before saying, “well, that’s progress.”

haerin’s brows raise just a bit as she adds, “your aim must’ve improved.”

minji doesn’t hold back her laugh this time, slapping your shoulder. something about haerin’s light teasing warms your chest, there’s a grin on your face as you respond, “just for you.” and maybe it was risky, but it makes haerin’s lips turn up just a little more. it feels like a standing ovation.

“well,” you begin, because your heart might explode right there and right now. “i was just catching up with minji. i have to uh, i have to… catch up with someone else. see you haerin— and um, you two as well— hanni, danielle.”

they all giggle before waving to you, though haerin only offers you a small smile that makes you want to celebrate.

—

haerin lifts up her head after sensing someone’s presence right by her side. she assumes it’s hanni, so she doesn’t bother to look right away. but when she tilts her head and glances over, it’s not who she expected.

“morning.” you greet, casual, but a faint smile is seen on your face.

you’re here early, haerin thinks. usually your friends would make it before you, loud and probably sharing their whole weekend with the class unknowingly. you’d show up just before class started and scan the room for haerin before making  your way over to the back to join the disturbance. not that she’s keeping track or anything though. that’d be ridiculous.

she blinks once. “morning.”

she turns to grab something from her bag, assuming you’ll leave sooner. but you don’t. instead, she feels your lingering presence beside her desk.

“so, how was your weekend?” you ask, equally awkward as sincere.

“fine.” she replies without looking up. 

you nod, waiting, but nothing conversational trickles in after.

your attempt at dissolving the tension is by clearing your throat, trying not to make it weird. “that’s good. did you do anything fun?”

she turns her head just barely, meeting you halfway—sort of. “why are you bothering me?” she asks, and the bluntness makes you stiffen a little.

your lips part but nothing comes out. you hesitate before answering, “i’m waiting for my friends.”

her brow lifts slightly as if she doesn’t believe you.

“you don’t believe me, do you?” you sigh. “this isn’t me doing charity work because i left a bruise on the side of your face that one time. that was an accident.” 

“right.” she says dryly, her lips twitching faintly.

“i swear!” you blurt out, flustered now. “i felt so bad—like, genuinely. i was gonna ask minji if i could venmo you for your medical bills or something—”

haerin cuts you off by letting out a quiet huff of laughter, looking at you properly for the first time. the corners of her lips lift and something in her eyes soften.

“has anyone ever told you how dramatic you are?” she questions, amused.

you fake a pout. “whatever.”

“you know,” she turns back to her desk, fighting a smile, “you’re not bothering me. i also feel bad that you look like a loser, all lonely and all. you can stay a bit until your friends come.”

“what did you say?”

“you heard me.” she says with a smile. 

and just like that, you’re pretty sure your morning’s already made.

—

you’re not really sure why you decided to put an effort into stepping over the line to make it on haerin’s good side. all the waving at her and making your presence known—maybe it could be labeled as bothering—had been spontaneous. 

there was no doubt that you were drawn to her for whatever reason. maybe it was because she caught your eye each time you would pass her near the beginning of the semester. maybe it was because you looked for the familiar face once you got the rhythm of when you’d briefly be within her presence. 

she was also on minji’s instagram occasionally, so you had a clue of who she was before attacking her face with a ball. and you’d stalked her instagram maybe once or twice on a random evening just because she was tagged in a story. she seemed nice and all, so why not talk to her more?

plus, she was nice to look at at. she had the kind of face that lingers in your mind after being around her, sometimes at night too, or even in random bursts throughout the day. she’s a new smile in your life that you start getting used to. 

haerin found you to be an addition to her routine, a very unexpected one. 

you’d appear at the end of the hall, sometimes with your friends—but recently it had been just you—and wave to her. when it was just you, you never failed to ask her how she was or how her day had been so far, everything friendly. and if she were being honest; she didn’t mind all this energy from you, if anything, she really liked it. 

it took a bit of time for haerin to reciprocate, maybe because of the grudge but also because it was difficult to talk to someone who used to be a world away from her. but here she is asking you if your practice is well, when your games were, and further inquiries that introduce you more as a person. she truly liked getting to know you, even if she pretended to be reserved and hesitant at times.

—

“hey,” you greet haerin as you walk up to her.

haerin isn’t sure when the bumping into you turned into willingly wanting to catch you in the morning or afternoon. this time, she’s waiting in the lobby instead of lingering in the usual hall, and she’s caught you by surprise with the slight change.

“hi.” she greets back.

you’re wearing a blue baseball cap with capital ‘a’ in white on it. your hair is pushed down by the cap just a bit, urging you to swipe it away to prevent it from blocking your view. a loose, white graphic tee also hangs over your figure nicely, complemented by a nice pair of jeans with a color that suits you well. you adjust your cap, finding the way it sits on your head a little off, and haerin wonders why she hadn’t realized how cute you’ve been until now.

“so, i was wondering.”

“oh no.” haerin sighs.

“hey!” you whine playfully. “well now i’m not going to say it.”

haerin looks you square in the eye, tilting her head down and raising her brows just barely.

“okay well if you look at me like that…” you surrender, fixing your hair just a bit. “since we have that mini exam, i was wondering if you wanted to go to the library to study… or, we could hit that cafe nearby.”

“there’s a lot of those.”

“well i know a nice one.”

“me too, y/n.”

“everytime i feel like we’re getting better at this, you suddenly find a way to hate me again.” you joke, but haerin lingers on whatever ‘this’ is. you continue, finishing your thoughts, “but yeah, after class, are you down?”

“sure, sure.” she agrees.

and then you smile, teeth peeking out just a bit. haerin feels a weird tingle run through her body.

—

the tingles get worse the next two weeks.

she spends more time with you, getting a little more personal and she likes it a little too much. you tell her the main reason why you switched majors. you were pressured into something law related, but after taking one elective for that path, you knew it wasn’t for you. and then you did that thing where you rambled on about something you liked a lot, in this case you had rambled about your love for playing the bass, which is the main reason you switched.

“you play bass?” haerin’s eyes widen just a bit from the initial shock. you are so much and so normal at the same time. “since when?”

“ummmm when i was like ten i think. i’ve always played and enjoyed it, even had a few gigs, but my parents wanted me to do law or something that would rack up money.” you shrug. “i got a nice scholarship because of volleyball and realized that i could just… do what i like. and what i like is that—more than anything, really—so....”

she turns to see you staring ahead. you’re both walking across campus to meet up with your friends at the food court, but haerin can’t think about any of that when the afternoon sun is kissing your features perfectly. it hits her that you’re really good-looking.

sure, she knows that’s also another key factor that plays into your reputation. people praise you for your skills, how lively you are, but also how nice on the eyes you are. haerin gets that now.

you catch her staring hard, a smile forming as you mumble, “what?”

haerin snaps back to reality, looking ahead again. “nothing. just thinking, sorry.”

“it’s fine.” you assure, running a hand through your hair. 

when you arrive at the building, ready to split ways to meet your friends, you tap haerin on the shoulder as she turns to leave. she turns, tilting her head and says, “what?”

“you know, if you ever want to see me play bass… you could just ask~”

“you’re full of it.”

you snicker, shaking your head. “well. if you ever stop accusing me of being narcissist, maybe i’ll invite you over to a gig.”

haerin narrows her eyes. “whatever. you should catch up with your friends. i’ll see you, bye y/n.”

“yeah, yeah. see you, haerin.” you smile at her and it feels like the ground beneath is stealing the energy from her knees, nearly knocking her off balance.

—

something about haerin has you rolling around in bed. 

before you dressed in your most comfortable pajamas, flat on your stomach with a pillow under your chin as you stare at your phone, you had spent the evening with minji and her friends—haerin being one of them. 

you set your phone face down and rub your face in your hands. 

it was a spontaneous outing, and you had nothing better to do, so why not tag along with minji? it wasn’t anything crazy, just casual and friendly. all of you strolled along the boardwalk not too far from downtown and playing stupid carnival games. it was fun, especially when hanni and minji started arguing over who would win the most tickets before the sun would set.

what was the most jarring was haerin. nothing in particular, just everything about her that night.

she showed up in a baby tee, beige cargos, and that face of hers. there was something about her that night, or maybe there had always been something about her that you never fully realized until the glow of a building hit her features perfectly. you two were the first to meet up—coincidentally— and without the rest of the group it felt like all the confidence had slipped away from you.

it took a second to greet her, your eyes in awe from how pretty she looked with the slight change in her makeup, or maybe the smile formed on her lips as her eyes landed on you.

you roll over to lay on your back, face still in your hands.

 your cheeks feel significantly warmer as you recall haerin lingering by your side the whole night. her hand had brushed yours multiple times—you remembered each and every time out of fifteen—and she was just so different, charming even, with her friends around. it was a slightly different side of her, one that had your heart beating slightly faster the whole night. 

you can’t stop thinking about the moment she fixed the cap on your head, the hair on your face, and her fingers brushing against your face before telling you how stupid you looked with the loveliest grin. it made your stomach churn. 

the thought of her couldn’t—cant leave your head, even as you take your hands off your face to pinch the bridge of your nose and shut your eyes tightly. 

