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thank u for blessing my eyes and soul 🙇🙇🙇

WHAT THE FAWK.. A CELEBRITY IN MY INBOX

( ONESHOT ) ╱ f!reader x juhoon ∘∘∘ non idol au fluff high school au slow burn golden boy!juhoon angst ──── wc: 7,048 : s. You bond over a paper airplane, push yourself too hard to prove your worth, and learn you were never a project—just learning balance.

THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS IN THE LIBRARY HUMMED, a sound you’d grown to link with a heavy, sinking feeling. not because you hated books. you actually liked a good story. you just hated being here.

your friends, with all their drive and big plans, had pulled you into the so-called study zone to prepare for the final history exam. they sat a few rows away at a long table, close together, fully locked in, flipping flashcards and whispering dates and names like it all truly mattered. their heads stayed down, their focus unbroken, as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.

you, on the other hand, had found a different way to pass the time. instead of staring at notes, you were carefully folding a paper airplane. each fold felt calm and steady, way more satisfying than forcing yourself to remember the details of old battles you didn’t care about. it felt better to make something with your hands than to fill your head with facts that would fade as soon as the exam ended.

your fingers, usually a bit awkward, moved with surprising ease. you pressed down each crease, smoothing the paper, shaping the wings just right. for a moment, everything else faded into the background. this small act became your quiet push back, a simple way of saying no to the idea that you had to fit into one narrow version of success. you didn’t want to be another student chasing grades without question. this was your own small stand, silent but sure, against a system that asked you to be someone you weren’t.

you were just about to test how well your paper airplane could fly, holding it lightly between your fingers, when a shadow stretched across your desk and stopped you. the light changed just enough for you to know someone was standing there. you didn’t need to look up to understand who it was. you felt it in the sudden stillness around you.

there was a clean, sharp smell in the air, like a brand-new textbook that had never been bent or marked. it came with a quiet pressure, the kind that made people sit up straighter without being told. that alone gave him away. it was kim juhoon. everyone knew him. teachers spoke his name with pride, parents used him as an example, and students watched him with a mix of respect and envy. he was known for perfect scores, neat notes, and always doing exactly what was expected of him.

you were the opposite in their eyes. you were y/n, the one people talked about in softer voices. the one with “potential,” always followed by a pause, then a comment about effort. they said it like a missed chance, like you were wasting something important without even trying.

“that’s not going to help you pass,” he said calmly. his voice matched the room, steady and quiet, not rude or kind, just honest. he wasn’t trying to embarrass you or tell you what to do. he was simply stating what he believed to be true.

you finally looked up at him, leaning back slightly in your chair. a relaxed smile settled on your face, easy and practiced. “you never know,” you said lightly. “got to have something ready in case your brain gives up on you.” you lifted the paper airplane and turned it in your hand, inspecting it like it was something important. “this one’s built to work with as little effort as possible. seems smart to me. kind of how i plan to get through life, honestly.”

the plane rested between your fingers, simple and clean, while the space between you and him felt full of unsaid thoughts.

he didn’t smile. instead, he quietly pulled out the chair across from you and sat down like he had already decided this was where he was meant to be. your friends were always talking about him, about how perfect he was, how his grades were unreal and how everything seemed to come easy to him. they spoke like he was someone to admire from a distance.

you didn’t see it that way. you just saw someone who likely planned every hour of his day, someone who followed a clear path without stepping off it. to you, he felt like a locked box, neat and exact, and you had no interest in opening it.

without asking, he reached for your paper airplane. he flattened it carefully, undoing your folds with slow, steady hands. it was almost annoying how careful he was, like the paper mattered more than it should. then he began again, folding a new one from the same sheet.

“the issue is how the weight is placed,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the paper. “the front is too heavy, so it will dip fast. the wings need more space to hold the air.”

while he spoke, his hands kept moving. each fold was clean and sure, like he had done this many times before. it didn’t feel like he was talking down to you. it felt like he was explaining something because he genuinely knew how it worked.

after a moment, he held up the new plane. it looked nothing like yours. it was neat, balanced, and carefully shaped, like it was meant to glide instead of rush.

he slid it across the desk toward you. “try this one.”

you picked it up, turning it slowly in your hands

it felt different in your hands, lighter and easier to hold, like it actually wanted to fly. you lifted it for a second, testing the balance, then with a small flick of your wrist, you sent it forward. it sailed toward the shelves, smooth and quiet, cutting through the air like it knew exactly where it was going. it curved gently, made a clean turn, and landed softly on top of a tall stack of encyclopedias.

you stared at the plane, then slowly looked back at him. he had a small smile on his face, real and unforced, like he was pleased but not surprised.

