laivrnth

8 Months. That’s how long it’s been since you started courting Sophia Laforteza — months of dinners shared under soft apartment light, of lingering glances over simmering pans, of her laugh melting through the kitchen’s quiet hum.

You’ve always believed that the fastest way to someone’s heart was through good food. Turns out, Sophia agreed.

She fell for you slowly, like sugar dissolving in tea — gently, then all at once.

And you? You fell the moment she called your adobo “divine” and wiped sauce from the corner of your mouth with that shy little smile.

You’ve been to the Kat’s apartment plenty of times before — cooking, hanging out, falling deeper into their easy chaos — but tonight feels warmer somehow. The group chat had been buzzing all morning;

Lara spamming heart emojis, Megan and Manon declaring they're doing an “inspection,” Daniela claiming she’d skipped lunch for this, and Yoonchae demanding dessert already.

Sophia meets you at the door, hair tied in a loose bun, wearing one of your aprons — the one you left behind last time. “Mahal,” she greets softly, eyes lighting up. “You brought the ingredients?”

You lift a heavy paper bag with both hands, grinning. “Of course, love. I promised I’d cook for the girls, didn’t I?”

Her eyes twinkle with that familiar mix of amusement and affection. “You say that like you’re not already part of this house.”

You chuckle, stepping inside. The apartment smells faintly of jasmine and vanilla candles — Sophia’s doing, definitely.

Before you can reply, Megan pops out from the living room, camera phone already up. “Look at that! Our resident chef and Fia, domestic edition.”

Lara groans from behind her. “Megs, at least let them take their shoes off before you start being weird.”

Daniela leans against the counter, smirking. “I don’t know. I kinda wanna see if they act like an old married couple when they cook.”

You laugh, trying to play it cool while Sophia rolls her eyes but doesn’t hide her blush. “You all talk too much,” she mutters, then glances at you with a small, secret smile. “Come on, mahal. Kitchen’s waiting.”

She tugs your wrist gently, guiding you toward the kitchen. The light spills golden across the countertops. Your heart skips when you notice the small details — a folded towel where she knows you like it, the cutting board already set up, even the salt and pepper placed in your usual order.

You’re home here. That realization hits harder than you expect.

As you unpack the groceries, Sophia hums beside you, fingers brushing yours every now and then. “You know,” she starts, voice low, “you’ve set my standards too high. My dad’s a chef, remember? But even he doesn’t make his carbonara like you do.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re saying that to flatter me, baby.”

Her gaze softens. “Maybe. But also… maybe not.”

The apartment buzzes in the background — laughter, teasing, faint music from Yoonchae’s phone — but in this moment, it’s just her and you.

Sophia’s kitchen isn’t the biggest, but it feels like a universe built just for two.

There’s a certain rhythm between you — like every movement, every breath, is choreographed.

You chop onions; she sways beside you, humming under her breath. You drop the cuts of pork into the simmering pot, the scent of garlic and onions rising like comfort itself.

She sneaks a piece of kangkong stem from the bowl and grins when you pretend not to notice.

“Hey,” you say, nudging her gently with your elbow, “that’s for the sinigang, you little thief.”

She laughs, that soft, musical kind of laugh that makes your chest ache in the best way. “You make it sound like I haven’t already stolen something more important, love.”

You pause mid-stir. She’s looking at you, eyes bright, that teasing half-smile curving her lips — the one that always makes you forget how to breathe.

God, she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Careful,” you murmur, leaning a little closer. “Flirting while I’m holding a knife? That's dangerous, mahal.”

Sophia giggles, brushing your hand as she reaches for the radishes. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she whispers, soft enough that only the bubbling broth can hear.

And she’s right.

You wouldn’t. Not even if your life depended on it.

Across the room, chaos brews as usual — Yoonchae’s trying to record a TikTok, Lara’s pretending to help but mostly just taste-testing, and Megan’s narrating everything like it’s a cooking show.

“Chef YN and sous-chef Sophia Laforteza,” she announces dramatically. “Today we’ll be cooking… sinigang!”

Daniela snorts. “More like “I won in life” stew. Look at Sophia — girl’s got the ‘I won’ smile.”

You and Sophia exchange a look — half exasperated, half affectionate. You can’t even be mad. The teasing’s just part of the routine now, like salt in the dish.

Still, Sophia steps a little closer, as if to claim her space beside you.

“Let them talk,” she murmurs. “They just don’t get it.”

“Get what?” you ask, tilting your head.

“That this—” she gestures between the two of you, to the quiet harmony in your movements, the little glances and soft touches “—is just for us.”

The way she says it… it’s not loud, not showy, but it’s real.

And for a moment, the laughter fades into a comforting blur.

You hand her the spoon. “Taste it?”

She does — eyes fluttering shut as the tamarind tang hits her tongue. “Perfect,” she murmurs. “It tastes like home.”

She added, “You’ve ruined me for other food, you know.”

You grin, leaning against the counter. “Guess I’ll just have to keep feeding you, then.”

Her cheeks tint pink, and she looks away — though her hand finds yours on the counter, fingers brushing in a quiet promise.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “You better.”

From behind, Manon groans. “Oh my god, get a room! Or like.. a restaurant at least.”

Megan snickers. “Nah, they’d still flirt over the stove”

You both laugh, shoulders bumping, but neither of you let go.

The broth bubbles, the girls chatter, and yet — somehow — it feels like the world’s shrunk down to this tiny kitchen and the warmth between your palms.

The apartment smells like sinigang and rain. Steam curls from the pot, fogging the windows, and laughter fills every inch of the space.

Sophia moves around the kitchen barefoot, hair tied up, focused as ever — you’d swear she runs the place when she’s cooking beside you. You’re stirring the pot, adjusting the tamarind balance, while she’s taste-testing like a perfectionist.

“Needs more salt,” she says.

You grin. “You sure? Thought I was the chef here, love.”

She shoots you a mock glare. “I’m the quality control, mahal.”

Across the room, chaos brews as usual. Yoonchae’s half-dancing to the tiktok now, Lara’s sneaking bits of pork from the bowl, Daniela’s gossiping with Megan, and Manon—well, Manon’s perched on the counter like she owns it, phone in hand, recording everything.

“Look at you two,” Manon says, zooming in with her camera. “Power couple of the kitchen. You’re gonna break the internet with this setup.”

Sophia looks over her shoulder. “Manon, if that goes on your story—”

“Relax, Fia,” Manon says, smirking. “I’m just documenting history. This is for your wedding too.”

You nearly choke back a laugh, turning to stir the pot before Sophia notices the grin spreading on your face. She does, of course.

“Mahal,” she warns, pointing the ladle at you, “don’t you dare encourage her.”

You raise your hands, innocent. “What? I’m just cooking, love.”

“Uh-huh,” Sophia mutters, glaring playfully before turning back to the pot — cheeks already pink.

She sighs but doesn’t argue, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “You’re too soft on them.”

“And you’re too scary when you’re strict,” you tease, bumping your shoulder against hers.

“I’m not scary,” she mutters, but the pink creeping into her cheeks says otherwise.

“Omma! Appa! Is dinner ready yet?” Yoonchae yells from the couch.

Sophia freezes. “What did you just call us?”

Lara immediately points at her. “See! You do sound like a mom!”

“Mom and Dad energy!” Daniela joins in, laughing so hard she nearly spills her drink.

Sophia opens her mouth to protest, but you’re already laughing, shaking your head. “They’ve got a point, love. You do nag like one.”

Her eyes narrow, mock-offended. “Excuse me?”

You raise both hands in surrender. “In the endearing way!”

“Mmhm.” She tries to look unimpressed but ends up smiling anyway.

Dinner finally lands on the table — warm, aromatic, the kind of food that quiets a room. For a few minutes, even Katseye is silent, the only sounds being spoons clinking and soft hums of approval.

“This is so good,” Lara groans. “I could cry.”

Sophia crosses her arms, proud. “That’s my mahal’s cooking for you.”

Megan snickers. “There she goes again. Parents flirting at the table.”

Sophia shoots her another look, but you gently nudge her hand under the table — a silent, let it go. She exhales, then laughs softly.

By the time everyone’s full and laughing again, the teasing’s settled into something comfortable.