“what is wrong with me…” you mumble, sighing.

you pick up your phone again, opening on instagram and tapping through stories until minji’s suddenly pops up. your brows furrow slightly as you scan it, eyes lingering on the picture of hanni and haerin, but mainly haerin in that frame. 

she looks good. you can’t get over it. and her user is tagged as well, so you click on it out of curiosity and infatuation.

she has two posts, much less than most people you know. the first one has four slides and a cat emoji as the caption. the first picture is a simple selfie of her with a very neutral expression, one which you stare at for a little too long. the next one is a similar selfie, though she’s smiling instead and you spend more time on that one. the last picture is a cute cat on the street, it makes you smile.

when you catch yourself smiling, you throw your phone across the bed, groaning into your hands.

—

haerin shows up to your next practice without warning you, but to be fair, neither of you had the chance (or guts, really) to ask for each others numbers. the only thing you had was the fact that you were now mutuals on instagram and the fear that held you back from texting her a simple “hi.”

 she’s in the bleachers reading a book—reading while you’re practicing. it makes you laugh more than it offends you, but there’s no reason to be offended anyway. haerin is just being haerin.

you try a little harder just in case she decides to steal a peek at you. today is mainly you serving and spiking up a ton while the rest of the team works to receive it, but when it comes to scrimmaging, you do your best—almost. 

practice ends and instead of heading to the locker room with your team, you run up to haerin, who’s head perks up when she catches the blur of your figure in her vision.

“did you miss me so much that you couldn’t help but stop by and watch?”

haerin scoffs. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“tch, whatever.” you respond.

before she spills the reason she’s there, her gaze shifts to the sweat glistening on your neck, then down to your collarbone, your shoulders, and arms. it’s oddly alluring, but she pushes it down by gulping and meeting your eyes again, trying to ignore the stupid smirk on your lips that tugs at her heartstrings. 

“you put your laptop charger in the wrong bag. i figured you’d be here, so—” she pulls out your macbook charger and hands it to you. “—here.”

“haerin,” you mutter, grabbing the charger. then, you put your other hand out and say, “give me your phone.”

“what?”

“just do it.” you urge, and she surprisingly does.

haerin watches you type in something, then hears the phone vibrate. “my number.” you say it like it’s obvious. “so you don’t have to spend your time reading while the sound of our yelling and the volleyballs distract you.”

“it wasn’t distracting.”

“then why’d you come?”

“to see you.”

your face heats up immediately. 

“whatever. are you doing anything after this?” you ask with a twinge of nervousness in your tone. your thumb presses down on the charger in your hand, an attempt to cool your nerves. “lets hangout?”

“look who’s the one missing me now.”

“oh whatever. do you want to, or no?”

haerin rolls her eyes. “okay, but wash up. you’re sweaty and gross,” she says, her look falling to your bicep as it flexes while you squeeze your charger.

—

“so, you and y/n?” minji asks one afternoon, lazily sitting on the couch.

haerin looks up from her laptop, raising a brow. “what?”

“what’s with you two? are you guys dating?”

“what?” haerin repeats, though much more baffled than before. “where did you even get that idea?”

dating? that’s ridiculous. two people can spend more time together, become friends and whatnot. that’s not dating. and plus, you’re still a world apart. if you’re not around her you’re in your bubble above her, floating around far out of her reach. you guys are nothing more than good friends. you’re nothing more than her good friend.

“y/n talks about you a lot.” minji shrugs, but the flicker of mischief in her eyes doesn’t go unnoticed. “a lot.”

“because we’re friends.”

“y/n and yunjin are best friends, but i haven’t heard much about yunjin in a while.”

haerin bites back immediately. “because you know her as well, you guys are teammates.”

“i know you too, haerin. it’s the same.”

minji’s just being ridiculous. there’s no way she’s implying that you have a thing for her. there’s a ton of girls lined up for you and for you to be fixated on her of all people would be ridiculous.

“there’s a lot of people who are into her, but it seems she’s only into you.”

“i—” haerin doesn’t know what to say, she bites her lip instead.

could you really be into her? she thinks hard about it. you’re so oblivious and idiotic, it would be much more blatant if you were actually into her.

“maybe you should pay more attention to her, because she pays a lot of attention to you, haerin.” minji says, followed by a smirk.

haerin groans quietly, sinking in her spot.

“you’re being stupid.”

minji shakes her head. “i think you’re trying to deny what i’m trying to say because you’re also into her—whether you’re going to accept that or not.”

—

minji’s accusation is proven right when it hits her—or rather you, quite literally—not too soon after the night on the couch.

haerin agrees to go to one of your games, but she doesn’t admit it’s because of you. she purposely meets up with minji first, pretending she isn’t eager to see your stupid face. when you run up to her in your uniform, the short sleeves hugging your arms just right, she has to fight back a huge smile. 

you raise your brows, giving her a teasing little smirk. “look who decided to show up.”

“you love to flatter yourself.”

“and you.” it’s a risky comment coming from you, especially when it’s paired with a wink. your teeth catch your lower lip like you regret it—maybe it was too risky. but haerin finds herself scoffing to distract you from the blush spreading across her face.

haerin gets some downtime to meet up with hanni, danielle, and eunchae in the stands. and then the game starts before she process what’s going on.

your team shows up all smiley in their jerseys, the crowd cheering. haerin isn’t on the loud side, so she claps for your team—a sharp contrast to hanni and danielle who are screaming at the top of their lungs. 

somehow, you catch her in the crowd, winking at her before slapping yunjin on the back to boost her spirits. haerin shakes her head, smiling as she does so.

the game starts off well for your team. yoon’s serves throw off the team in the beginning, giving your team a bit of a headstart before they grow accustomed to her. kazuha’s setting, paired with how quick and determined you are on the court, score two-thirds of the points in the first set.

the second set is rougher, with the other team winning by a few points. haerin can see the frustration in your face from where she’s at. the way you tighten your jaw after each slip up and how minji slaps your shoulder to keep you from losing your cool. she’s never seen you so serious, not even during practice. the way you hold yourself on the court is tremendously different from how unserious and carefree in class or alone with her. it’s admirable—also really attractive

the game goes on. you play well. really well.

the third set has you pumping your fist with each successful spike. haerin’s never been into volleyball like that—eunchae was the one who had to explain all the rules while the game was running—but she can tell that you’re incredible just from the way you leap, score, and celebrate.

everyone cools off a bit before the fourth set, determining if you’ll have to play another rigorous round or if you’re ready to celebrate a win against your rivals. 

it begins well, with one great serve from lily that scores the first point. yunjin’s quick to block a spike from the other side, and then kazuha’s dump scores another point for your own team, earning a slap on the back from you that’s too hard for her liking. she pushes your head roughly with a smile on her face.

for a while, the game goes smoothly—until it doesn’t.

your rivals’ star ace spike was faster than you could react, the ball hitting your temple unexpectedly with a force matching your own spikes. the sharp sound catches everyone off guard, and it’s followed by a few gasps, then cheers as the ball lands on the ground after your team loses their focus to look at you with concern.

it hurts, but you shake it off, signaling that you’re fine with a toothy smile and a thumbs-up.

haerin’s sitting up straigher in the stands now, worry etched into the way her eyebrows furrow. danielle glances at her, brows raised, but haerin says nothing. she doesn’t blink once until the game continues on.

everyone’s on the edge of their seats nearing the end of the game—your team is a point away from winning. the other team serves, your team does their best to keep them from scoring, then the ball is on the other side for them to deal with it.

and then, unbelievably, it happens again—this time way worse. 

their outside hitter jumps, swings, and the ball hits you directly in the face clean, and blood shoots out from your nose like something out of a cartoon. the crowd gasps, and haerin flinches as if it hit her too.

you recover quick, blinking hard, and yell at yunjin. she runs after the ball, keeps it in the air, and the game continues. your team scrambles, recovers, and you manage to run up, leap, and score a winning point that echoes in the court.

the gym erupts.

you exhale in relief, losing strength in your legs and laying on the ground with your eyes on the ceiling. blood trickles down your lip, mixing with sweat, and dripping onto the court where you lie down. it’s kind of gross, but you can’t really bother to care because you’ve won. 

the athletic trainer rushes over and makes you sit on the sideline, ice pressed to your face, tissues jammed up your nose almost comically. your team scrambles around you, and you brush them off, telling them you’re fine.

as soon as you’re left alone, haerin doesn’t think—she just moves. she scoots past legs and bags and down the bleachers, walking fast toward where you are.

you look up when she approaches, and all she can think of is how completely stupid you look. stupid and cute.

something sharp and certain twists in her chest.

she likes you.

not in a maybe, possibly way. in a real way. in a “you just bled all over your team’s side of the court, it’s on your jersey, and you’re still smiling at me like that” kind of way.

“i’m fine,” you say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be grinning with blood drying under your nose.

she sits down next to you, looking at you with worry in her eyes. “you look like an idiot.”

“an idiot who scored the winning assist~” you hum happily, then pause. “maybe this is payback for the time i hit you.”

she narrows her eyes and shoves your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you laugh.

“i hate you. i still have a grudge because of that but,” she smiles, then continues, “that’s way too harsh for payback.”

you laugh—sort of, through the tissue—and it’s not even that funny, but she laughs too. 

and for a second, the sounds around you fade. the gym, the team, the chaos. it all blurs. everything clicks into place like it’s always been leading to this.

it scares you both simultaneously—how real it feels, how quick it settles in your chests—but it also feels safe. god it feels warm. like this was supposed to happen eventually.

you like her. she likes you. it hits you both at the same time—the third time something has hit you today, but this one hits way harder.