“not bad,” he said, and there was a soft note of pride in his voice.

then he added, “about that brain of yours. we should at least get you through history. i’m pretty sure you have better things to do than take this class again next semester.”

you blinked, caught off guard by how easily he spoke, like it was already decided. “and you think helping me is a better use of your time?” you shot back.

“everyone says you’re not hopeless,” he replied calmly. “they just say you don’t care.”

he reached into his bag, pulled out a clean sheet of paper, and smoothed it flat on the table between you. “history isn’t just dates and names,” he said. “it’s a story.”

and for the next hour, that’s exactly what he gave you. stories that made the room fade a little, stories that almost made the time pass without you noticing.

he didn’t just rattle off facts; he painted pictures. he talked about how the French Revolution wasn’t just a series of events, but the build-up of many small moments of unfairness. he made the leaders feel like real people, with real flaws and bad choices. he never got annoyed when you doodled in the margins or when you yawned. he would simply pause, give you a moment, and then keep going, his voice calm and steady the whole time.

“you know,” you said, finally breaking the rhythm of his talk, “everyone thinks you’re just this perfect robot. no fun, no surprises.”

he stopped, his hand frozen above the paper.

“surprises are what make my paper airplanes crash,” he said, and for the first time, a real smile showed on his face. “i like things to have a clear direction. a reason.” he looked at you then, thoughtful and quiet. “but sometimes, a little mess helps things lift instead of fall.”

by the time he packed up his things, the library was nearly empty. the history textbook didn’t feel so heavy anymore, not like a wall you couldn’t get past. it was just a book.

as he stood to leave, you spoke up. “thanks. for the planes, and… you know.”

he nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the truce you guys had formed. “just be on time for the exam. i have a feeling your brain won’t short-circuit this time.”

he gave you a final small smile and walked away, disappearing into the quiet aisles of the library.

you were left alone at the table, the timeline he had drawn still visible in your notebook. it was just a series of dates and arrows, but it didn’t look so intimidating anymore.

it looked like a path.

and for the first time, you felt like you might actually be willing to follow it.

the exam had come and gone. you actually passed, and not just barely. you passed with enough room to spare that you didn’t have to worry about the class ever again.

the victory felt quiet but satisfying, like a secret you shared only with yourself and juhoon.

the memory of that evening in the library replayed in your head all week. the hum of the lights, the soft sound of his papers, the way he talked about history like it was a story instead of a chore. you even started to see him differently in the hallways, not as the golden boy on a pedestal, but as a guy who liked paper airplanes. it was a small, silly thing, but it made him feel more human.

walking through the cafeteria, you were in a rare good mood. you held your lunch tray and scanned the tables for your friends when you saw him. juhoon. he was sitting at a corner table, his usual spot, set apart but not lonely.

he was with another person.

your stomach did a weird flip. not a bad one, just… a curious one. the other person was a girl you knew by reputation. minji. she was just as much a part of the school’s academic elite as juhoon. head of the debate club, first-chair violinist in the school orchestra, and rumored to have a perfect gpa. she was the one your friends were always comparing themselves to, the other half of the “perfect student” duo.

they were bent over a laptop, deep in conversation. minji was gesturing with a pen, her brow pulled tight in concentration as she spoke. juhoon listened closely, his head tilted slightly, that focused look on his face that you now recognized. it was the same look he had when he explained the french revolution to you.

you watched them for a moment, an odd heaviness settling in your chest. you thought about walking over, maybe just giving him a small nod, a quiet sign that you shared something from before. but then you saw him smile at something she said. it wasn’t the small, careful smile he had given you in the library. this one was wider, easy, and familiar, filled with a kind of comfort that made it linger.

it was a smile he didn’t have to think about, a smile meant for someone who already stood on his level. they weren’t just passing time together. they were locked into their own space, a place filled with shared ideas and big plans, things you were never meant to be part of. watching them made the paper airplane in the library feel smaller, less real, like it had only been a short moment of kindness.

it felt like he had dipped into your space from his world of perfect grades just long enough to help someone who needed fixing. he hadn’t seen you as another student sitting beside him. he had seen you as something to work through, something to solve. and now, he was back where he belonged, surrounded by people who matched him.

you turned away, the smile on your face fading without effort. passing the exam didn’t feel like a win anymore. it hadn’t brought you closer to his world. it had only given him a clean reason to step out of yours. you crushed the napkin in your hand, food forgotten, interest gone.