Sophia’s still half-pouting at Megan and Manon’s antics, but you catch the way she keeps glancing at the girls — fond, protective, a little proud.

“See?” you whisper when the others start cleaning up. “You’re not just scary. You care about them.”

She gives you a look that’s half-playful, half-tender. “You’re lucky I like you, mahal.”

“Lucky enough to get seconds of sinigang?” you ask, grinning.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s already getting up to serve you.

And when Megan snaps one last photo — the two of you side by side, Sophia smiling mid-ladle and you leaning close — she doesn’t even complain this time.

Maybe because deep down, Sophia Laforteza already knows: if this is what “parents of Katseye” looks like, she wouldn’t change a thing.

Dinner fades into the kind of quiet that only comes after laughter.

The girls drift off one by one — Yoonchae and Daniela with a drowsy good-night, Lara carrying plates to the sink, Megan and Manon still grinning over the photos.

Soon it’s just you and Sophia in the kitchen again, surrounded by the smell of basil and warm light.

She’s rinsing the last dish when you reach over to help, brushing bubbles from her wrist. “You cooked half of this,” you say. “Let me finish.”

Sophia shakes her head, smiling. “You cooked all of it, mahal. I’m just making sure you don’t leave a mess for tomorrow.”

The water hums between you. She passes a plate; you dry it. Outside, the traffic murmurs like a faraway song.

For a while, that’s all — quiet, hands moving in rhythm, soft breaths and the steady beat of something that feels like home.

When the last dish is stacked away, you lean back against the counter. “You know,” you say, voice low, “all those months of courting you were worth it.”

Sophia tilts her head, a teasing glimmer in her eyes. “Oh? Even when you had to win over my dad?”

You laugh under your breath. “Especially that part. Convincing a chef in the kitchen felt harder than any competition I’ve ever entered.”

She steps closer, towel still in her hand, eyes bright in the golden light. “And now?”

You meet her gaze. “Now I get to cook for the person I love. I’d say I won.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moves. Then Sophia smiles — the kind that reaches her eyes and softens everything around her. She rises on her toes, presses a kiss to your cheek, and whispers, “Then I guess I did too.”

Outside, someone in the hall laughs; inside, the world feels hushed and full.

You set the towel aside, slide your arm around her waist, and she rests her head against your shoulder.

No grand gestures. No camera flashes. Just the quiet clatter of dishes cooling, the faint scent of herbs on her skin, and the certainty that this — this small, ordinary moment — is exactly what all those months had been leading to.

Later that night, your phone buzzes.

A message from Megan; attached is the photo — the one she took in the kitchen, Sophia looking at you like the world had gone still.

You smile, saving it immediately.

By morning, it’s your wallpaper.

And every time the screen lights up, it reminds you that love doesn’t always start with fireworks —

sometimes, it begins with a kitchen, a laugh, and a girl who calls you mahal.

yet you stand with a tight smile displayed on your face as you talk with the investors, each one taking you in carefully. not only as if you might explode again — but as though they were watching, waiting for faint cracks to show so they can be the first to gossip. every laugh they gave was fragile and every compliment was backhanded.

the way their eyes would flick from your emptied champagne flute, to your cufflinks shining thanks to the vibrant chandelier, and to the barely noticeable shadows underneath your eyes — it felt like you were being stripped back into nothing but a spectacle disguised as polite conversation.

“wayne enterprises has made amazing progress,” one of them said, his voice lathered in enough admiration to hide the envy. “we’re glad to see you back on you’re feet.” the others hummed in agreement.

back on your feet.

they meant, ‘we thought you’d overdose before ever showing up in this city.’

you maintained the phony grin anyway. “well, you know, gotham’s foundations only stand because of days like today, charitable donations.” you shot back, your voice was calm enough to pacify.

they laughed again, unsure if they truly believed that. it made you wonder, how many of these people wished for the wayne name to absolutely crumble under your disappearance, betting against you.

you adjusted your cufflink, eyes drifting past one of the older men in front of you and onto the artifact that glistened under the glass, a necklace imported straight from greece, etched with a map of somewhere only visible when the light hit perfectly. you excused yourself from the conversation and made way to the bar, already begging for another champagne.

the bartender silently slid another glass toward you, the drink sizzling silently in delicate spirals. you didn’t drink it yet. you only let it rest against your fingers as you studied the room.

the gala was live as usual, affluent people sauntering as if they owned your establishment, laughter spilling loudly, champagne towers basking in the light. but for all its brightness, you still feel like a mere shadow under it.

the necklace shimmered from across the floor, a beauty under glass. you knew every camera fixated on it, every guard’s pacing rhythm, and every single inch of that glass. but it still felt insecure.

“master wayne…” you heard alfred’s voice in your hidden in-ear, soft yet snapping you back to present day as you sipped the champagne. “your little feline seems to be enjoying that necklace just as much as you if not more.” his british accent lingered in your ears as you scanned the crowd.

there she was. lara rajagopalan. not a single ounce of shame as she circled the glass, her backless black silk dress soaked in the light as her hips swayed with every step. she looked nothing like the thief you spent the last few months tracking through rooftops in gotham. today she was elegance incarnate, yet every touch of the glass, every flick of her eyes towards the guards screamed calculation.

“wonderful. of course she is,” you muttered under your breath, taking another sip of the drink. “she’d rather die than be subtle.”

alfred let out a sigh. “please be careful, focus before she strikes.” you set the glass down with a small tap, straightened your shirt cuffs like tightening armor before battle. the crowd opened around you, unaware and innocent as you cut across the floor towards her.

the closer you got, the more the air between you grew thick with tension, like she could see you from the eyes on the back of her head, like she was daring you to meet in the middle.

“miss raj,” you spoke, letting a hand run down her back before latching onto her sides, “beautiful piece, isn’t it?”

she leaned into the touch, looking back at you. her lips curved into a smirk, slow and meticulous. like she knew what game you were playing.

“mmh,” lara thought, lowering her head to the glass case as though the necklace was the only thing worthy of her attention. “beautiful is surely one word to describe it.”

her eyes slid back to yours, flicking around your features, catching the subtle strain in your jaw, the tenseness in your shoulders, she could see every crack in your persona, “do you always sneak up on women like this, wayne?” she teased, voice smooth.

you didn’t falter, unhurriedly retracting your hand from her side and landing onto the small of her back. “only the ones that look at these pieces with the intentions of stealing from me.”

that made her laugh. a low, sharp sound, cutting through the quiet gala. heads turned somewhat before the sounds of the orchestra swallowed her voice.

“accusations already?” lara questioned, her lashes batted with faux innocence. “you wound me, y/n. what would these investors think? gotham’s scandalous heir murmuring filth about an innocent woman just trying to donate to a needy organization?” she pouted playfully.

you felt her body arch against your touch, taunting you painfully. her head tilted towards you, lips dangerously close to yours before you leaned to her ear, whispering. “i think they noticed you circling that case enough to get suspicious, miss raj.”

“or maybe i’m making my choice for the auction.” she pushed a strand from her face, turning back to the case, her reflection warped against the surface.

before you could even think of a response, the ballroom’s light shut off. leaving you dazed as you felt lara remove herself from your grasp. the gala erupted into gasps and overlapping whispers.

for a moment, all you could hear was the staccato heartbeat in your throat as the bodies shifted around you terrified. they slammed into your shoulders roughly.

you knew it was her. the way the silk dress brushed from your fingertips, the smell of her perfume already fading from your vicinity. she was fast. and you were stunned.