—

when haerin sees you next, your face is still swollen from the game a few days prior.

you’ve shown up to class without bothering to cover up the giant purple mark around your eye and another red mark on your nose bridge. but still, like always, you greet haerin with a smile before heading to your friends, who poke at your face on purpose and earn a pained groan.

“damn, ryujin got you good… it’s still there!” kazuha snickers poking you again. “jesus christ, it looks like you got punched.”

you shove her off, scoffing. “i’ll give you a similar mark if you keep it up.” 

“you better pray that the mark fades into something better, friday we’ve got that gig.” yunjin reminds you.

a lightbulb appears above your head. you’ve totally forgotten about the gig you landed—with the help of yunjin—after your little triumph on the court from a few days ago. your rub your face in your hands a little too hard and it hurts, making kazuha chuckle. 

yunjin arranged a little gig for you and two other students to play at a lively restaurant downtown. you’ve been a few times, and each time there’s been musicians brightening the atmosphere while bringing people together. out of all the places, this is the one you’ve been wanting to play at the longest. how could you forget?

it’s been a while since you’ve had a gig, if you’re not counting late-night bedroom sessions with friends, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends in someone's dorm or rooftop. the though of performing in such a long time, after being occupied with volleyball, makes you a little nervous.

“fuck,” you mutter. “i completely brushed that off.”

“well, you better be ready by then. we’ve got to practice for that after practice practice.” 

you nod, sighing at the slight sting of your injury. your eyes land on haerin, who’s writing something down on a sticky note and placing it in her notebook. she turns to say something to hanni and your eyes linger on the outline of her side profile.

a thought pops up in your head, one that makes you smile ever so slightly.

—

“so i was thinking,” you start, watching haerin turn to look at you with an “oh god,” expression plastered on her face.

“that’s not good.”

“would you not.” you sigh. “just let me finish.”

you two have been studying european music history together on the second floor of your campus’ most popular cafe. chatter is spilling out from every table, some mixed with the sound of writing or a pen tapping against the table, which does a decent job of making the process of studying your least favorite era less dreadful.

haerin has on a slight blush and lip balm that tints her lips, a no-makeup kind of look that prompts you to steal glances every few minutes or so. you can’t not glance at her, not when her hair is up in a high bun, some shorter hairs falling over her face shifting around just a bit everytime she laughs at your stupid jokes or looks up to think about something. 

“okay, fine.” haerin giggles softly.

“as i was saying,” you continue, but haerin is momentarily distracted.

the oversized t-shirt’s collar is loose enough to reveal a fraction of your collarbones. it drapes over you lazily, complimenting the slight tousled look of your hair. plus, you just look cute in general that it had made it really difficult to study with full concentration. the swelling had gone down and the bruise faded ever so slightly, but there’s a natural flush on your cheeks that lingers from the inflammation that haerin can’t help but find adorable. she looks down at the table, biting down on her back teeth and pursing her lips to give you her full attention.

“i have this… thing on sunday. it’s nothing big, kinda…” you say a little quiter than before. haerin’s distracted again, but just a little. your mannerisms are caught by her eye immediately; the way your voice simmers down to something slightly vulnerable when you’re serious, how you bite your lip in between sentences, and the way your eyes dart around are enough to tell her that it’s actually ‘something big.’

“down at that restaurant near the waterfront, the one with the good burgers and italian food—i have a um… a gig.” you explain, eyes meeting haerin’s again to search for something. “and you know, i’m gonna play bass, and yunjin’s gonna be there too with some others. we’re just gonna have fun, have a good time, a good night and stuff. i was um, i was wondering if you wanted to come.”

before haerin can respond, you clear your throat and clarify, “actually, i’m not really asking. i want you to come.” 

haerin is speechless for a moment, responding with only a blush dimmed by the ambience of the cafe and a smile.

“i’d like that.”

“really?” your posture fixes just a bit from sheer shock. “great. you can bring a friend of course! i don’t care, but i’d… i’d like to see you there. i’d like to spend time with you after my little thing too.”

she laughs and her head tilts a bit, eyes softening as she looks at you with those dumb, adorable blue light glasses slipping down near the tip of your nose. her hand moves over to push them back up, making you smile like a child.

haerin moves her hand back to her laptop, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks and says, “i’m looking forward to it.”

—

panic crawls up haerin’s spine before she can stop it.

she was supposed to have everything under control—finish her assignment early, take her time getting ready, maybe even have some downtime before heading out. but the essay took longer than expected because she lost half of her sources somehow, and now she’s scrambling. she types at a speed that blurs her vision and biting the inside of her lip with each typo just to submit with barely thirty minutes left to get ready to see you. 

haerin’s usually composed, easy-going, and on top of things. but now there’s a small pile of clothes tossed on the bed, her phone buzzing with the time, and her thoughts spinning faster than she can catch them. the bus stop is five minutes away, which means she has less time than she thought. her fingers have trouble zipping up her bag.

she ends up in something simple, making her second guess (but there’s no time for that, really). her hair is braided in two, something simple and hopefully cute enough for you. the braids fall neatly over her shoulders, parted slightly off-center. her makeup is light to match the striped, long-sleeve top she has on, paired with comfy jeans. it’s casual, but hopefully enough to make a statement, or get you to notice her, or maybe—

she closes her eyes, thinking of how ridiculous it is to be thinking so hard about her impression on you. she wants to look nice—wants you to think she looks nice. it’s stupid. she knows it’s stupid. and it’s conflicting in the sense that she’s standing in the mirror trying to impress someone who might not think twice about what she’s wearing. but she can’t help it.

now she’s tying her sneakers and thinking about how you’ll see her when she walks in. if you’ll glance at her for a beat longer than usual. if you’ll say anything. and that thought alone makes her blush so hard she has to put a hand over her face, thinking, what’s gotten into me?

—

haerin gets there a little late—heart banging against her chest from the walk and nerves—but it’s fine. the outdoor area is dim from the setting sun, the lights are warm and hazy, and you’re just about to start. the crowd isn’t crazy huge, but only two tables aren’t filled with a group of friends or couple. she spots a table for two, walking over and passing people talking over drinks, leaning into each other, swaying slightly even before the music begins.

you’re on stage, tuning your bass, laughing at something yunjin says into the mic. haerin spots you immediately, and before she can duck or think twice, your eyes catch hers through the crowd.

the moment is like a movie. everything slows down and it’s just you. your face lighting up—small, just a grin—but she feels it right in her chest. you look thrilled. like her showing up meant the world. like she’s not just another person in that room looking for a nice friday night. like she’s there for you and you only and the thought of it makes you soar.

she finds a spot somewhere off to the side, still in your line of sight. the music starts. something low and smooth and groovy—your fingers working the bass like it’s second nature. haerin’s never really paid attention to bassists before. but with you, it’s impossible not to. 

she’s suddenly too aware of every single thing you do. everytime your fingers shift to another note, the way your eyes flicker over her a little too often—none of it goes unnoticed.

yunjin stands beside you, her energy laidback, teasing. she waits for you to finish the opening chords, then strums into the rhythm, syncing naturally with the beat. you move with the rhythm, eyes mostly on your bandmates but still drifting back to haerin again and again like you can’t help it. 

the chorus creeps in, you step up next to yunjin, nodding at her like there’s a silent understanding of what’s up next. the crowd sways with you two, reeled in by your energy and playfulness. you alternate the lyrics with yunjin; she sings the first part of the chorus, and you sing the second part. 

“cause basically i—” yunjin starts, before passing it to you, “i just wanna ride with you”

your voice slides into the space, low and clear, easy but intimate.

“i gotta getcha—’cause i just wanna vibe with you”

yunjin keeps it light, laughing a little as you bump her shoulder during her next line, but when you return to your part, your gaze locks in on haerin. 

“‘cause i just gotta know if you want me too,” you sing. your voice is like silk, the tone is almost inviting, “dontcha want me?”

the lyrics feel different—like they mean something deeper and you’re not just singing it to entertain the crowd, like you really mean what you’re singing and it’s not just the song.

haerin’s heart races in her chest. she feels it even in her neck, in her fingertips, and the thrill of it makes it impossible to look away. the way your voice fills the room, rich and warm, and she’s hanging on every word. you sing with such ease, so naturally, as though this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. and with every chorus that yunjin flows into, you complement her voice without failing to make eye contact with haerin as you dance around with yunjin. 

dontcha, 

dontcha, 

dontcha, 

dontcha want me?

the outro loops, and she’s completely under whatever your voice has cast. her head bobs along, a faint smile on her lips, not even trying to hide how enamored she is. 

as the song ends, you pause for a moment, fingers still resting on the bass strings, and meet her gaze. you have the same look from before. a quiet understanding. your smile isn’t wide now, but it’s full of something softer, steadier. like you’re both aware of the new realization that hangs in the air. 

haerin rises with the rest of the crowd, clapping, her expression a little different now—slightly flushed, eyes bright. she makes her way to you once the applause dies down and people begin settling back into their seats after everyone on stage says their final words of appreciation and gratitude. 

it’s just you and her again. 

you’re both quiet. not because you want to be, but because haerin opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out. and on your end, it feels like your brain short-circuits the second you see her up close. 

she’s standing there with her hands fidgeting around with the end of her top, her cheeks are pink from the slight chill of the evening or maybe from the song—maybe both. her hair catches the light in soft waves, and her eyes, even as she glances down, make you want to collapse then and there. she looks up again with those gorgeous brown eyes you could probably stare at for the entirety of a lecture and longer and your brain is fuzzy and twisted and tangled. 

the golden light from the streetlamp pools down against a window and it somehow reflects perfectly to make her face glow more than before. everything about her feels surreal, a little too good to be true.

and before you can even process anything other than the slight tilt of her head, you say it.