the light, easy feeling you had carried with you all week slipped away. in its place came that familiar heaviness, the feeling of standing on the edge, watching from the outside as everyone else moved forward together.

the cafeteria felt like a thousand tiny needles against your skin. the laughter, the casual chatter, all of it grated on you, sharp and nonstop, like you couldn’t escape it. no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get the image out of your head: juhoon and minji, sitting there in their own small world of perfect understanding, talking like nothing else mattered. it left a cold burn in your chest, that ugly feeling of not measuring up, no matter how much you told yourself you didn’t care.

you weren’t just an outsider anymore. you were a charity case. a project. the paper airplane stopped feeling like some quiet sign of a hidden connection and started to feel like proof that you were nothing more than a passing distraction. he had fixed you, or at least tried to, and then moved on to someone on his level. the thought pissed you off more than you wanted to admit.

that night, something inside you shifted for real. you pulled your textbooks back out, but this time there was no bored flipping, no zoning out. you found his timeline, the one he had drawn in the margin of your notebook, and you started from the beginning, slow and focused. then you grabbed another book, and then another. your desk, once a landing strip for your latest paper creations, turned into a full-on battlefield of flashcards and notes, messy but driven, like you finally had something to prove, even if it was only to yourself.

you stopped going to the cafeteria and started spending your lunch breaks in the library. the quiet hum that once lulled you into a state of bored nothingness now felt steady and safe, like background noise that actually helped you think. it became the soundtrack to this new version of your life. you tore through textbooks, not just for history, but for every subject you could get your hands on, page after page, like you were chasing something you’d been missing.

you stayed late, long after everyone else had packed up and left. the halls emptied, the lights dimmed, and you kept going anyway. your parents noticed first. their early questions — “are you okay?” “did something happen?” — slowly turned into long looks across the room and a quiet, almost careful pride they didn’t want to say out loud too fast.

your friends were confused as hell. “y/n, are you serious?” they’d say, trying to pull you away from a calculus problem. “it’s friday night. let’s go out.”

but you just shook your head, that stubborn fire in your gut burning stronger than any urge to see a movie or waste time. something in you had locked in, and you weren’t letting it go.

your mind, once so easy to pull apart, felt different now. focused. sharp. it worked when you told it to. you weren’t studying just to pass anymore. you were studying to prove something.

to prove that you weren’t a problem to be fixed or a project someone could walk away from. you weren’t doing this for grades or approval. you were doing it for yourself, and damn, that finally felt like enough.

and maybe, just maybe, for him to finally see.

you saw him a few times in the library after that, and his expression never really changed. there was always that quick flash of surprise, then confusion, like something didn’t add up. there was a question sitting in his eyes, clear as day, but he never asked it.

once, he stopped at the end of your row. hands in his pockets, standing there longer than necessary, just watching you. you kept your head down and acted like you didn’t notice a thing, even though your heart was pounding hard enough to be annoying. you wanted him to see it for himself, to realize you weren’t some lost cause anymore, not some joke or side note.

weeks slipped into a full month, and then the day of the exam results arrived. the whole school packed into the assembly hall, the air thick and tense, everyone quiet in that forced way that comes before bad or life-changing news. nerves were everywhere. you could feel them buzzing under your skin.

the principal stepped up to the podium with a single sheet of paper in his hand. the room went dead silent. everyone already knew how this usually went. there was no real mystery to it.

it was always juhoon.

he was always number one.

“and now, for the top student of the semester,” the principal announced, his voice carrying across the hall and bouncing off the walls. “the student with the highest marks in all subjects, a remarkable achievement indeed. the school board, myself included, were quite surprised.”

the silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. you lifted your head and looked around, eyes moving through the crowd until they landed on juhoon. he was sitting in his usual spot, calm as ever, posture perfect, wearing that small, knowing smile. the kind that said he already had the answer before the question was even asked.

of course he knew. he always did. a sharp pang of resentment hit you, a quiet reminder of where you usually stood. you had worked your ass off, pushed harder than you ever had, and still it felt like you were meant to stay in his shadow, circling his world instead of standing in your own.

then the principal said the name.

it wasn’t juhoon’s.