“master wayne,” alfred’s voice snapped through the earpiece. “the necklace—”

“i know.” you finally moved, trying to catch lara, eyes straining to catch a glimpse of motion. the orchestra had screeched to a halt, the last note echoing through the room.

when the emergency lights finally shuddered back on, everything seemed normal enough. guests murmuring amongst themselves, guards spewing orders, the chandelier flickering slightly.

but the glass case? shattered.

the necklace? gone.

and so was lara raj.

you exhaled, fists tight. she played you like she always did, dangling the conversation, thinking you had her distracted, only to tease you enough to cover for timing. “be careful next time, master wayne,” alfred scolded, calmer now, “you looked far too interested in the conversation, she slipped right underneath you.”

you mentally cursed yourself, biting onto your bottom lip harshly. the guests watched you with disappointment and fear painted across their faces. you knew this wreck of an event would be in every article tomorrow morning.

you stayed up all night in the batcave, watching that cctv footage like it was the only channel during a storm. rewinding over and over to how swiftly lara’s silhouette moved as you stood dazed as people bumped into you.

maybe you wanted her to escape. wanted to feel the rush of cornering her. each time felt like a step into something you pretended you didn’t want. you knew she just might be the reason you’ll fall off.

the city sprawled underneath you, glowing with building lights and smoke. gotham at night seemed like a nightmarish vangoh piece. rooftops were practically safe havens for criminals.

two nights after the gala, you found her on top of one.

catwoman’s silhouette stretched sleek, dark in comparison to the moonlight. the stolen necklace dangling from her hands, blinging whenever she rolled it between her slender gloved fingers. she hadn't noticed you. or maybe she did and wanted to fuck with you .

“perfect lighting to show off your loot, huh?” you barked, keeping your voice low as it cut through the nighttime air.

her head tilted cautiously, her eyes sharp as she glanced over her shoulder. no surprise in her body, just a knowing smirk. “batman,” she mewled, rolling the jewelry across her knuckles like a coin trick. “you know, i missed you so much. sad that i had to get your attention this way.” she pouted.

you inched closer, gravel crunching underneath your heavy boots, the cape dragging across the rooftop. your body still tense from your last interaction where she slipped right from you grasp, and alfred’s lecture, be careful next time, resonating in the back of your mind.

“return it,” you demanded, face still. “you stole it from a friend of mine; it doesn’t belong to you.”

she twirled it before letting out a giggle, mocking, edged with something indescribable, “doesn’t belong to me? pretty things like this don’t belong in a glass box either. whoever was betting on it was going to let sit and waste. and, it was practically made for someone like me."

you lunged forward, glove reaching to seize the chain from her, only for her to twist effortlessly out of reach. like water slipping through fingers.

"stop fucking around, lara." the anger in your voice exposed you a little.

her smile widened. she leaned in close, closing the gap in one wide step, so close you could smell her perfume, the same one she wore to the gala. "aww, first names? you really are mad, aren’t you?"

your hand shot out, grabbing at her wrist twisting just enough to remind her you were not in the mood. you felt her hand tense as she let out a hum, "rough foreplay?" her eyes flickered from your glove to your eyes, "i didn’t take you for such a sadist, batman." you yanked her closer, never breaking eye contact, the stolen necklace danced between you like a live wire.

"give it to me." you looked down at the chain.

there was a sinister pause in the atmosphere before lara's free hand reached up, slashing from your ear diagonally to your jaw, leaving three lines. the blood poured from your cheek, exposed to the cool air, causing you to drop her arm with a hiss. "why do you want it so badly? are you fucking your rich friend behind my back?"

her hand rested against your jaw as if she was trying to keep the pain-filled expression you made in her mind forever. you tried to take a step back, only for her to follow right along with you. you could've taken her down right then, pinning her arms and snaring the necklace then, but you didn't.

"watch your mouth." you warned, feeling the blood drip from your chin. her thumb ran across your jaw, smearing the blood against your lips and chin like war paint.

"or what?” lara inched closer, warm breath against your cheek before dragging her hot tongue across the gashes, stealing the blood from your cheek, and letting it sit in her mouth with a hum. she pulled away, half-lidded eyes running over your scrunched expression.

she pressed her lips onto your roughly, allowing you to taste the blood that lingered. you despised that you found yourself drunk on her instantly, your tongue gliding across hers as a satisfied groan left her. lara's claws drifted from your face to your neck, pushing you deeper as you gave in, stuttering against her while she pinched harshly at your nape. the faint clink of the necklace dangling within reach tormented you. you could snatch it now and leave with her in prison, but you couldn’t. you wouldn’t.

your gloved fingers gripped at her leather-clad waist, pulling her closer to you.

she swiped her fingers on one of the lines, dousing her index and middle finger in the sticky red liquid before bringing them to your mouth. you instinctively parted your lips, allowing her fingers to press against your tongue. the metallic taste seeping onto your taste buds like a forbidden alcohol. you carefully avoided the sharp claws that prodded at your teeth as lara gradually pulled them away and down your chin, leaving a thin string of bloodied saliva from your bottom lip to your jaw. you never felt so pathetic.

after a second too long, she leaned away, necklace pressed against your chest, wrapped her other fist. it was a joke to her. she knew you wouldn’t dare to try it. "next time, if you’re good—i’ll give you something else, and maybe even the necklace." she muttered with that mocking smile on her face. she leaped onto the ledge of the rooftop, jumping off and into the dark alleys.

"shit." you dabbed at your face, watching the blood drip onto the concrete.

back inside the cave, alfred's eyes found yours as you removed the mask. his gaze focused on the line of lacerations along your cheek, the crimson already crusting against your face. he let out a sigh, no frustration, no anger, just disappointment.

"before i patch you up, when are you going to learn, master wayne?" his voice was soft, delicate, as if he assumed what the investors did: that you were close to collapsing. you plunked into the chair in front of a screen that displayed security footage of your interaction, embarrassed that the whole thing even lasted that long. "you know, she only gets away cause you let her." alfred reminded you.

you didn't respond, not because the antiseptic burned. but because you hated her for having this kind of command over you. hated that every bone in your body and voice around you wanted you to chase her, to punish her, to lock her up, yet, you desired nothing greater than to feel her lips against yours again.

"i'll get her next time.”

Every live you and Sophia do together is guaranteed to rack up atleast a 100k viewers in the first two minutes alone. Raving about your visual chemistry aside, it's not surprising given that she is your literal girlfriend. Not that the eyekons know, of course (though speculations are one of their specialities).

In hindsight, it was probably a bad move on your end to insist on playing minecraft with her. Being the only daughter among two brothers meant the rascal was usually out collecting an army of dogs and going treasure hunting while you showed your builds off to the eyekons.

At the moment, you are pleasantly showing off a sky treehouse you built, complete with white quartz to mimic a cloud and a creeper vine draped over the top to give it that ‘cottagecore aesthetic’ (as you insisted). 

Sophia’s sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with you, one arm casually resting on your thigh as she moves her mouse around. Her screen is conveniently hidden from you, which would make you suspicious if you weren't a woman on a mission.

“And this right here", you tell the phone screen in front of you, proudly manoeuvering around the cat you made sit in front of the door to your bedroom, “is where Sophia and I sleep together." Then, after a pause so pregnant it could give birth to an entire species— "Not like that.”

[user01] LMAOO SOMEONE CLIP THAT

[user02] guysss what time is it there? 🩷

[user03] SHE KNOWS ABOUT US EVERYONE ABORT MISSION Y/NFIZ

[user04] y/n please tell me if you are dating sophia or have dated her before because I can't stand it anymore I've been crying since yesterday and I haven't eaten anything. Please tell me if you love her or if she loves you

You show them around the pocket handkerchief of a room, cluttered with your decorations— a bookshelf with your enchanting table placed in the corner of the room, a dwindling candle placed opposite to it, a side table with a blue flower placed on it and two beds; pink— and joined.

[user05] JOINT BEDS OKAY WE SEE YOU MARRIED COUPLE

[user02] MORE SOPHYNZ CONTENT THE MINECRAFT FOOD IS SO FRICKING GOOD LOIS

[user06] I think they do lesbianisms together which is fine

You, blissfully unaware, keep yapping, exiting the bedroom into what you claim is the foyer. “Annnd, that's the Sophynz household guys! Working title at the moment." Sophia chortles from beside you, that blaring, loud laughter that indicates no care for the sleeping Yoonchae two feet away from you. 

“She did that like- all by herself by the way." Sophia adds, poking her head more into frame, ignoring your ‘tch!’ as your space is overtaken by an overly enthusiastic girl with a large set of glasses and larger headphones. “I didn't help like- at all." She laughs as you push her face away from the frame playfully. “I mean, you got me like all the materials and stuff— the heavy lifting you know." 

Sophia perks up immediately, flexing her bicep in your face for the camera and ignoring your indignant ‘yah!’. “That's true." She says, her voice an octave deeper, face suddenly completely smug, smirking like she had just moved furniture around the room or something. “I’m just sigma like that." 