“wow.” 

your voice is quiet, breathy, like you’ve just found a new wonder of the world. 

she glances up at you, lips parted like she was about to speak, but your next words beat her to it.

“you look beautiful.” and it’s not smooth, or practiced. it falls out of your mouth clumsy and too honest. but the second it slips out, you mean it more than anything you’ve ever said.

her eyes go wide for a second, and then she laughs—soft and flustered and caught off guard. her eyes dart away like they’re too shy to hold yours anymore. she shifts on her feet, head ducking slightly, biting the inside of her lip just barely. 

“you’re just saying that,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but warm, still not quite looking at you. 

“no,” you say, immediate, because it’s true and you need her to know it. “i mean it.”

she laughs again—maybe to calm her stuttering heart, or because she is way to flustered to act normal at all—and smiles into the sidewalk like it’s the only way she can keep from blowing up then and there.

(something like that)

you watch her closely, your heart racing, but not from nerves anymore. from something else. something lighter. better. 

“i um, i—” you pinch the bridge of your nose, cringing at your stutter. haerin laughs, and you do too before continuing. “thank you for coming. i was really looking forward to see you.”

“you were?”

“of course i was, idiot.” you grin. “have you eaten yet?”

haerin thinks to herself briefly. she had crammed before meeting with you, and if she tried to take even a bite out of anything she probably wouldn’t have been able to swallow it just from the overwhelming rush of nervousness that washed over her just from thinking about you and seeing you.

“no. i didn’t get the chance.”

“let me treat you then! the burgers here are great. lets grab two and share the fries,” you suggest, putting your hand on your stomach. “and i’m really hungry after all of that.”

haerin rolls her eyes, then chuckles. “of course you are. let’s go eat, y/n.”

—

after dinner, and saying all your goodbyes to everyone who showed up, you end up walking along the waterfront right outside the restaurant.

(yunjin makes sure to wiggle her brows at you two, and tease you until you’re blushing even harder than before.)

the night is quiet except for the sound of water lapping gently against the edge of the dock and the occasional breeze. the street lamps light up your path, and your steps slow naturally, like neither of you are in a rush to go home.

you nudge her arm gently as you walk. “you know, i always wanted to get to know you better.”

she glances over, rasing an eyebrow. “since when?”

“since that day i hit you in the head.” you laugh a little, eyes on the water now.

she groans. “seriously?” and you grin.

“i felt so bad—you were so pissed,” you say fondly. “i did everything i could to warm up to you because i was so, so sorry. every time we passed each other, you’d act like i didn’t exist or give me that look… my friends poked at me for it but i was kind of fascinated.”

haerin’s already laughing now, shaking her head. “you’re so weird.”

“probably.” you admit with a chuckle. “but i liked finally getting through your skin, getting to know you… you just— you stood out. i don’t think i’ve ever met anyone like you. and i didn’t stick around because i felt bad for giving you a giant bruise. i just thought you were interesting, and smart, and pretty. and when you say you hate me and call me an idiot it only makes me want to stick around and bother you more.”

your voice dies down a bit. haerin notices the shift in your demeanor—something shy, nervous, and adorable.

“i thought you were so odd for wanting to stick around,” she finally says, glancing at you with that same familiar side-eye, but softer this time. “and i didn’t like you before because we were in two different worlds and… your friends were so loud.” she jokes.

you pretend to clutch your chest, gasping. “wow, i’m hurt. you hated me without knowing me?”

“i didn’t hate you!” she defends, pushing you softly.

she laughs again and you both stop walking, pausing near the edge of the water. she’s still smiling when she looks at you, but her voice is smaller when she speaks again.

“i’ve really grown to admire you,” she says quietly. “and i’m glad we’re here, and you invited me to your little gig and i finally got to see you play bass and you…”

“i’m glad we’re friends—kind of,” you say softly, quietly. she looks up at you with a confused expression, to which you respond by looking away, smiling at the water in front of you. “i’m saying ‘kind of because’… i’ve kinda had a thing for you for a while and i’m really glad you came and i wanted to ask you out tonight but god it feels like my heart is beating out of my chest and—”

you inhale, then look her in the eyes before exhaling your confession, “haerin. i really, really like you.”

she doesn’t say anything at first. just looks at you, her eyes darting across your face like she’s searching for something in the sparkle on the surface of your eyes. 

then, slowly, she leans in and kisses your cheek. it’s quick, barely there, but you heat up almost immediately. your chest warms, and then your face, and then your whole body.

you blink. your cheeks are flushed like crazy—they have to be—and haerin pulls back, clearly flustered now too. she bites back a smile.

“i really like you too,” she mumbles, looking anywhere but at you. “you’re so cute. i hate it.”

you grin. “sorry.” 

“don’t be. i like it.” she responds, earning a playful scoff from you.

you can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night. neither can she.

—

your first official date with haerin is downtown, but it’s nothing too far from a usual hangout other than the fact that both of you are crazy aware of the mutual feelings, mutual everything. haerin smiles at you the whole time and you want to capture the moment and hang it on your wall.

the second official date is nothing crazy, but it’s really domestic for a second date. 

you invite her over to your place since yunjin’s out for the weekend helping her mom with something you completely forgot about. haerin shows up in a simple sweater and shorts and the sight of her alone earns a bunch of kisses pressed all over her face. she pretends to be annoyed, pushing you off and groaning playfully, but when you’re settled, she presses a soft kiss on your cheek and calls you cute. you nearly combust.

for a second date, it’s awfully intimate. intimate in the way that you were supposed to be watching a movie together, but a gust of drowsiness decided to sweep by. it hits you first, starting off with a small yawn that leaves your lips, and then your head falls to haerin’s chest, the thump of her heart lulling you to sleep. she’s flustered beyond measure at how calm and settled you look, snapping a picture before shutting your laptop and pulling your blanket over both of you. she moves just a bit so you can both lie comfortably instead of at a questionable angle, and the last of your energy takes over then, your arm wrapping around her.

the second date ends with you waking up to a dead-asleep haerin sprawled out on top of you. the soft breaths from her lips urge you to reach out your hand, even while half asleep, and brush the hair out her face, smiling before you succumb to sleepiness again.

—

an incident familiar to your first mishap with haerin occurs before you even get to your third date. 

it’s just like before–same gym, same rush of adrenaline as you play through another long rally during practice. the ball sails high over the net, your timing feels perfect, and without thinking, you leap up and spike it hard.

the ball’s trajectory decides to swerve and smack right into someone’s head.

you freeze.

it takes less than a second to realize it’s haerin.

“oh my god—” you’re already sprinting across the court before she can even recover from the hit, cradling her head with one hand while waving off the coach with the other. “are you okay? are you—can you see me well? how is your vision? do you feel dizzy?”

“i’m fine,” she says, blinking a few times. “it just scared me—”

“i just hit your head with a nasty spike, do not lie to me. i’m not taking any chances. come on.” you gently take her wrist, ignoring the fact that practice hasn’t ended yet as you pull her toward the exit. 

she doesn’t resist. she just walks beside you with that unreadable expression she always has on her face—though it’s slightly more readable when she’s around you and you take much pride in that—though you don’t catch the way she keeps stealing glances at you.

you head over toward the nurse’s offices, nearly barging into the hallway, but once you’re alone and the noise of the gym fades behind you, you stop and turn to her. 

“let me see,” you mutter.

she opens her mouth to assure you that she’s perfectly fine even though a stinging sensation lingers, but you’re already cupping her face in both hands.

your thumbs press softly against her cheeks, fingers curled just under her jaw, tilting her head from one side to the other. “you’re not dizzy? does your head hurt? is your vision—”

“i’m fine,” she repeats, but her voice is quieter now, and her eyes keep flicking between yours and your lips.

the proximity decreases the more you frown. concern is etched on your features as you inspect her like she’s made of glass. “i swear, i didn’t mean to—the ball just, i thought yunjin would’ve got it but—ugh, you could’ve been really hurt if it were a direct spike. your cheek is already deepening in color, your face—”

and that’s when she kisses you.

a quick, soft press of her lips to yours. barely there. just enough to shut you up.

you blink. 

she pulls back immediately and fills the silence, her voice small. “you worry too much.”

your hands are still on her face, and now they tighten slightly. and before you can overthink it, you lean in and kiss her again. this time it’s slower, softer, and certain. 

she makes a small noise of shock against your mouth, but melts into it a second later. her whole body relaxes completely. 

when you finally pull back you’re blushing like crazy. her eyes are widened and her smile grows the longer you look at her.

“... are you sure you’re okay?” you murmur, your thumb brushing her cheek. 

“i am, stop worrying so much.” she scolds, then giggles softly. “you still hit me in the head me in the head though—again.”