“l/n y/n, please come to the stage.”

a collective gasp rolled through the assembly hall, like a wave you could almost hear. heads snapped in your direction, eyes wide, searching for you. your friends stared, mouths open, clearly stunned. your knees went weak, and for a second you honestly thought you’d misheard him. your heart hammered in your chest as the moment sank in, slow and unreal, like the room had tilted and nothing was where it used to be.

but then the principal repeated your name.

you walked down the aisle like you were stuck in a dream, the low murmurs of the crowd turning into a dull buzz in your ears. everything felt unreal, like your feet barely touched the floor. you felt like you were floating, carried forward by something bigger than fear.

your head stayed high, your gaze fixed straight ahead. you didn’t slow down. you didn’t flinch.

as you passed juhoon’s row, you didn’t look at him. not once. but you felt it anyway. his eyes on you. the shift in the air around him. the surprise, sharp and sudden. you didn’t need to turn your head to know you had his full attention now.

you climbed the steps to the stage, the spotlight a blinding circle on your face, too bright to ignore. your heart pounded hard in your chest, loud as hell, but you kept moving.

the principal placed the heavy, gold-plated trophy into your hands. it felt cold against your palms, solid and real, even as your fingers shook.

from the stage, you saw everything. teachers staring wide-eyed. your friends frozen in shock. and juhoon, still seated, completely still, his smile gone like it had never existed.

he was just looking at you, and for the first time, you really saw his face. there was no anger. no jealousy. just quiet shock. deep and honest. and something else, barely there but impossible to miss. a small flicker of admiration that hit harder than any damn applause.

after the assembly, you were swarmed. your friends rushed you, screaming, hugging you tight, talking over each other, demanding answers all at once, like they couldn’t believe this was real.

“how did you do it?” they yelled, voices sharp and full of noise. “you never told us you were a genius.” you smiled back, small and controlled, even though the trophy in your hands felt heavier than it should. it wasn’t just metal and shine. it felt like proof of a quiet fight you’d been in all along, a fight no one else had noticed or cared about.

through the crowd, you saw him waiting. juhoon stood off to the side near the auditorium doors, hands in his pockets, calm as ever. he didn’t move toward you or try to pull you out of the mess of people. he just stayed there, giving you space, like he always seemed to do. you pulled yourself away from your friends, their voices fading as you walked toward him, your steps slow and unsure.

the noise of the school blurred into a low hum, like it was all happening far away. for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you standing there.

“you’re not surprised, are you?” you said. your voice came out quiet, a little unsteady, and you hated that it sounded that way. part of you was waiting for him to say something polite and distant, to give you that calm smile and move on.

he shook his head and looked down at the trophy in your hands. “no,” he said simply. when he looked back up, his eyes were steady and clear. “i saw how hard you were working. i knew you could do it.”

the words hit harder than you expected. your chest tightened before you could stop it. “then why,” you said, the question slipping out too fast, “were you with minji that day. in the cafeteria.”

the doubt you thought you had buried deep came rushing back all at once, messy and sharp, stirring up old thoughts and that familiar, shitty feeling you hated admitting was still there.

the insecurity you thought you had buried came rushing back, fast and ugly, hitting you right in the chest. he looked at you then, really looked at you, and there was a real, pained expression on his face, not the calm mask he usually wore.

“i was asking her for advice,” he said quietly. his voice wasn’t defensive or sharp, just honest. “on how to motivate someone who doesn’t seem to care. she mentors younger students for one of her projects, and i thought… i thought she might know how to help.” he stopped for a second, took a slow breath, like choosing his words carefully. “i was worried my way wasn’t working. i was worried you were going to give up.”

your stomach dropped hard. all those images you’d built in your head, the version of him and minji you’d replayed over and over to push yourself harder, fell apart in an instant. the whole story you told yourself turned out to be complete bullshit.

he hadn’t been leaving you behind. he hadn’t been choosing someone else. he had been trying, in his own careful way, to figure out how to help without pushing too far. you looked down at the trophy in your hands, the weight of it suddenly different. it wasn’t something to prove a point anymore. it didn’t feel like armor or a weapon. it felt like a bridge between the two of you.

“i didn’t give up,” you said softly, almost like you were reminding yourself.

he gave you that small, rare smile, the one that never seemed fake. “i know,” he said. “this part was on me. i should’ve known that someone meant to fly doesn’t need to be told how. they just need a reason to take off.”

the hallway had gone quiet by then, the crowd long gone, leaving just the two of you standing there in the still air

juhoon wasn’t the golden one, and you weren’t the slacker everyone loved to label. the truth was simpler than that, and messier too. you were just two people who found a reason to fly at the same time, even if you took different paths to get there.

you looked down at the trophy in your hands, its surface catching the light, and for the first time it didn’t feel like something you needed to hold up for approval. it didn’t feel like proof or a shield or a challenge. it just felt earned. quiet. solid.

you had already won.

for him.

and he didn’t need to know that part. maybe he never would.

the rush of winning stuck around for about a week. the praise from your friends, loud and constant. the shocked pride in your parents’ eyes, like they were seeing you clearly for the first time. even the quiet nod from juhoon carried weight. all of it felt good as hell, like standing in warm light after a long stretch in the dark.

but nothing lasts forever. slowly, that feeling started to fade. the same voices that once cheered began to shift. the whispers about your win didn’t sound as kind anymore. they turned sharp, edged with doubt.