[user01] ‘sigma’ pack it up auntie 💔💔💔

[user07] I feel this exact same feeling when my parents flirt in front of me

[user08] fighting like a married couple iktr #verymuchMYsophynz

[user09] everyone please stop watching the live, I need to be alone with them !! 

You make a disgusted noise but gracefully defer as she settles down again, peacefully strutting out to the ladder ingame.

“Where even are you, anyways?" You ask, trying to take a gander at her shielded screen, which leads to an influx of loud barks right in your poor, poor ears. “THIS IS HARASSMENT!!" Sophia yells dramatically, now completely oblong in her attempts to get away from you.

You flinch and cover your headphone-enveloped ears, making another sullen titter. “God, Sophia, they probably heard you all the way back in the Philippines!!" 

Another one of those laughs that make your heart jump, her starry eyed crinkling up like a swirled galaxy. The screen reflected in the glass of her spectacles only increases that almost celestial radiance she always has about her, silky black hair shrouding her eyes.

And then disaster strikes. The chat, who can conveniently see both your screens despite your inability to, is suddenly exploding. You squint at the influx of comments, fast paced and zipping past you at a speed faster than you can read at. 

You push the laptop aside on your lap a little, absent-mindedly guiding your pixelated character a little forward, knowing that your very clever (if you do say so yourself) water pit at the bottom will break your fall. An awkward laugh leaves your parted lips as you lean into the tiny glowing rectangle in front of you. “Woah, why all the spam guys?" 

[user10] MAMA A SOPHIA BEHIND YOU!!! 😭

[user07] Y/N NO!!! THAT LESBIAN WANTS TO KILL YOU!!!!! 😭😭😭

[user09] IS THIS WHAT SERVANTS FELT LIKE SENDING THEIR QUEENS TO WAR???

[user06] Y/N STATUE!!! STATUE I TELL YOU‼️‼️‼️

You give them another huffed out laugh before turning back to your screen, not noticing the devious grin on the pretty face of the girl right next to you. You hum as your character jumps right off the platform, falling down, down, down— into the lava below?

The dreary orange of the lava doesn't hit you. Neither does the sound of your poor character burning to death. The sight of Sophia's character teabagging in front of you is what jolts you out of your firm-stance, and your question mark posture snaps erect so fast that you jerk forward.

Mouth hanging open, you sputter out a string of curses, insults and confused suffocating duck noises as you start button-mashing, Sophia laughing like a maniac beside you, clutching her stomach and placing cobwebs above you as you flail to climb out. 

But you reacted too late and with too little frantic action and you scream out a dramatic, “NOOOOOOOOOO" that fully wakes up a pissy Yoonchae— who takes one look at the sight in front of her, your irate face and Sophia rolling around on the floor in a flood of tears, having a damn near anneurysm as she gasps for air, and falls right back asleep. 

You stare, flabbers absolutely ghasted, at the ‘you died!’ message flashing in front of you on your laptop, and then back at the phone propped up against the leg of a table.

[user11] BRO OH MY GOODDD 

[user12] staring at us like it's our fault sis we warned you 😭😭

[user13] SOPHIA'S SLEEPING ON THE COUCH TONITE IM CALLING IT

[user04] WAIT SO SHE LOST ALL HER STUFF?? I WOULD'VE STARTED TWEAAKING BRO NAAH

[user07] holy fckin airball 💀💀

“Soph…” you gasp, swiveling your head slowly, like an animatronic, to face Sophia, who's taken off her glasses and is now wiping actual rivulets of tears from her eyes. Her grinning face immediately drops the second you slam your laptop shut aggressively, glaring at the camera in front of you like you're trying to explode it with your mind.

 “I'm sorry mahal, I am-" She starts off, trying to take your hand in hers and then turning to the phone with the sheepish expression of a bitey puppy.

[user04] mahal…. TILL THE ROOMS MOLDY FROM THE HUMIDITY

[user14] the humble knight trying to make up to the princess after getting her carpet dirty with blood:

[user15] why is angry y/n such a hear me out….👀👀

[user16] sophynz fight….a disturbance in the force….

[user17] CRACKY/NPHIACRACKY/NPHIACRACKY/NPHIACRACKY/NPHIACRACKY/NPHIA

“Baby", she tries again, now putting on that gentle, husky voice that she knows makes you weak. She rests one hand on your thigh, looping the other around to drag her hand just lightly up the side of your hip— under the hoodie you stole from her. You feel your stomach churn with thrashing butterflies even as you firmly cross your arms and turn away from her.

Sophia turns back to the glare of the screen, the comments now spamming different iterations of thirsty remarks and people cracking up over Sophia’s unfortunate (and fully deserved) fate. “Guys help me, I'm cooked… she's mad…” she turns back to you, trying to draw you in closer since you've attempted to squirm out of her gentle (now less so) grasp at least four times now. 

“Reaaally mad." She keeps the low tone, knowing that the raspy, honey-in-coffee voice is one of your brittle points and God she's right because your defense is already collapsing like a stick wall. 

[user18] that's the way the cookie crumbles girl idk what to tell you

[user02] BRO THE VOICE….MY LEGS ARE DIVORCING CAN YOU BE THE MEDIATOR??

[user09] she wants them pogiphia edits BAD dude

[user19] none of my current thoughts are in the Bible so I will refrain from commenting… (MY SCREEN ISN'T WATERPROOF SOPHIA STOP THIS)

Sophia chuckles quietly (a rare occurrence that you have to bite your tongue to refrain from commenting on) as she watches the comments disappear upwards, scanning for a useful suggestion. Her eyes light up (even more than previously, if that's even possible) as one particular comment catches her eye. Her lips curl into a cheshire-cat rivalled smirk.

[user20] only one way to solve this tsundere act…..KISS ATTACK!!!!

She clears her throat and straightens up, looking towards you where you're still pouting, face turned to the side and glowing an ominous purple on the shade of your LED lights, knowing that you haven't seen the comments.

“N/n~" she calls teasingly and you almost jerk your head back to her on instinct. Your breaths come faster now, heart pounding as you ponder what she's going to do to you to make it up. She straightens up like a poised cobra and you can feel her eyes locked onto you.

You get your answer a split second later. Smack! A loud, resounding sound echoes through the room as Sophia lunges forward tiger-style and presses a kiss to the side of your neck. You can feel the lipgloss stain sinking in, sure to stay there for atleast two days (one, if you attempt the long-tried and tested method of scrubbing the colour out of your soon-to-be raw neck).

The place her lips touched are warm and you can already feel blush rising up like a tiny flame, sparking and jumping.

She leans back a bit, as if awaiting your reaction. When she doesn't get any, she rolls her eyes and goes back in. Kiss! Your jawline! Chu! A small peck to the cheek turned toward her. She leaves a trail of firm, relentless kisses like painting a splotchy canvas, airbrushing shades of pink on your soft skin.

With each smooch, you can feel your ears turning reader and redder, squinting your eyes as she climbs up your face with her kisses. Nose, under your eyes, her hands now cupping your face with their long, tapered fingers. You've just started to brush off the effects of her deathly kisses when it happens.

Sophia, completely forgetting herself, leans in and captures your lips with hers. Her hands keep a strangling grip on your face, holding you as you try to pull back, a small yelp escaping your mouth straight into hers. You want to keep playing hard to get, but god, you're a weak, weak woman. 

Your eyes, previously the size of saucers, shrink closed, hands going up to hold onto her wrists. You can feel her smile triumphantly as you lean into her, tiny, pathetic noises leaving your accepting lips that she hungrily eats up, starving for you.

The whirring of the AC in the room becomes white noise and you can feel your brain turn into utter mush as Sophia practically pulls you onto her. You're quite surprised your heart hasn't fallen out and splayed all over the phone.

The phone.

You pull back, cheeks red where her hands held you close, staring at her in both exasperation and fond amusement, her hair sticking out on the sides where your arms sweeped through it to find her wrists, a smirk tugging on her lips as she wipes off your excess lipgloss with the pad of her thumb.

You feel warm, like you've been wrapped in an electric blanket and read a bedtime story, and for a split second neither of you are quite sure why you pulled away.