“sorry.” you sigh. “guess we’ve come full circle now.”

wife!haerin who feels awkward and shy to say that she loves you. but for the first time she said it, her ears went red as tomato.

wife!haerin who kisses you whenever she wants to for the first time ever since the confession and was left a little confused but eager for more so she kisses you again and again until she's satisfied.

wife!haerin who will blush every time a thought of you crossed her mind.

wife!haerin who likes to be honest with you by starting to open up to you slowly. like telling you random thoughts she usually keeps to herself and shares things she likes about you in a very straightforward way. for example; "i love spending my day with you." with sincerity in her voice.

wife!haerin who gets jealous when someone gets too close to you and inserts herself between you two so she could put her hand on your waist. if not, she'll be straight up to confrontation like; "i don't like that."

wife!haerin who knows you'll love strawberry mochi so she would buy two of them so you two can eat together.

wife!haerin who buys the dream necklace on your wedding anniversary and puts it on your neck before telling you that you deserve it and that her wife deserves only the best.

wife!haerin who's the type to buy something expensive for you even though you told her not to and say "i know you told me to not buy it but here".

wife!haerin who would at least learn about your religion to understand you better.

wife!haerin who loves spending her quiet routines with you.

wife!haerin who prefers comfortable silence over forced conversation.

wife!haerin who saved your contact as "mine only" with a ring emoji at the side. even pinned you on top of the other contacts.

wife!haerin who randomly sends you pictures she finds cute instead of texting long messages. but, if you ask for her picture, then she won't hesitate to give you one.

wife!haerin who collects sylvanian families with you.

wife!haerin who won’t overwhelm you when you're upset. instead, she will hold your hands and wait for you to speak up.

wife!haerin who loves being in your arms when it's time to sleep.

wife!haerin who gets shy when you ask why she is staring at you and will say; "i like watching you." while hiding in the crook of your neck.

wife!haerin who loves you so much she would playfully argue with you that she loves you the most and you cannot change it. but ended up loving the way you will shut her up by kissing her lips.

chapter iii. quiet static (wc: 1299)

chapter iv. the self sabotage (wc: 2608)

chapter v. the drunk and the stupid (wc: 4167)

chapter vi. the rekindling (wc: 3534)

chapter vii. a harrington brunch (wc: 2192)

chapter viii. comfortably numb (wc: 1764)

chapter ix. we’ve got tonight (wc: 2628)

chapter x. the safety net (wc: 4229)

ACT TWO.

chapter one. suzie, do you copy? (wc: 4646)

chapter two. the mall rats (wc: 3380)

chapter three. the case of the missing lifeguard (wc: 7480)

chapter four. the sauna test (wc: tbc)

chapter five. the flayed (wc: tbc)

chapter six. e pluribus unum (wc: tbc)

chapter seven. the bite (wc: tbc)

chapter eight. the battle of starcourt (wc: tbc)

INTERMISSION II.

chapter i.

you don’t expect to be fake-dating an international pop star when you fly to l.a. for a weekend.

you especially don’t expect that pop star to be megan skiendiel from katseye. charming, infuriatingly confident, and currently pacing in front of you like she’s plotting a heist in the katseye dorm.

“okay, hear me out,” she says, her voice lilting slightly when she’s excited. “if you pretend to be my girlfriend for, like, two weeks, maybe three, jonah will finally get the message.”

you blink at her, trying to process. “you want me to be your fake girlfriend… so your real ex-boyfriend stops stalking you?”

“‘crazy ex’ is a little dramatic,” she says quickly, then sighs. “actually, no. it’s exactly right. he’s been showing up at the studio, the hotel, the gym.” she throws her hands up. “like, bro, i’m trying to do squats in peace.”

you can’t help a laugh, even though she’s serious. “and you think me, some random girl from colorado, will fix this?”

her eyes narrow, studying you. “not random. you’re an olympic snowboarder, remember? half the internet thinks you’re made of ice and caffeine. jonah will freak if he thinks i’ve moved on with someone who could probably bench-press him.”

you snort. “that’s flattering, but you realize the only thing i bench-press is my board bag.”

megan grins. “still counts. you’ve got that wholesome ‘mountain girl’ vibe. snow suit, freezing-to-death aesthetic. totally opposite of what jonah thinks i go for.”

you cross your arms, pretending to be offended. “so basically i’m your decoy?”

she grins wider. “my very cute decoy.”

you ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “you realize people are going to notice, right? your fans. the internet. and i’m not exactly ready for global chaos.”

megan shrugs, her dark ponytail bouncing. “we’ll keep it low-key. a few ‘accidental’ sightings, some couple selfies. easy.”

“right,” you say dryly. “because fake dating never spirals out of control in every single rom-com ever made.”

“exactly,” she says with mock sincerity. “we’ll be the exception.”

you stare at her for a long beat. she looks at you with those disarmingly confident eyes, the kind that make you forget she’s a pop star and remember she’s also the girl who once tripped over her mic cable during rehearsal and laughed harder than anyone else.

“fine,” you say finally, pointing at her. “but i have ground rules.”

megan leans forward, smirking. “oh, i love rules. hit me.”

“one: no weird pda in public. i’m not a prop.”

she nods solemnly. “respect.”

“two: you tell your team. i don’t want to get ambushed by pr.”

“deal.”

“three,” you say, hesitating just a second too long. “no actual kissing. this is fake dating.”

her smile falters just slightly, then she recovers, teasing. “wow, you’re no fun. what if jonah’s watching? what if we need to make it look real?”

you roll your eyes. “we’ll cross that bridge when we—”

“practice,” she interrupts, eyes glinting.

“practice?”

“yeah,” she says with exaggerated innocence. “you know, to make it believable.”

you groan. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” she says, stepping closer, her grin softening just a little, “you’re still here.”

the air between you tightens for a moment, enough that you can feel the energy shift before one of her bandmates yells from down the hall, “megs! you left your phone in the fridge again!”

you both break into laughter, the tension snapping.

she grins at you over her shoulder. “welcome to the fake-girlfriend experience, colorado.”

“can’t wait, hawaii” you mutter, already regretting every life choice that led you here.

but when she winks and disappears around the corner, you realize, your heart is beating way too fast for someone who’s just pretending.

three days after agreeing to the wildest plan of your career, you find yourself standing outside a café in silver lake while megan skiendiel adjusts your jacket collar like you’re about to walk a red carpet. she’s wearing sunglasses the size of saucers and acting way too calm for someone about to fool half the internet.

“relax, colorado,” she says, tugging on the zipper until it’s crooked again just to mess with you. “all we have to do is grab coffee and smile once. easy pr.”

“right,” you mutter. “because paparazzi photos are the definition of easy.”

“you handle olympic judges,” she says with a grin. “you’ll survive a few cameras.”

you snort. “at least judges don’t hide in bushes.”

her laugh spills out, light and genuine. you shouldn’t notice how it warms the cool morning air, but you do.

when the barista calls your names, megan insists on paying. “my treat,” she says, winking at the fans already pretending not to stare. “my girlfriend gets only the best overpriced caffeine.”

you choke on a laugh. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“of course i am,” she says sweetly. “it’s the first time i’ve dated someone who can land a 900.”

you give her a side-eye. “you googled snowboard terms, didn’t you?”

“maybe,” she admits. “i also learned what a ‘stomp pad’ is. you’re welcome.”

you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. somewhere behind the counter, a phone clicks. someone’s taking pictures. megan notices too and instinctively threads her fingers through yours.

her hand is warm, confident. you remind yourself this is acting. a performance. still, your pulse betrays you, racing ahead of the script.

later, in her car, she’s scrolling through social media. “look at this,” she says, holding up her phone. “#l/niendiel is already trending.” 

you groan. “that sounds like a bad christmas movie.”

“exactly! we’re iconic.”

“you mean ridiculous.”

she nudges your arm. “same thing.”

there’s a beat of silence, comfortable but charged. then she says, more quietly, “you did good out there. thanks for… not running away.”

you shrug. “hey, i’ve competed at the olympics. public humiliation is kind of my hobby.”

she laughs, then glances at you sideways. “you know, if we’re going to keep this up, we should maybe—”

“don’t say ‘practice.’”

she grins. “—work on our chemistry.”

you roll your eyes, but she’s already leaning closer, her expression teasing yet cautious. “just so it looks natural,” she adds.

your heart thuds. you can smell her vanilla perfume and faint traces of espresso. you tell yourself it’s acting, that you’ve trained for higher-pressure moments.

but when she stops an inch away and whispers, “we’ll practice later,” before turning the ignition, you realize you’re in far more danger here than on any mountain.

by midweek, los angeles is buzzing, and megan’s worried. fans are starting to speculate, and jonah’s occasional sightings in the city aren’t helping.

“you know, colorado,” megan says, flopping onto her dorm bed, “people are starting to think we’re more than friends. and jonah… he’s definitely noticing.”

you groan, leaning against her desk. “suspicious? we’ve only held hands twice and gone for a coffee. that’s it.”

“and yet,” she smirks, “we need to make it convincing. which means…” she wiggles her eyebrows. “kissing practice.”

your eyes widen. “megan, we’re in your dorm room. i’m an olympic snowboarder, not…whatever this is!”