“can she do it again?”

“was it just a one-time thing?”

you started to hear it everywhere, even when no one said it out loud. the doubt crept in, annoying and relentless. suddenly, your success didn’t feel like an ending. it felt like the start of something harder. not a finish line, but a starting gun firing right in your face.

now you had to prove it wasn’t luck. you had to prove it wasn’t a fluke. you had to prove you weren’t just someone else’s project or quiet experiment. you had to prove you were better than who you used to be, better than the version of you everyone thought they already had figured out. and that pressure sat heavy, pushing you forward whether you liked it or not.

your study schedule became even more brutal, somehow worse than before. late nights slipped into full all-nighters without you even noticing when it happened. your coffee intake tripled, cups piling up like proof of how far you were pushing yourself. lunch stopped being a real thing. instead, you lived on granola bars stuffed into your bag, eaten quickly between pages at the library because sitting down for an actual meal felt like wasted time.

the weight of expectations pressed down on you hard as hell. some of it was your own, sharp and unforgiving. the rest was what you thought everyone else expected from you now. all of it felt crushing, like you couldn’t breathe unless you kept moving.

your friends tried to pull you back into the real world.

“y/n, come to the movies,” they’d say. “you’ve earned a break.”

but you couldn’t do it. a break felt dangerous. it felt like stepping backward, like one weak moment could undo everything you had fought for. resting felt like failure, and failure felt like losing it all.

this new version of you felt fragile, held together by late nights, tired eyes, and sheer stubborn will. it was built on endless study sessions, and you were scared as hell of watching it fall apart if you let go for even a second.

your parents noticed before you said anything. the dark circles under your eyes grew deeper, harder to hide. you flinched when they tried to talk to you, like every question was one more thing you didn’t have the energy to answer.

“honey, you don’t have to keep this up,” your mom said gently, worry clear in her voice. “we’re already so proud of you.”

but pride didn’t feel like enough anymore, and slowing down felt impossible.

but they didn’t understand. you weren’t doing it for them anymore. you were doing it for you, trying to outrun the ghost of who you used to be.

the whispers from juhoon and his friends sounded different now. you caught them in the hallways, eyes following you, not shocked anymore, but uneasy. it wasn’t admiration. it was concern, the kind people have when something looks like it’s going too far. you even overheard him one day, talking low to someone else, his voice tight and serious. “she’s going to burn out,” he said. “i’ve never seen anyone study like that. not even myself.”

one afternoon, you were back in the library, hunched over a stack of books like your body had forgotten how to sit straight. your head throbbed from lack of sleep, a dull ache that never really went away. you were trying to memorize a list of chemical equations, staring at the page until the letters blurred together and stopped making sense. no matter how hard you tried, the information just wouldn’t stick, and it pissed you off.

a shadow fell over your desk, and you didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. it was juhoon. he didn’t pull out a chair this time. he didn’t sit. he just stood there, quiet, watching you like he was taking you in for the first time in weeks.

“y/n,” he said softly. “you’re going to get sick.”

“i’m fine,” you mumbled, eyes still glued to the page. “i’m just studying.”

“you haven’t been fine for weeks,” he said, and his voice carried a different kind of weight now. not calm. not distant. something sharper. “you haven’t looked up from a book in a month.” he paused, then asked, “what are you doing this for?”

you finally looked at him, and everything you’d been holding in snapped at once. the frustration, the exhaustion, the constant fear all boiled over and spilled out before you could stop it.

“i’m doing it so i don’t go back to being nothing!,” you snapped, your voice sharp and shaking. “so i don’t prove everyone right who said i was just a one-time thing. so i don’t end up back as that girl making a paper airplane in the library while everyone else actually studied.” the words came fast, messy, loaded with every shitty thought you’d been trying to bury.

he took a step closer, not crowding you, just enough to be there. his expression softened, like he finally saw how tired you really were.

“you’ve already proven them wrong,” he said quietly. his voice stayed steady, calm in a way that almost pissed you off because you wished you could feel that calm too. “you don’t have to prove anything else. you’re not that girl anymore.”