That's when the sound of a notification vibrates your phone where it's standing up— and still recording. You stare at it in aghast, unable to process the flurry of comments and the blinking red dot for a bit as your brain works overtime to catch-up on recent events.

[user21] OH MY FUCKING GOD DUDE IM FEWAKING OUT HELPSBLP??

[user22] THE LITTLE NOISES OMG Y/N OIL UP????

[user02] WE HAVE HARD LAUNCHES AND THEN WE HAVE WHATEVER THIS WAS SOPHYNZ COUNTRY IS FLYING IT'S FLAG AGAIN 😭😭😭

[user03] WE ARE NEVER GETTING ANOTHER SOPHYNZ LIVE AGAIN BUT GOD ITS SO WORTH IT IM ACTUALLY SHAKING

[user07] IM ONLY HUMAN BRO MY PILLOW ISN'T ENOUGH

[user23] THIS IS A FEVER DREAM. NO WAY SOPHYNZ JUST MADE OUT SLOPPY STYLE ON LIVE. NO WAY.

The last comment is what taps you back in. Sophia and you lunge for the screen at the same time. She reaches it first and slams the stop recording button so hard, you swear you hear a crack. Your heart's doing the macarena again, but for a different reason now.

You are so dead. They're going to bury you alive or feed you to Yoonchae the cat. Though, when Yoonchae the human wakes up, she might join in just out of spite.

Sophia turns to you and your exact expression is mirrored back on her face. They'll take down the live immediately, of course, Hybe’s PR team is fast like that, but you're sure somebody's already caught the entire thing in HD and that somebody is spreading the video on the surely trending hashtag #SOPHYNZ as you both pant, from exertion and from the news of your upcoming doom.

The room is silent save for Yoonchae’s tranquil snores and the ticking of a clock you think might be coming from inside your brain as a placebo effect. Then, Sophia, ever the one to sooo not read the room, breaks the silence by laughing.

A raucous, unadulterated laugh— part relieved, part scared, the kind of guffaw that rises up straight from the belly. “All press is good press." She shrugs as she leans in, pecking your trembling lips once more. “That's a hell of a way to hard launch, isn't it?" 

You stare in dismay at your phone, already buzzing with a videocall from your manager. A video. Call.

Yeah. She can say that again.

(✿) 𝐚erie's city overview : I LIEEED IM A DIRTY DIRTY LIAR THIS WAS VERY MUCH INSPIRED BY SANDBINA KISS       

the smell of stale air hits your nose, like dust and old paint left to settle in the corners. it isn’t unpleasant — just the unfamiliar scent of a place that hasn’t been touched in a while. you stand there for a moment, boxes in your arms, letting the silence stretch. the room smells empty — not bad, just hollow. when you set the boxes down, the sound feels too loud, like you’ve startled the air itself awake.

you wipe your palms on your jeans and breathe in again. the scent of cardboard and detergent mixes with that empty-room smell — something human trying to make space inside something hollow. your hands tremble a little, maybe from carrying too much, maybe from the thought that this is the first room that’s truly yours.

outside, the courtyard is a blur of movement. students hugging their parents, some crying, others laughing too loudly. orientation banners flap from the lampposts, their corners curling from heat. someone plays music from a portable speaker, offbeat and slightly too cheerful. the sound seeps through the open window, a reminder that life is happening just outside your reach.

you close the window halfway. the noise dulls to a murmur. it’s not that you don’t want to belong — you just don’t know how to start without feeling like you’re pretending.

you unpack slowly, because there’s not much to unpack. a stack of secondhand textbooks, a thrifted kettle, two mismatched mugs. you line your pens neatly on the desk, fold your shirts in the narrow drawer, fill the silence with small sounds until it feels less heavy.

a photo frame catches on the edge of your hand, and before you think, you’ve turned it facedown. your throat tightens. there’s no one here to ask why.

your phone buzzes — a welcome message from the dorm group chat. you read it but don’t reply. names blur together: megan, lara, intak, a dozen others. their emojis blink up at you like confetti. you almost type hi everyone, but the words feel foreign, like wearing someone else’s shoes. you lock the screen instead.

you sit on the edge of the bed. the mattress groans softly beneath you. it’s strange, how freedom feels both light and terrifying. a year ago, you would’ve done anything for this — your own space, your own choices. but now that you have it, the quiet feels like a test.

you glance toward the door. the hallway outside hums faintly — voices, footsteps, laughter echoing off linoleum. you half expect someone to knock, maybe a roommate, maybe an ra checking in.

then, the door swings open.

a girl stands there, a suitcase dragging behind her, a bright smile fixed on her face. “hi! sorry — are you my roommate?”

her voice is soft but confident, the kind that doesn’t have to fight to be heard. you nod before your brain catches up.

she steps in, setting her suitcase down with a relieved sigh. “god, no elevator? fourth floor? i swear they’re testing us.” she laughs — a quick, light sound that bounces off the bare walls and makes them seem less empty.

she wipes her hands on her shorts and offers one to you. “i’m megan.”

you hesitate for a beat before taking it. “yn.”

“yn,” she repeats, like she’s trying the sound out. “cool name.”

you shrug, unsure what to say to that. megan doesn’t seem to notice your awkwardness — or maybe she does but chooses not to make it weird. she turns toward the beds, hands on her hips. “so, which one’s yours?”

you gesture vaguely. “uh, that one.”

“great. i’ll take this one.” she points to the bed near the window. “i like the light in the mornings.”

you nod. it’s an easy choice for her. you’ve already learned not to reach for things first.

as megan unpacks, the room shifts around her. she hums under her breath, filling the air with something that feels alive. a pile of pastel shirts appears on her bed. a corkboard with polaroids, her friends smiling at beaches and parties. she moves like she’s done this before — arriving somewhere new and making it hers in minutes.

you watch quietly.

at some point, she catches your gaze. “you’ve been here long?”

“just an hour, maybe.”

“ah.” she smiles, softening. “settling in okay?”

you nod, though you don’t know if you mean it.

megan tilts her head, studying you. not in a rude way, more like she’s curious. “you from around here?”

you hesitate. “not really.”

she doesn’t press. just says, “cool. i’m from palawan. it’s way quieter than this. this—” she gestures to the window, where the sound of laughter filters in, “—feels like chaos. fun chaos, though.”

her ease unsettles you a little. you wonder what it’s like to walk into a room and immediately belong.

when she unzips her last bag, something falls out — a small rainbow pin. you see it before she does, a tiny flash of color on the floor. she picks it up quickly, thumb brushing over it, then pins it to her tote like it’s a reflex.

you look away before she notices you noticing.

the air feels different now. not colder, not warmer — just sharper somehow. you swallow the thought down.

“so,” megan says, breaking the silence. “there’s a mixer tonight for freshmen. you going?”

“i don’t know.”

“you should,” she says brightly. “it’s not as awkward as it sounds. free food, music, people pretending they’re not terrified.”

you smile despite yourself. “you’re going?”

“absolutely. i’m terrible at being alone.”

you don’t answer that.

megan flops onto her bed, grinning up at the ceiling. “i’ll drag you there if i have to.”

“i don’t really—”

“yep. dragging confirmed.”

you huff a laugh. it’s small, but it’s real.

for a while, the two of you settle into a comfortable quiet. the sun has started to dip lower, painting the walls in honey light. megan scrolls on her phone; you finish stacking your books. the room looks lived in now, just a little — two people’s edges starting to blur into one space.

your eyes drift to the photo frame still lying facedown on the desk. you reach for it, then stop halfway. instead, you tuck it into the drawer. out of sight. out of reach.

“hey, yn,” megan says suddenly. “you good?”

you blink. “yeah. why?”

she shrugs. “you just looked like you were somewhere else.”

“maybe i was.”

she hums, like she understands more than you said. “you’ll like it here. i can tell.”

you don’t answer. you hope she’s right.

outside, a group of students walks past, their laughter spilling into the hallway. megan gets up to close the door, locking out the noise. when she turns back to you, she grins. “you’ll come tonight, right?”

“maybe.”