“it’s just a peck,” she says, grinning. “fake, believable, and absolutely necessary. for jonah.”

you hesitate, but she pats the bed beside her. “come on, pretend girlfriend. let’s make him jealous… convincingly.”

you sit down awkwardly, heart racing. megan leans in. “close your eyes. totally fake. totally platonic. no feelings involved.”

you do, and then she pecks you on the lips. quick. light. perfectly “fake.”

except your heart doesn’t get the memo.

pulling back, you stare at her. “that… that was a thing.”

“a thing?” she laughs, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “adorable, maybe a little dangerous for your heart.”

“dangerous?” you mutter. “it’s just acting!”

she tilts her head, smirking. “if it feels real… that’s part of the plan. for jonah.”

you shake your head, breathless. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet,” she teases, leaning closer, “you keep coming back for more.”

and just like that, pretending starts to feel dangerously real, and it’s all for jonah.

by the next 2 weeks, your fake relationship has escalated into a full-blown show. except jonah thinks it’s real. every café in silver lake, every boutique on melrose, every rooftop in hollywood hills feels like a potential stage.

“colorado,” megan says as you both walk past a line of brunch-goers on a street, iced lattes in hand, “remember: casual couple energy. totally believable. we’re practically professional.”

you groan. “casual couple energy? megan, i’m an olympic snowboarder. i deal with snow, altitude, and gnarly courses, not… this.”

“and yet,” she teases, bumping your shoulder lightly, “you’re doing it anyway. see? progress.”

across the street, jonah casually leans against a food truck, sipping a smoothie. his gaze lands on you two, and he raises an eyebrow.

“perfect timing,” megan whispers, sliding her hand into yours. “for appearances.”

you feel the familiar flutter in your chest, but you play along. megan leans in for a quick peck — light, deliberate, and perfectly convincing. jonah’s jaw tightens, and you resist the urge to grin.

“see?” megan murmurs, brushing a hand along yours. “totally believable. totally real to him.”

you roll your eyes but secretly admit: it feels real anyway. every laugh, every accidental brush of fingers, every teasing glance in the la sun is setting your heart on fire.

“you know,” megan says, tossing a throw pillow at you as you flop onto her bed, “this whole pretending-to-be-a-couple thing? it’s way more stressful than i thought.”

you laugh softly, rubbing your eyes. “stressful? that’s one word for it. heart-racing, stomach-flipping, completely distracting… yeah, that’s another.”

she smirks, rolling onto her side to face you. “you know, colorado… sometimes i forget we’re pretending.”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“i mean… i like you,” she admits quietly, voice soft but steady. “not for appearances. not for jonah. me. i like you.”

your chest tightens. you stare at her, words caught in your throat. “i… i like you too,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “and i think i’ve been pretending less than i thought.”

for a long moment, you just look at each other, the weight of the week, the laughter, the awkward kisses, and the late-night talks all hanging in the air.

then, slowly, almost cautiously, megan leans closer. you don’t pull back. your lips meet in a tentative kiss, soft at first, testing the waters, but then deeper, more certain, more real.

it’s clumsy, a little awkward, and completely perfect. hands brush, fingers intertwine, and you realize that all the “practice” was just a warm-up for this moment.

megan pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, grinning. “see? told you pretending could get messy.”

you laugh softly, heart still hammering. “messy? that’s one word for it. but… yeah. real feels a lot better than fake.”

she nods, her eyes shining. “much better.”

for the first time all week, you stop thinking about jonah, the cameras, or appearances. it’s just you and her, in her dorm room, and the unmistakable truth that what started as a fake relationship has become something real. something neither of you wants to end.

“and just so we’re clear,” she teases, brushing your hair back, “all future ‘practice’ sessions are completely optional.”

you shake your head, smiling. “optional, huh? i’ll hold you to that.”

she winks. “good. because i don’t want to go back to pretending. not ever.”

and in that dorm room, with los angeles sparkling outside the window, you realize the line between fake and real doesn’t exist anymore. because this, you, her, the laughter, the kisses, is completely, undeniably, real.

taglist: @pizzachicken @vanillakirstein @variantauxx @skz-xii @fein4lararaj @buzzinuconn @hellokittyloverrxox @bitchesbrokenpromises @yoonchaesno1 @vinvinvin-who

♱ sophia laforteza : she is quite literally your number-one cheerleader. she doesn’t even try to hide it—she is loud, yelling encouragements and groaning dramatically whenever the referee makes a call against you. She makes signs with glitter pens, sometimes a little embarrassing “GO BABY GO”, but of course, you love her for it. after the game, she rushes the court the second the final whistle blows, hugging you even if you’re sweaty. she’s always the one snapping candid photos of you mid-game, hair flying, brow furrowed in focus, then posting them with captions like “galing mo baby ❤️‍🔥.” she’s endlessly supportive, but she also likes playing little one-on-one games with you after practice, laughing when you go easy on her. “don’t,” she says, trying to dribble past you with all the determination in the world. “stop going easy on me, i can take you.”

♱ daniela avanzini : daniela absolutely loves the discipline she sees in you. she admires how hard you work, the early practices, and the long hours—because it mirrors her own dedication to her craft. she’s quieter in her support compared to the others, but you can always feel it. she’ll bring you snacks after practice, knowing exactly what you like when you’re exhausted. at games, she doesn’t yell; she just watches intently, her eyes narrow when someone fouls you, and her fists tighten when the match gets close. but when you win? her pride is this quiet, glowing thing—you see it in the way her smile lingers when she says, “i knew you’d do it.” with her, celebrations aren’t grand, no. they’re softer: late-night drives with music low, and your hand resting comfortably on her thigh.

♱ lara raj : lara becomes your safe space before and after every game. pregame, she’ll send you little texts—“breathe, drink water, you’ve got this”—and she’s always waiting for you afterwards, ready with open arms no matter how it turned out. when you’re nervous, she’s the one who cups your face and reminds you, “i don’t care how many points you score. i care about you.” at the games, she’s a mix of calm and intensity: quiet until something goes wrong, then suddenly on her feet, calling out, “THAT WAS A FOUL, REF DO SOMETHING” yeah. she’s protective like that. later, when you’re wound up after a tough match, she coaxes you to lie with her, playing with your hair until you fall asleep, whispering things like, “you did so well, you always do.” the outcome doesn’t matter to her, you do.

♱ megan skiendiel : oh now this girl, she makes a whole event out of it. she’ll drag her members along to your games, buy popcorn for everyone, and insist on wearing your jersey over her hoodie. she’s playful, whistling whenever you step onto the court, and yelling at the top of her lungs, “THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND” loud enough for everyone to hear. she loves bragging about you to strangers in the crowd, like, “yeah, she’s mine, can you believe it?” but beneath the playful, objectively cringy exterior, she’s genuinely proud. after games, she loves hyping you up, replaying your best moves like she’s an analyst: “holy— that crossover? DEADLY. i swear the other team’s still dizzy.” she loves when you teach her some drills—she’s clumsy with the ball but laughs it off, enjoying how you guide her hands and correct her form. to Megan, your world is something she wants to dive into with you, no matter how sweaty or serious it gets.

♱ jeong yoonchae : she’s the type of girlfriend who sits forward in her seat the entire game, eyes locked on you with this bright, almost stars truck focus. she won’t yell every five seconds, but whenever you score or make a good play, she lights up—clapping hard, grinning wide, sometimes yelling your name just once, but with so much warmth it sticks with you. she has this way of cheering that feels both low-key yet all the more intentional, like she’s in it with you without being over the top. around your teammates, she’s respectful and calm, but the second you come off the court, she’s bouncing a little on her feet, eager to hug you, her excitement written all over her face. she’s not the type to analyze the game out loud, or to scream at the ref like, but she shows you little moments of joy—giggling when you wave at her from the bench, leaning over to record a quick clip of your free throw, or pressing a water bottle into your hands after with a soft, “you were so good.” with yoonchae, the support is steady and natural—quiet when you need grounding, bright when you need energy, always tuned into you.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

You learn the shape of your apartment by how Megan moves through it.

Two knocks, the soft kind she only does for you. A quiet “hey,” the tired kind she only lets herself have inside four walls that aren’t filmed. Hoodie up, cap low, hair stuffed into the collar like a secret—then all that armor hits your couch and melts as if gravity works different in your living room.

“Hands,” you say, because ritual is the only thing that steadies a day like hers. She follows you to the sink, sleeves shoved up, fingers under warm water, breathing out in long pulls like she can wash the noise off her bones. You hand her the towel. She rubs too hard, the way she always does, like she can erase the part where people looked at her today.

“Rough day?” you ask, pulling the chamomile from the cupboard she pretends not to know by heart.

“Schedule did a circle,” she says, leaning her hip into your counter, eyes finally softening under the kitchen light. “Rehearsal, content, dorm check-in, back to rehearsal. Manager thinks time is a suggestion.”

“Manager’s never been on a bus with sore feet,” you say.

“Exactly.” She drops her cap on the chair, hair falling around her face like a reward. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You chuckle before handing her a mug. She inhales steam like it’s medicine, eyes closing. Her shoulders drop a centimeter. You watch it happen the way people watch sunsets: like it’s proof life is beautiful even when it’s being mean.

She pads to the fridge, peels a Post-it off the stack she keeps in her hoodie. Doodle of a strawberry; bubble letters beneath: for when you forget to eat lunch, menace. She sticks it next to the others she’s left across months—neon apologies, neon devotion. “I saw strawberries at the corner store,” she says, proud of herself. “Thought of you.”