“i have to be perfect,” you said, your voice cracking despite how hard you tried to hold it together. the word felt heavy in your mouth. “what if i can’t keep this up. what if i fuck it all up.” the fears rushed out, one after another, the kind you replayed late at night when you couldn’t sleep.

he reached out and gently took the pen from your hand, easing it onto the desk like it weighed too much for you to keep holding. the small gesture made your chest tighten.

“a paper airplane is built for one flight,” he said softly, almost like he was thinking out loud. “but a life isn’t like that. it’s meant to last longer.” he paused, letting the words sit. “you can’t keep running at full speed forever. if you do, you’re going to burn yourself out, and none of this will matter.”

his words hit you harder than any grade ever could, landing deep and heavy in your chest. you looked down at your hands and noticed they were shaking, worn thin from exhaustion you could no longer hide. you had been so locked in on flying higher and higher that you’d forgotten something basic and important: how the hell to land. you had proven yourself, sure, but somewhere along the way, you’d started tearing yourself apart to do it.

the truth settled in slowly and painfully. the journey you were on wasn’t some clean flight toward perfection. it was a desperate, lonely race against your own past, against every version of yourself you were scared of becoming again. and for the first time since all of this started, you weren’t sure you were going to win that fight.

during chem, everything started to fall apart. the equations on the page blurred together, numbers and letters melting into one dizzy mess no matter how hard you tried to focus. you stared at them, blinking again and again, but nothing stuck. your head throbbed, a constant, brutal pounding that felt like it was drilling straight through your skull.

the chem teacher’s voice floated somewhere in the background, distant and dull, like noise coming through a wall. you tried to block it out, tried to carve out a moment of quiet in the chaos of your thoughts, but it was useless. your mind wouldn’t slow down. you hadn’t slept right in nearly two days, and your body was finally calling bullshit on all of it. exhaustion clung to you, heavy and unforgiving, and you could feel yourself slipping, even as you fought to stay upright.

every time you closed your eyes, the same shit flooded in. flashcards. formulas. juhoon’s concerned face, stuck on repeat like your brain wouldn’t give you a damn break. his words about burning out echoed in your ears, low and steady, but your obsession was louder. it pushed back harder, telling you to keep going, to push more, to prove him wrong, to prove everyone wrong.

you gripped your pen tighter, knuckles stiff, trying to force yourself to focus on the problem written on the board. the numbers wouldn’t sit still. they danced and shifted, blurring together, straight up mocking you. frustration burned hot in your chest. you squeezed your eyes shut, just for a second, hoping the fog would clear if you gave it even a moment.

when you opened them again, everything tilted. the numbers, the teacher, the desks around you all spun together, collapsing into one sick, twisting mess. your stomach dropped. the pen slipped from your fingers without you even feeling it leave your hand. the last thing you remembered was the cold floor rushing up fast, too fast, before everything went dark.

a sharp, clean smell filled your nose as your eyes fluttered open. antiseptic. the room was quiet, almost too quiet. white walls. the steady tick of a clock somewhere nearby. a cool pressure rested against your forehead. you tried to move and realized you were lying down.

you were on a cot.

you were in the nurse’s office.

you sat up slowly, your head still light, and a sharp gasp slipped out before you could stop it. your vision wavered for a second, then settled. sitting in a chair beside the cot, watching you closely, was juhoon. his gaze was steady, locked on you like he’d been there the whole time and hadn’t looked away once.

he wasn’t on his phone. he wasn’t buried in notes. and he wasn’t looking at you with that quiet pity you’d grown used to seeing from everyone else. instead, his face was open, tense with real worry, mixed with clear relief now that your eyes were open. it caught you off guard more than the fainting itself.

“hey,” he said softly, his voice cutting clean through the silence. “you scared the hell out of us.”

your mind scrambled, trying to piece things together. chem class. the board spinning. the floor rushing up. now this quiet white room. “what… what happened?” you asked, your voice thin and barely there.

“you fainted,” he said simply. he stood and handed you a small paper cup of water, careful, like you might break if he moved too fast. “i caught you before you hit the floor. the teacher called the nurse, but i— i brought you here.”

you stared at him, your thoughts spiraling. the weight of it all finally landed.

the golden one. the person you’d been trying so hard to outrun. the one you measured yourself against without ever saying it out loud. he had carried you here. he had stayed. he had watched over you while you were out cold and helpless.

the trophy, the grades, the silent competition you’d built everything around—it all suddenly felt small as shit, shrinking right there in your hands, replaced by something heavier and harder to ignore.

the only thing that mattered in that moment was the weight of his concern, heavy and real, and the sudden realization that he had seen you at your most vulnerable. not the polished version. not the one holding trophies or forcing smiles. the real one, stripped down and exhausted.