“i’ll take that as a yes.”

you watch her for a moment — the way she moves so easily through space, the way she makes the room feel less hollow without trying. and you think, maybe this year will be different. maybe.

but in the quiet that follows, you feel the familiar weight settle back into your chest. the one that whispers be careful. the one that remembers why you ran.

you exhale slowly, steadying yourself.

freedom, you remind yourself, isn’t the same as safety.

the morning air feels too clean, too bright. sunlight glints off the windows of the main building like someone’s showing off. you squint, adjusting the strap of your bag as you try to follow the campus map on your phone. every path looks the same — concrete, trimmed hedges, posters taped to lampposts about club fairs and student elections you don’t care about yet.

you’ve been awake since six. megan tried to convince you to go to breakfast with her, but you told her you weren’t hungry. truth was, you didn’t want to sit at a table surrounded by strangers pretending to know where they belong.

now, halfway to your first class, you’re already regretting skipping it. your stomach growls faintly.

the crowd thickens near the building. students laugh, waving to each other, comparing schedules. someone brushes past you and apologizes too quickly. you nod, clutching your phone tighter.

then you hear it — a voice just behind you, too close.

“hey,” he says, and you turn automatically.

he’s tall, wearing a lanyard that says student mentor, his grin wide and too sure of itself. “you new here?”

you nod once.

“figured. you’ve got that lost look.” he chuckles, like it’s meant to be charming. “i can show you around if you want. i know all the best spots. coffee shops, study corners, that kind of thing.”

you force a polite smile. “thanks, but i think i’ll manage.”

he steps closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you can smell the sharp mix of cologne and mint gum. “come on, it’s no big deal. i’m just trying to help. freshmen always get overwhelmed.”

“i’ll be fine,” you repeat, firmer this time.

he laughs softly. “don’t be shy. what’s your name?”

“yn.” you shouldn’t have said that.

“pretty name.” his eyes flicker down for a moment, then back up. “so, yn, you got any plans after class? i could take you to this diner near the gym. they’ve got killer fries.”

the way he says take you makes your stomach twist. you take a step back. “no, thank you.”

his grin falters, replaced by a flash of something mean. “hey, i’m just being nice.”

you don’t answer. you shift your bag on your shoulder and turn slightly, ready to walk off. but his hand lifts, not touching you, just hanging in the air like he’s about to.

and then —

“babe!”

the voice cuts sharp through the air, bright and sudden. a hand slides around your arm before you can react.

you turn, startled, and see her — a girl with copper-red hair pulled into a messy braid, dark eyeliner that looks deliberate, and a confidence that hums like static. she steps between you and the guy, smiling too wide to be polite.

“there you are,” she says, her tone playful but edged. “i was wondering where you went. thanks for keeping my girlfriend company, but we’ve got class.”

for a second, your brain blanks out. girlfriend?

the guy blinks. “oh—uh. sorry. i didn’t know.”

“yeah, you wouldn’t.” she tilts her head, smile not fading. “but now you do.”

there’s a beat where no one moves. then he mutters something under his breath and walks off, the sound of his shoes too loud against the pavement.

you stand frozen for a moment, heart hammering. the girl drops her arm from yours, her expression softening instantly.

“you okay?” she asks.

you nod, though your voice catches when you try to say thank you.

she waves it off. “guys like that are everywhere. i hate when they think ‘no’ is a challenge.”

you exhale shakily. “yeah. thanks for… that.”

she grins. “no problem. sorry for calling you my girlfriend out of nowhere. didn’t think you’d mind if it got him to back off.”

“no, i— it’s fine.”

she sticks out her hand. “lara.”

you blink. “yn.”

“nice to meet you, yn-not-my-girlfriend.” she smirks, and something about the way she says it makes you laugh before you can stop yourself.

the tension eases a little. you glance at her — red hair catching the sun, chipped nail polish, sharp eyes that seem to see more than you want to show.

“you’re new too?” she asks.

“yeah. first day.”

“same.” she slings her bag over one shoulder. “first day and already saving damsels. i should get extra credit for that.”

you laugh again, quieter this time. “i wouldn’t call myself a damsel.”

“fair. maybe just a girl who looked like she needed an excuse to walk away.”

you meet her gaze and find no judgment there. just honesty.

“thank you,” you say again, softer.

she shrugs. “don’t mention it. i’m sure you’d do the same.”

you’re not sure you would’ve.

lara glances at your phone. “what class you got first?”

you check. “intro to sociology.”

her eyes light up. “no way. same.”

you blink. “really?”

“yep. come on. i’ll show you which room’s ours before another creep tries to help.”

she starts walking, and you fall into step beside her. she’s easy to match pace with — unhurried, confident in the way she moves through crowds.

as you walk, she talks. about how weirdly humid the dorm bathrooms are, about her roommate who hasn’t shown up yet, about how she spent half an hour trying to find the campus café only to realize it was closed for renovations. she speaks like she’s narrating her own chaos, and you find yourself smiling more than once.

“so,” she says eventually, “where’re you from?”

you hesitate. “a few hours away.”

she glances sideways at you. “that’s not an answer.”

you huff a small laugh. “maybe i like keeping it vague.”

“mysterious. i respect that.” she grins. “me, i’m from cali. but my family's from south india."

you nod, letting her words fill the space.

when you reach the building, she pushes the door open for you with a mock bow. “after you, my almost-girlfriend.”

you shake your head, biting back another laugh. “please stop calling me that.”

“no promises.”

the classroom smells faintly of whiteboard markers and new paper. rows of empty chairs stretch out in neat lines. lara picks two near the back and drops into one.

you sit beside her, still half unsure how this happened.

“don’t look so tense,” she says, resting her chin on her hand. “no one bites here. well, except maybe that guy from earlier.”

“you’re not helping.”

“i’m hilarious,” she insists.

the professor walks in, saving you from having to reply.

the lecture begins, but your mind drifts. lara’s presence beside you is strangely grounding. every time you glance her way, she’s doodling something in her notebook — messy flowers, stars, random words. she catches you looking once and grins, unbothered.

when class ends, she stands, stretching. “hey, there’s an orientation fair later, right? you going?”

you hesitate. “maybe.”

“cool. me too. maybe i’ll see you there.”

you nod, but she doesn’t wait for a proper answer. she waves once before disappearing into the hallway crowd, her red hair bright against the sea of uniforms.

you watch her go, realizing you never asked for her number, or if she was serious about seeing you again.

still, as you walk out of the building, there’s a strange warmth sitting in your chest — the kind that feels new and fragile.

for the first time all morning, you don’t feel completely alone.

but the warmth is followed by something else, quieter and heavier.

because when she called you her girlfriend, even if it was just a lie — your heart had skipped in a way you didn’t expect.

and you’re not sure if that scares you or comforts you more.

—

mornings fall into rhythm before you realize they have. the sound of megan’s alarm, her soft groan, the creak of her bedframe when she rolls out. she hums while she brushes her teeth, always off-key, always cheerful. you don’t say anything about it. sometimes, you almost hum along.

you wake earlier than you need to. it’s easier that way — to shower before the hallway fills with voices, to make coffee before the communal kitchen starts to buzz. you like the quiet hours when the building still feels asleep.

megan always finds you at the desk when she wakes. “you’re such a morning person,” she teases one day, tying her hair up messily.

“not really,” you say. “i just don’t like crowds.”

“same thing,” she says with a grin, and you don’t argue.

you learn her patterns quickly. she leaves her shoes just slightly crooked by the door, keeps snacks hidden in the bottom drawer, talks in her sleep sometimes. she has this habit of narrating her life out loud — “okay, bag, keys, sanity, let’s go” — like she’s afraid of losing pieces of herself in the rush.

sometimes you envy how easy she makes it look. existing.

classes start to blur into something routine, too. professors with voices that drone and flicker. the smell of new notebooks, the hum of air conditioning that’s too cold. people start remembering your face — you’re yn, right? megan’s roommate? — and you learn to smile when they say your name, even when you don’t know what else to give them.

at lunch, megan always waves you over, patting the seat beside her whether you want it or not. “you need to eat,” she says. “starving isn’t a personality.”

you roll your eyes, but you sit. she talks enough for both of you. you listen, nodding at the right moments, laughing when she expects you to.

it’s not hard, not really. but it’s not easy either.

you’ve forgotten how to do this — how to exist in shared spaces without shrinking. how to make small talk without measuring every word for weight and danger. the muscle memory comes back in pieces.

one afternoon, you’re in the common room when lara spots you from across the couches. her hair is up today, wild curls catching the light, her nails painted the color of rust. she grins like you’re an old friend instead of someone she saved from an awkward scene a few days ago.