“You saw a fruit and thought of me?”

“Rotten but cute,” she grins, already crossing the tile to fold herself around your waist. “Blocked” you say as she tucks her forehead under your chin like begging with her face is a legally recognized argument. It is. You let your hand disappear into her hair. She purrs, soft, ridiculous. “Missed you.”

“You saw me yesterday,” you say, because you’re annoying on principle.

“I miss you between blinks,” she says, not playing around.

This is the version the world will never see: Megan Skiendiel, idol, clown, chaos goblin—quiet. Clingy in the best way. A little cat who steals your hoodie and returns it smelling like the kind of safety you don’t tell anyone you believe in. She falls asleep on your thigh to dumb sitcom laugh tracks, sets three alarms and still wakes up to your hand stroking her hair. She leaves your sink clean; she stacks her cup perfectly inside yours because she read somewhere that means you’re married. She calls you after soundchecks with adrenaline in her teeth and asks what you ate, if you stretched, if your boss is still scheduling meetings like a war crime. She sends you voice notes from vans: muffled giggles, taps marking counts, a hummed melody she can’t get out of her head. She says “tell me something boring,” and listens to it like it’s news.

And then she goes back outside and switches. Not cruel. Surgical. You’ve seen it: a member knocks, a fan yells, a staff lifts a camera, and the softness gets shelved. Her voice goes an inch higher. Your hand disappears from hers like it never lived there.

“Friends,” she’ll say, if someone asks. The word spills on your shoes.

You tell yourself it’s a phase. A season. She told you on your first not-date in the back booth of the ramen place where no one looks left because the mural’s on the right. “I can’t do public,” she said, threading a napkin through anxious fingers. “Not now. Not when we’re blowing up and schedules and the girls and… the internet being the internet. But I don’t want to not do this.” She said, and of course you said yes because you’re stupid. Or brave. Or both. You told yourself the sky could hold it.

You’re holding her hand under her sleeve walking back from the corner store the night you realize you’ve been lying to yourself.

It’s late. She bought cereal and yogurt because the dorm kitchen is out again. She made you pick the cereal—“I want you to be there when I’m tired”—and you didn’t know a sentence could be a home. The dorm lobby is mean-bright, the way public lighting always is. The security guard nods, half-asleep. You step into the elevator alcove with Megan, alone for one breath. She leans in, all soft and stupid, about to say the thing she only says when no one can hear—

“Megaaaan!”

Two girls run through the doors. Katseye hoodies. Phones already up. It happens in three heartbeats: their joy; the little click of record; your hand finding hers out of reflex.

She drops it.

Not a shrug, not a gentle slide. She drops it like touch is evidence. The cereal box shifts under her arm. Her shoulders square into a stranger’s posture. Her mouth rearranges into the smile she keeps in a glass case for cameras.

“Hi!” Performance-bright, beautifully kind. The voice she’s trained to use to make strangers feel like their day matters. It cuts you anyway. “It’s late—did you get home safe?”

“Can we—just a quick video?” one asks, earnest and shaking. “You helped me through exams.”

Megan steps in front of you. It’s instinct and protection and erasure all at once. You are a coat rack with a pulse. One girl tries to angle to get you in frame. Megan corrects, blocking again. You feel it like a hand over your mouth.

“Of course,” she says, softer now, easing into the role that pays rent. She takes the phone, flips it to selfie, squeezes them in. You exist as a smudge in the reflection of the elevator doors behind her hair.

You reach for the inside of her elbow—small, private, nobody would notice—just to say I’m here. She flinches so fast the cereal knocks your ribs. The apology flashes across her face and is deleted for the camera.

“Who’s that?” the girl on the left asks, not malicious. Just curious. Just young.

Megan doesn’t look at you. She slides the cereal box into your hands like you’re a shelf. “Oh—she’s building staff,” she says lightly, perfectly. “Helped us carry things earlier.”

Building staff.

The elevator dings. Your body turns into wrong angles. Megan herds the girls inside with a practiced little laugh and a “be careful, don’t run,” a hand hovering above a shoulder like blessing. You don’t step in. You can’t. Your feet have turned to tile.

She glances back once—eyes wide with panic, apology, begging. You think she might say your name. You think she might undo the sentence she just built.

The doors skim shut. She says “Thanks,” to you, pitched low enough it’ll never make the video, like you’re the desk clerk. To them she chirps “Goodnight!” bright enough to be clipped into a thousand edits. The doors slice through the lobby and shut on both versions of her. Your reflection disappears last, cut in half by metal.

The security TV hums. The vending machine mutters. Your hands shake around the stupid cereal box like it weighs a hundred pounds. You set it on the front desk and leave before the guard can ask if you’re “on shift.”

Your phone buzzes before you make the corner.

baby👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩: I’m sorry. I panicked. It was two seconds. Please text me when you’re home.

You stare until the screen dims. You put the phone in your pocket and keep walking because if you answer now you’ll forgive her and you don’t want to forgive her for this for free.

—

The rumor doesn’t start with your face. Of course it doesn’t. It starts with a blurry photo of a hoodie slipping into your building during rain, timestamped, and then of Megan in a cap twenty minutes later, same rain, same door. It starts with an elevator reflection a gossip account zooms in on, draws a red circle around, says enhance like we’re in a cop show and not a campus with a million cameras. Your DMs swell like an organ. Half hearts and ‘you’re so lucky’ and ‘die’ and a twelve-year-old who says she can’t sleep because you stole her dream girlfriend. Your boss calls you into his office and tries to pretend he isn’t scrolling on his second monitor. “Maybe a leave of absence?” he says, fake gentle. You say, “maybe you should try minding your business,” and walk out shaking.

—

Megan shows up at your door on zero sleep, rain in her hair, cap pulled so low it’s costume. She doesn’t kiss you hello like she always does. She stands just inside like a storm warning. “Don’t look,” she says, which is what people say when the car crash already happened.

It’s already on your phone. The gossip account’s tone is the tone teenage girls use when they love you and want to eat you alive. The comments are teeth. There’s a thread dedicated to matching your backpack from an Insta last semester. There’s a video analyzing your knuckles because you took a photo of your coffee once and now your hands are public property.

“I’ll talk to PR,” Megan says, the soft gone from her jaw, the idol back. “We’ll handle it.”

“You’ll handle it,” you say, because even now you can’t help being honest.

Her eyes flick fast, hurt. “Please don’t do this right now.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to trust me.”

“I did,” you say. “I do, in here,” and you gesture to the kitchen where her cap lies next to your bowl, where her Post-its glow like tiny lighthouses. “But out there you’ll pretend you don’t know me, and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know that.”

Her phone rings—a number you’ve learned means we control your life now. She answers with her Hey-I’m-Professional voice. Nods. “Understood.” Hangs up. Looks suddenly so small you want to fold her into your mouth and keep her safe. “They want us all back at the dorm. Statement, security sweep.”

“Go,” you say, because you’re in love, which means you will always be the person who hands her a hood and tells her to run into the rain.

—

The dorm is a hive. You’ve never been in it for this, but you can picture it; you’ve heard enough descriptions to build the whole thing in your head. Shoe rack in moral chaos. A whiteboard with BUY MILK!!! and underneath it 9 AM PRACTICE with a tiny heart because practice needs romance too. Daniela with cereal in a mixing bowl, spoon hanging from her mouth like a cigarette. Lara in a headscarf that says soft doesn’t mean weak. Manon leaning against the door like the bouncer of feelings. Sophia at the table with a clipboard because organization is her god. Yoonchae on the floor, cross-legged, eyes sharp, the youngest and also the one you do not want to lie to.

“Phones down,” the manager says. “PR on call. No posting.”

Sophia organizes what isn’t her job to organize. “We need to lock down anything public that points to… anyone.” She won’t say your name out loud in this room. You love her a little for that.

“Don’t dig,” Megan says quickly, too quickly. “Please.”

“We won’t,” Lara says, soft but steel. “We’re not the internet.”

PR calls back. The statement is worded like a cool towel: We ask for privacy. Rumors are harmful. The members are focused on their work. It’s not a lie. It’s not the truth you want either.

“What if you’re asked directly?” Manon says, practical. “Interviewers won’t leave it.”

Megan looks like a person pretending to be a statue. “I can’t,” she says finally, very quiet. “Not like this. Not now.”

Yoonchae doesn’t blink. “She’ll see that,” she says. Not an accusation; a prognosis.

“I know,” Megan whispers, and that’s the worst part: that some part of her expects you to understand and somewhere, in the cruelest place in you, you do.

—

The statement goes up as a clean graphic with font PR people think looks like trustworthy. You read it in your kitchen, alone, on your phone like everyone else. 

Megan comes over that night anyway, cap low, hoodie zipped, apology ready. She stands just inside your door like she doesn’t want to track mud into your life.

“I had to,” she says. “It’s not— I didn’t want to say nothing, but saying anything… it would’ve made it worse.”

“For you,” you say.

“For you,” she says back, immediate. “Babe, you saw what that account did with a reflection. If I say your name they’ll find your aunt’s Facebook and your cousin’s prom date and your dentist.”

“And if you don’t say my name,” you say, fighting the stupid tremor in your throat, “I disappear.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” she says, because that sentence is her religion.

“You keep saying that,” you whisper. “And I keep vanishing.”