“you were right,” you mumbled, shame heating your cheeks in a way you couldn’t hide. “about burning out.” the words tasted bitter, like admitting something you’d fought against for way too long.

he shook his head slowly, his expression serious, grounded. “this wasn’t about grades, y/n,” he said. “it was about you.” his voice stayed calm, but firm. “you can’t keep doing this. you know what pressure feels like, you’ve lived with it. but this…” he gestured toward the cot beneath you, the quiet room around you. “this is too far. this is not what success looks like.”

the cool surface of the cot beneath you, the clean smell of the room, the steady authority in his voice—it all sank in at once. it hit you hard as hell. you had been so focused on proving a point, on pushing past every limit, that you’d nearly wrecked yourself in the process.

you’d been so afraid of becoming the old y/n again that you hadn’t noticed what you were turning into instead. not stronger. not better. just another unhealthy version of someone trapped by their own standards. his standards.

he had seen the warning signs because he understood them. he knew what that kind of pressure did to a person. but he also saw something else, something you hadn’t wanted to face: the version of perfection you were chasing was far worse than his ever had been.

“thank you,” you said quietly, your voice thick and unsteady, the words carrying more weight than you could fully explain.

for the first time, you weren’t thanking him for a grade or a lesson or some quiet academic win. you were thanking him for seeing you. really seeing you, past the effort, past the numbers, past the act you’d been holding together with sheer force.

for catching you before you fell apart completely.

after you woke up in the nurse’s office, everything felt different. the sterile room, the stillness, the steady presence of juhoon sitting nearby, and the simple fact that he had carried you there—it all hit like a wakeup call you couldn’t ignore. not loud or dramatic, just real as hell. it wasn’t something you could brush off or pretend didn’t matter.

the obsession hadn’t just been about proving mental strength anymore. it had crossed into something physical, something that demanded a price your body was no longer willing to pay. pushing harder wasn’t strength. it was damage. and admitting that scared the shit out of you.

juhoon had been right.

the next day, when you saw him in the library, you fully planned to leave him alone. embarrassment sat heavy in your chest, tight and uncomfortable. you expected distance, maybe silence. instead, he gave you a small, quiet nod and sat down at the table across from you like nothing had shifted out of place.

he didn’t bring up what happened. he didn’t lecture you or look at you like you were fragile. he just opened his book, calm and steady, and waited. without saying it, he made it clear you were still here. still capable. still equal.

so you opened your book too.

and just like that, you started studying together. not as rivals. not as some quiet test of who could outlast the other. the air between you had changed. the tension was gone, replaced by something steadier and real.

it wasn’t a competition anymore. it wasn’t a one-sided lesson. it was shared effort. shared space. two people moving forward at the same pace.

for the first time, you weren’t running alone.

juhoon was still methodical, still focused as hell, but now his routine had a new factor built into it: you. every hour, like clockwork, he’d look up from his work.

“five-minute break,” he’d say.

you’d try to protest every time, already opening your mouth to argue, but he’d just give you that look that clearly said, don’t even try. it shut you up fast.

the breaks started small. a quick walk to the water fountain. a few quiet minutes spent staring out the library window, letting your brain cool off instead of overheating. at first, it felt pointless, like lost time. but slowly, those breaks turned into something more than just pauses.

one afternoon, right in the middle of a brutal physics problem, he stopped writing and looked up. “we’re done for the day,” he said, closing his book with a firm snap.

“but we’ve only been here for two hours,” you protested, genuinely confused. “i still have so much shit to do.”

“it can wait,” he said, already standing. “we’re going to the park.”

before you could argue, he led you out of the school and toward a small park you’d passed a hundred times without ever caring enough to stop. you sat on a bench and just watched people walk by, living their lives without worrying about grades or schedules.

the sun rested warm against your skin. the air smelled like cut grass. for a second, guilt crept in, whispering that you were wasting time. but it didn’t last. it faded, replaced by a calm you hadn’t felt in months, and you realized how badly you’d needed this without even knowing it.

another time, he took you to a small café you didn’t even know existed. it was tucked away in a quiet alley, easy to miss, with mismatched chairs and low voices blending together in the background. it felt like a place people went to disappear for a while. he ordered coffee for both of you without making it a big deal, and you sat at a tiny table with your notebooks closed for once, the silence between pages feeling almost wrong at first.

you talked about everything except school. he told you about his friend who was weirdly obsessed with model rockets, went on about it like it was the most serious thing in the world. then, softer, he mentioned his own quiet hope of designing things that could make life simpler, easier, less heavy. not flashy. just useful.