“yn! i was just talking about you.”

you blink. “should i be worried?”

she laughs, loud enough that people glance over. “nah. i was telling megan you’re cooler than you look.”

you look at megan, who’s trying and failing not to laugh. “wow. thanks, i think.”

lara drops onto the couch beside you, uninvited but comfortable. “we’re going out later — just a group from class, nothing fancy. wanna come?”

you hesitate, your chest tightening the way it always does when someone offers inclusion. “i don’t know.”

“come on,” she says. “you can’t keep hiding behind megan forever.”

“hey,” megan protests lightly. “i’m an excellent shield.”

“yeah,” lara says, smirking. “that’s the problem.”

their banter fills the air easily. you watch them, how they trade words without thought. there’s no edge of caution in them, no fear that something said too plainly might turn the room against them. you envy that ease — the way they take space without apology.

“just think about it,” lara says, softer this time. “no pressure.”

you nod, which seems to satisfy her. she leans back, stretching her legs, her bracelets clinking faintly.

later, when she leaves, megan nudges your shoulder. “you should go, you know.”

“i’m not really the type.”

“what type is that?”

“the type who fits in.”

megan frowns a little. “you don’t have to fit in to show up.”

you don’t know how to answer that, so you don’t.

in the evenings, you and megan fall into quieter patterns. you study while she scrolls through playlists, switching songs halfway through because “it doesn’t feel like the right vibe.” she asks questions sometimes — casual things, gentle things. what do you like to do? do you have any hobbies? why sociology? you answer what you can, leave blanks where the truth feels too sharp.

she doesn’t push. maybe she senses it — the invisible fence around what you’re willing to share.

one night, she looks over from her bed and says, “you know, you don’t have to be so careful with me.”

you glance up from your laptop. “i’m not.”

“you are.” her voice is quiet, not accusing. “you talk like you’re worried about saying the wrong thing.”

you swallow. “i just don’t talk much.”

“that’s okay,” she says, smiling faintly. “just don’t hide.”

the words linger long after the lights go out.

you lie awake, staring at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the paint with your eyes. she doesn’t know — she can’t know — how deep the habit of hiding runs. it’s not something you can unlearn overnight. it’s muscle and memory and fear stitched together.

the next day, you find yourself in the cafeteria again, sitting across from megan and lara. lara is halfway through an animated rant about her history professor, waving a fry like a sword. megan’s laughing, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

you listen, smiling when you should, feeling something like warmth tug at the edges of you.

“you’re quiet today,” lara says suddenly, looking at you.

“i’m always quiet.”

“yeah, but today it’s thoughtful quiet, not awkward quiet.”

you raise an eyebrow. “there’s a difference?”

“huge difference,” she says, grinning. “thoughtful means you’re actually here.”

you don’t know what to say to that. maybe she’s right. maybe, for the first time, you are.

after lunch, you walk with them to class. lara talks about a movie screening happening over the weekend. “you should come,” she says. “we’ll make it a thing.”

“maybe,” you answer, and for once, it’s not just an excuse.

as the day fades, you realize the air around you feels lighter. not safe, not yet, but something close to it. like standing near a door that’s cracked open, just enough to let the light in.

back in your dorm, megan’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone. she looks up when you come in. “you went out,” she says, smiling.

“yeah.”

“and?”

you shrug. “it wasn’t terrible.”

“that’s high praise coming from you.”

you grin, dropping your bag. “don’t push it.”

she laughs, and for a moment, the room feels less like borrowed space and more like something you might be able to belong to.

later, when the lights are off and megan’s breathing has evened out, you lie awake again. your mind drifts — to lara’s laughter, to megan’s warmth, to the way it felt to sit at a table and not feel like a ghost.

you’re still careful. still cautious. still carrying pieces of the life you left behind.

but tonight, for the first time, the quiet doesn’t feel empty. it feels like space.

—

the afternoon sun is the color of dust and honey, spilling unevenly across the cafeteria floor. it’s the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it is — like the world’s pretending to be gentle. you’re sitting at a table near the window, half-listening to lara complain about an upcoming sociology project that she hasn’t even started yet.

“i swear, if this professor gives us one more group assignment, i’m dropping out and becoming a barista,” she says, stabbing her fork into a pile of fries.

megan snorts. “you’d burn milk and start three arguments before lunch.”

lara grins. “probably. but i’d make damn good conversation.”

you smile, pushing your tray aside. you haven’t said much, but they don’t seem to mind. they fill the air easily — megan’s laugh like a bell, lara’s words sharp and fast. you let their noise settle around you like background music.

that’s when she appears — sophia.

lara spots her first, waving her over with a bright gesture. “soph! over here!”

you look up. sophia hesitates for half a second, then walks toward you. she moves like someone who knows where she’s going, but isn’t in a hurry to get there. there’s something calm about her, something grounded — like she’s not trying to take up space, just exists in it fully.

her hair is dark and tied loosely, a few strands falling over her face. she’s wearing a soft, oversized sweater, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hands inked faintly with pen marks. when she smiles, it’s small, real.

“hey,” she says, sliding into the empty seat beside lara. “you called?”

“yeah,” lara says. “we were talking about that sociology project — professor hamid’s thing? we’re all dying. thought maybe you could save us.”

sophia laughs quietly. “save you? i barely understand the readings.”

megan leans forward. “don’t be modest. you literally explained the assignment better than the professor did last week.”

lara turns to you. “yn, you’re in the same class too, right?”

you nod, startled that she remembered. “yeah.”

“perfect,” lara says. “then maybe the three of you can work together. i’ll just… cheer from the sidelines.”

“you mean copy our notes,” megan says.

“same thing.”

sophia’s looking at you now — not in a way that pries, just noticing. “you’re yn?”

you nod again. “yeah.”

“i’ve seen you in class. you sit near the window.”

you blink, caught off guard by the specificity. “yeah, i— i like the light.”

“me too,” she says simply.

it’s a small thing, but the words settle somewhere deep. megan and lara keep talking — about deadlines, about coffee shops near campus, about anything and everything — but sophia doesn’t rush to fill the silence between you. she lets it exist, and somehow, that feels like kindness.

when the others get up to grab more food, sophia stays behind. she pulls out her notebook, flipping to a page filled with messy handwriting and half-drawn diagrams.

“so,” she says, glancing at you, “what part of the project do you want to do?”

“i can handle the research part,” you say automatically. “i’m better with reading than presenting.”

she nods like she understands completely. “i get that. i hate presenting. my hands shake every time.”

you look at her — really look — and she’s smiling faintly, no embarrassment, no apology. it’s rare, seeing someone so at ease with their own vulnerability.

you relax a little. “then maybe we make a deal. i do the reading. you handle the graphs. lara can pretend she helped.”

sophia laughs softly. “deal.”

you start talking about the topic — social identity and performance — and the words start coming easier than you expect. she listens the way few people do, like she’s not waiting for her turn to speak. when she adds something, it’s thoughtful, never overbearing.

you find yourself saying things you didn’t mean to say — about how people shape themselves depending on who’s watching, about how sometimes, pretending feels safer than being seen.

she hums quietly, eyes thoughtful. “yeah,” she says. “it’s exhausting, isn’t it? the pretending.”

your heart stutters, like she’s peeled back something without realizing it.

“yeah,” you say softly. “it is.”

you don’t talk about it more than that, but something shifts. she smiles, small and knowing, like she understands more than you’ve said.

when megan and lara return, sophia’s showing you something on her notebook — a messy doodle of a flowchart labeled people who fake it vs. people who survive it. it makes you laugh, a real one, sharp and unexpected.

lara gasps dramatically. “oh my god, she laughs!”

“shut up,” you say, but you’re still smiling.

sophia grins. “that’s a good sound.”

you look down at your hands, embarrassed by how warm your chest feels.

later, when the table empties and the sun has dipped low enough to paint the room gold, sophia packs up her things and says, “see you in class tomorrow?”

“yeah,” you manage.