You make tea because that’s your hyperfixation. She sits on your couch like it’s a punishment. You talk about nothing because all the somethings hurt. She leaves at sunrise because she always leaves when the world might see. You watch her from your window and realize love without witness is a ghost story.

The rumor mill doesn’t slow; it enrolls. Your boss suggests a “leave,” actually means “please take your mess out of my hallway.” Your mother calls twice with the cadence of a sermon: “are you safe / are you eating.”

Then the interview drops. Two minutes. Megan in a chair too big under all the lights, hair perfect, laugh packaged to go viral, and the host says, “Dating rumors—anything you want to clear up?” The camera stays on her face. Somewhere in your apartment, a glass cracks without breaking.

“We’re focused on our careers,” she says. “We’re grateful for our fans, and we want to keep the attention on the music.” It’s perfect. It’s correct. It’s a knife.

You turn it off halfway and sit with the TV reflection of your face: someone who thought she could eat around the bones and avoid choking. Your phone buzzes with Megan’s text:

baby👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩: I’m sorry. Please don’t watch. Please.

You place the phone face down on the table like it might bite and stare at the ceiling until your eyes burn.

That night she knocks. You open. She steps in like the room is border patrol, like there might be consequences just for breathing in here. “Before you say anything,” she starts, which is what people say when they’re about to make your feelings your problem.

“I’m not mad,” you lie.

“You can be,” she says, desperate. “Just don’t—don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you say. “I hate being a rumor.”

“If I could—”

“You could,” you say, gentle somehow. “You could lose your job. You could lose safety. You could choose me and burn your world down. I won’t ask you to do that. I’m not a dare.”

She flinches like you threw something. “Then what—what do I do?”

“Say it to me,” you say, because you need something to put in your pocket for when you’re alone. “Just to me. One time. ‘You are mine.’”

She opens her mouth. The word gets to the back of her teeth and knocks. She swallows it.

“I can’t,” she says, and this time she doesn’t even dress it in excuses. It lands like a body.

You nod because if you don’t you’ll wail. “Okay.”

You sit there together anyway, because you’re insane, because love makes you stupid, because you want to memorize her hands and the freckle you always kiss even when you don’t have to. She leaves when the sky is gray and gives you the kind of look people give photographs they don’t know how to take. You close the door and sit on the floor and make no sound. The sound lives in your ribs like an illegal tenant.

You try space. A day. Two. As if grief is a diet you can be disciplined about. She texts every night with a photo of her hand—palm lines, new rings—like a lifeline. You send your palm back and write match. She sends a gray heart because red feels like a brand.

—

Lara corners her in the kitchen with a spoon and eyes like she’s turning into someone’s aunt. “You look like you’re starving.”

“I’m fine,” Megan lies.

“Stop fasting on purpose,” Lara says. “And don’t you dare say it’s for the stage.”

Daniela says, “tell me who to beat up.” She means the internet. She also means anyone.

Sophia sets an alarm in Megan’s phone labeled drink water & tell the truth and Megan rolls her eyes so hard she sees regret. Manon, forehead to fridge, says, “if you’re going to bleed, bleed on purpose.” Yoonchae doesn’t look up from her notes. “If you’re going to lose her, at least lose her honestly.”

“I’m not losing her,” Megan says.

The sentence chooses a tense; reality shrugs.

–

The last try happens on a bench in a small park that pretends the city isn’t a machine. You pick it because you need a place where your body can fail without walls to echo it. The sky is meanly pretty because the universe is a troll. She sits an inch from you because she knows if she touches you you’ll forgive her on instinct.

“I can do better,” she says. She’s never sounded less sure.

“How?” Your voice already knows.

“I—I told the girls,” she says. “Not the world. Just—another ring of truth. Lara knows anyway. She can smell secrets. It’s her perfume.” There’s a little laugh in it, like she’s fishing for a version of you that jokes back.

“That’s not claiming,” you say, and the way your own voice breaks makes you want to bite through your lip.

“I can’t do more,” she whispers, mouth turning into a wound. “If I do more, I break everything. The group. My career.”

“It already broke us,” you say, and you’re surprised at how simple it is to say it. Like the sentence was waiting behind your tongue this whole time.

She stares at the playground. A kid squeals. Somewhere a dog barks at a leaf. “Do you still—” she starts.

“Yes,” you say. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I could be a hater, exclusively. I love you, and I am getting worse at surviving it.”

She closes her eyes. “Tell me to choose you. Tell me to throw it all in the fire and dance.”

“I won’t make you ruin your life,” you say. “I won’t win you with a dare.”

“So we end because I’m trying to be good,” she says, wonder and horror in the same breath.

“We end because you can’t be good to me out loud,” you say. “And I can’t be your ghost anymore.”

She nods once. It’s small. It’s the bravest thing you’ve ever seen her do: agree with the thing that will wreck her because it’s true. She stares straight ahead and cries like her eyes are freezing over—no noise, just water. You put your hands under your thighs so you don’t hold her out of reflex and undo the work you just did. She says, “I’m sorry,” and you say nothing because you’ve forgiven her a hundred times already and that did not save you.

You stand up first because someone has to. Your legs feel like they belong to someone who survived a different story. She doesn’t reach for you. You don’t reach for her. You do not do the last hug, the mercy kiss, the cinematic ache. You leave her on the bench, crying and trying to be quiet about it. You do not look back. You promised yourself you wouldn’t.

—

The world keeps its bargain with cruelty and goes on. The debut happens. The stages get bigger. The girls become the thing. You mute the tags because you are not made of marble. Your friends drag you to a diner for the livestream because they refuse to let you turn into lichen. Megan smiles into a camera somewhere and you clap for six girls and cry into a napkin in a booth with cracked vinyl.

After the stream, your phone lights with Megan’s name for the first time in weeks. One message, written like it cost her an hour: 

Megan: I’m proud of us. Not the us that didn’t make it. The us that loved in a way that didn’t make the other smaller. I’ll be at the park with strawberries someday when I can say your name without sending a fire alarm through a team. If you’re there. If you’re not, thank you for giving me a place to be a person.

You stare until the words double. You type, delete, type, delete, because pain wants a thesis. You send:

You: Be loud about the things that save you. If I’m ever one of them again, you’ll know where to find me.

She sends a heart. The gray kind. Careful, even now.

—

You learn your apartment again by absence. The shoes that aren’t by the door. The cap in the drawer you pretend not to open. The dent her body didn’t make in your couch last night. You dismantle the set piece by piece: her scrunchie from the lamp, the folded lyric page under a coaster. You keep one Post-it: for when you forget to eat lunch, menace. You stick it on the inside of a cabinet so you don’t have to look at it until you can.

You walk past the big billboard by the station and don’t look up even when you know the lighting on the photo would make you weak. You go home and make rice and eat it from the pot because the sink is too far from where you are. You lose hours to stupid shows that don’t know your name. You sleep badly and then, eventually, less badly. The ache goes from a shout to a hum to a fact

–

Months later you stop in a convenience store after midnight and two kids at the register are watching a clip on a phone. Megan’s laugh tinny from the tiny speaker. “She said her favorite fruit is strawberries,” one whispers. “Me too.” You pay for your ice cream and step into the cold without making it a metaphor. The night is just the night.

Sometimes you run into her by accident—elevator, lobby, bookstore aisle. You say hi like you’re not remembering sixty different versions of the same kitchen. She says your name like she isn’t supposed to, like it’s a cuss and a prayer. You both lie and tell the truth in the same sentences: how are you, good, you look good, you too. You walk away on legs that didn’t exist when you met her. Later your phone lights once:

Megan: I’m being loud about the things that save me. I hope you are too.  You: I am. 

You don’t add even when it hurts. She knows.

This isn’t a happy ending. It’s a true one. Two people who loved each other in a way that didn’t shrink the other. Two people who wanted different futures and were brave enough not to pretend that didn’t matter. Two people who kept the best parts and let the rest be kindling.

It still burns sometimes. In the aisle with the cereal. In the glow of your fridge when you open it at 2 a.m. and see the Post-it on the inside of the cabinet and smile anyway like an idiot. In the silence after a long day when you catch yourself saying out loud, “hands,” to no one.

You stick a new Post-it beside hers in your own handwriting: eat lunch anyway. You tape a grocery list underneath: bread, ibuprofen, flowers for my stupid table. You let yourself be loud about what saves you—friends who show up with milk tea, playlists that don’t make you cry, sun on the floor at 3 p.m., the knowledge that being loved in private wasn’t fake even if it wasn’t enough.

You’re okay. Not every hour. Enough of them.

And in a dorm that is chaos and family, Megan is okay too—getting yelled at by Sophia for leaving her cup on the counter, high-fived by Manon for a dumb joke, harmonized at by Lara in the hallway, bullied affectionately by Daniela who insists her pitch was off, eviscerated by a single deadpan sentence from Yoonchae that makes the room howl. She presses her phone to her chest some nights and thinks of your kitchen light, your stupid fruit drawer, the strawberry Post-it. She knows what she chose. She knows what she lost. She sings anyway. It isn’t a betrayal; it’s an echo.

That’s the hurt and the mercy of it: you both keep going. You do not turn around on the bench. You do not kiss goodbye at the door. You don’t make it cinematic for anyone. You choose the unfilmed version: you walk away and don’t look back, and the night holds the sound of it like proof.