you surprised yourself by opening up too. you talked about your love for old movies, the kind that felt slow and comforting, and your hidden skill for finding the most ridiculous cat videos online when you needed a laugh. it felt stupid and honest and real all at once.

it was strange, and honestly kind of amazing, to just be y/n. not y/n the failure turned overachiever. not the version everyone watched too closely. just you.

he wasn’t trying to change you anymore. he wasn’t trying to fix you or push you into some shape that made sense on paper. he was just helping you figure out how to live without wrecking yourself in the process. the library was still your home base, still important, but now it was only one part of your day instead of the whole damn thing.

he was teaching you that a good life wasn’t about flying higher than everyone else. it was about staying steady, about balance, about lasting longer than one moment of success. the paper airplane tucked inside your notebook wasn’t a sign of rebellion anymore, or a reminder of who you used to be. it was something quieter now. something that meant you were allowed to move forward without burning yourself down to do it

it was a reminder that you had to know when to launch and when to land.

the sun dipped lower, stretching long purple shadows across the park, but you barely noticed any of it. time felt slow and distant, like the rest of the world had softened around the edges. your focus had narrowed to the space between you and juhoon, to the quiet air you were sharing. your mind, usually so busy with formulas and dates and constant noise, felt completely empty for once, and it wasn’t scary. it was a relief.

he hadn’t said “i love you” or “i have a crush on you,” and somehow that made it feel more real. his words didn’t need labels. they landed heavier than anything dramatic ever could. he saw you. not just one version, but all of you. the version that built paper airplanes in the library and the version that nearly wrecked herself trying to be flawless. there was no judgment in it, just understanding.

“when i first saw you,” you said, your voice quiet, almost mirroring his tone, “i just saw a robot. the golden one everyone was jealous of. i thought you were this perfect, boring person who had everything planned out.”

he let out a small, soft laugh, the kind that didn’t try to cover anything up. “i was,” he said honestly. “a little bit. probably still am.”

the sound of his laugh settled something in you. it wasn’t grand or dramatic, just real. and sitting there with him, with the sky darkening slowly overhead, you realized how rare that kind of honesty actually was.

“maybe,” you conceded, a small smile pulling at your lips, soft but real. the kind that didn’t feel forced for once.

“but then you showed up with a paper airplane and proved me wrong. and when i saw you with minji, i thought… i thought you were just done with the project.” the words came out slower now, honest in a way that made your chest feel tight.

his expression shifted, the ease fading into something serious. “you were never a project.”

you looked down at your hands resting in your lap, fingers loosely tangled together. “i made myself one,” you admitted quietly. “i was scared i was going to prove you, and everyone else, right. that i wasn’t good enough.” you swallowed and kept going. “i thought if i could beat you, if i could become number one, it would… it would shut all the doubt up.”

he stayed quiet for a long moment. the silence stretched, and fear crept in fast, that awful feeling that you’d said too much, shown too much of the messy truth you usually kept locked away.

then he spoke.

“it was never a competition to me,” he said. “it was just watching you figure out what you could actually do.”

he looked at you then, really looked at you, and the sincerity in his eyes made your chest ache in the worst and best way. “so here it is,” he said. “i respect the hell out of you. i admire how you keep going, even when it’s messy, even when it doesn’t make sense. and i want to be part of that. part of your path, even when there’s no clear plan.”

you finally looked up and met his eyes

there was no grand romantic gesture, no big cinematic moment that stopped time. it was just the quiet understanding that had been building between you both the whole time, piece by piece, without either of you forcing it.

you guys had both been searching for something, even if you hadn’t known how to name it at first. him, for a puzzle he couldn’t solve with a schedule or a plan. you, for a reason to believe in yourself that didn’t come from a textbook, a grade, or someone else’s approval. and somehow, without trying to, you’d found it in each other.

“okay,” you said. just one word, simple as hell, but it carried everything you didn’t need to explain.

a small smile touched his lips, the same genuine one you first saw back in the library. “okay,” he said back, just as quietly.

the silence that followed wasn’t awkward or heavy like before. it didn’t beg to be filled. it was calm, knowing, the kind of quiet that felt earned. above you, the sky shifted into a deep, inky blue, and the first stars started to show, one by one.

you guys sat there together, two people who had started with nothing more than assumptions and pressure and ended up with something that actually mattered. not loud. not flashy. just real.

together.

and the crazy part was, it all started with a paper airplane in the library.

NOTE FROM YOUR C.E.O🗒️ ￬

was listening to skyline to and thought of this so enjoy😛 also, hello, i’m new to cortisblr. my inbox is open if you want to talk