“cool.” she tucks her hair behind her ear, her fingers stained faintly blue from ink. “don’t forget to breathe between readings, okay? hamid’s papers are brutal.”

you smile. “i’ll try.”

she waves, and then she’s gone — her steps light but unhurried, like she knows she doesn’t need to rush her presence out of the room.

lara sighs dramatically beside you. “you like her.”

you nearly choke. “what?”

“come on,” she says, smirking. “you had that look. the oh no, someone interesting just ruined my peace look.”

megan chuckles. “she’s not wrong.”

“i don’t—” you stop, pressing your lips together. “she’s just… easy to talk to.”

lara leans back. “yeah. that’s how it starts.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart hasn’t quite slowed down.

that night, you lie in bed, laptop open but untouched. megan’s already asleep, her soft breathing filling the room.

you should be reading for class. instead, you keep thinking about sophia’s hands, the faint ink smudges, the way she looked at you when she said it’s exhausting, isn’t it?

you turn off the light.

the room settles into darkness, soft and familiar. you can still feel it, though — the strange warmth that meeting left behind, the quiet ease that felt like sunlight through water.

it scares you, how good it felt. because good things, in your experience, always came with a price.

and yet, as you drift to sleep, the thought repeats in your mind — soft, stubborn, unstoppable — she felt safe.

—

you start seeing sophia everywhere after that. not in the obsessive kind of way — more like she has this quiet gravity that pulls you into her orbit without meaning to. you find her in the library, tucked between shelves with her laptop open and her headphones half on. you find her at the campus café, sleeves rolled up, sketching diagrams in her notebook with that same absent-minded focus. sometimes she finds you first. she waves, smiles, sits across from you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you tell yourself it’s friendship.

it feels easier to believe that.

the days start to fall into a rhythm — class, lunch, walking back together. you talk about small things: the weird smell of the dorm hallways, the food that never tastes right, how the vending machine eats coins. it’s ordinary. grounding. sometimes she brushes your arm when she laughs. sometimes you forget to breathe for a second too long.

you notice the details that shouldn’t matter. the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. the soft rasp in her voice when she reads something out loud. the warmth of her when she leans too close to show you something on her screen. it’s dangerous, how easy she makes the world feel.

and still, you tell yourself it’s friendship.

one afternoon, you’re walking together past the student bulletin board. it’s cluttered with posters — club announcements, tutoring ads, rainbow flyers for the queer alliance. you glance at one, bright colors and careful words: safe space meeting, all identities welcome. you barely have time to read before you see the sharp edge of reality — someone’s scrawled over it in black marker, the word “safe” crossed out. another flyer nearby is half torn.

sophia doesn’t see it, or maybe she pretends not to. she’s telling you about a film screening next week, something artsy and slow. her voice is soft, her hands moving as she talks, like she’s sculpting the air itself.

you nod, but your eyes keep slipping back to that torn corner.

later, in class, the professor makes an offhand joke about pronouns — something quick, disguised as harmless — and a few people laugh. sophia doesn’t. neither do you. the sound grates, like static against your skin.

you don’t say anything. you never do.

that night, sophia texts you a photo of her cat from home, mid-yawn, its paw stretched out like it’s reaching for the camera. his name’s fig. he’s dramatic, she writes.

you laugh quietly to yourself. you type back, you look alike. she sends back a row of laughing emojis. you like the soundless ease of it — conversation that doesn’t demand too much, that feels like it belongs only to you two.

but then you open your campus group chat — the one lara added you to — and your stomach twists. there’s a screenshot of the torn poster, followed by a string of jokes. “guess the safe space wasn’t safe enough lol.” “those people need to chill.” it spirals quickly, cruel and casual.

you close the chat. you don’t say anything there either.

you sit in the dark for a while, the glow of your phone screen still painting your hands blue. the silence feels heavier tonight.

when you finally check your camera roll, you see the photo from earlier — sophia had leaned in close at lunch, insisting you take a selfie because “we actually look alive for once.” she’s laughing in it, sunlight catching in her eyes. you look... content. almost unrecognizable.

you stare at it for too long. your thumb hovers over the upload button — it’s instinct, muscle memory, the way people mark belonging now.

but then you remember the torn flyers. the laughter in class. the words that stay unsaid.

you remember your father’s voice, sharp and certain, saying things he believed were right.

you remember running.

your chest tightens, and before you can think too hard about it, you press delete.

the photo disappears. the silence remains.

you set your phone down and stare at the wall across the room — bare, pale, waiting.

you tell yourself it’s not fear. it’s just caution. safety. logic.

you tell yourself she doesn’t need to know.

and still, when you close your eyes, all you can see is the way her laughter had felt like sunlight — warm enough to make you forget, for one second, how much it burns.

—

it’s past midnight when the rain starts. not loud, not heavy — just the kind that whispers against the window like it’s trying not to wake anyone. megan’s already asleep, curled under her blanket, her soft breathing blending with the hum of the air conditioner.

you can’t sleep. your mind keeps running, looping through small, ordinary moments — sophia laughing, sophia talking about a book you haven’t read, sophia’s hand brushing yours when you passed her a pen. the memories replay like they’re waiting for you to figure something out.

a message lights your phone screen: you awake?

it’s sophia.

you stare at it for a few seconds before typing back: yeah. can’t sleep.

she replies almost immediately. me too. wanna go for a walk?

you hesitate — it’s late, and the campus will be nearly empty. but you’re already pulling on your hoodie before you can talk yourself out of it.

the dorm halls are quiet, just the faint squeak of your shoes against the floor and the occasional flicker of old fluorescent lights. when you step outside, the air smells like wet concrete and something clean, like fresh soap. sophia’s waiting near the benches under the awning, her hair damp at the ends, her hoodie zipped up to her chin.

“hey,” she says softly.

you nod. “hey.”

you sit beside her. for a while, neither of you says anything. the rain keeps its rhythm, soft and constant. it fills the silence in a way that feels safe.

“couldn’t sleep?” she asks after a while.

you shake your head. “just… thinking.”

“about?”

you pause. the easy answer — class, assignments, anything — sits on your tongue. but you don’t say it. not this time.

“about home,” you say instead. the words come out quieter than you mean.

she looks at you, not surprised, not pushing. “you never talk about it.”

you swallow. “there’s not much to talk about.”

the rain fills the pause. she waits — really waits — the way someone does when they care enough to let silence make room for truth.

you take a breath. “they found out. about me.”

her voice is gentle. “your parents?”

you nod. “i was seventeen. my mom found messages — just… small things. texts with a girl i liked. she wasn’t even my girlfriend. but it was enough.”

you pick at the edge of your sleeve. the fabric is damp and fraying.

“my dad didn’t talk to me for two days. and when he did… he didn’t call me his daughter anymore. he called me a disappointment.”

the word still feels sharp, even now.

“he said i’d ruin myself. that no one would love me. that i was sick.” you take another breath, shaky this time. “so i left. one night, i just… left. i didn’t even take everything. just what i could fit in a backpack.”

sophia doesn’t interrupt. she doesn’t try to fill the air with comfort. she just listens. her hands are in her lap, fingers loosely clasped. her breathing steady.

“i thought it’d feel like freedom,” you say after a while. “but it didn’t. it just felt empty. like i’d stepped into a version of the world where i didn’t exist.”

her voice is quiet. “you survived it.”

you nod, though it doesn’t feel like enough. “yeah. i did. but sometimes it feels like i broke something in the process. like i left behind the part of me that could feel safe anywhere.”

the rain shifts, picking up slightly — a thousand tiny hands tapping at the roof.

“you didn’t break anything,” sophia says. “you protected yourself.”

you look at her. she’s not smiling, but there’s warmth in her eyes — something steady, something kind.

“you talk like you’ve never been scared,” you say, half-accusing, half-curious.

she laughs softly. “that’s not true. i’m scared all the time. just… for different things.”

“like what?”

“like not being enough. like taking safety for granted.” she looks down at her hands. “my parents — they’ve always been supportive. i came out when i was fifteen. they hugged me. told me they loved me no matter what. i didn’t realize until later how rare that was.”

you can hear the guilt in her voice — soft but real.

“sometimes i feel like i don’t have the right to talk about it,” she says. “like i didn’t earn the fear. you know?”

you frown. “that’s not how it works.”

“maybe. but it feels like that.” she glances at you, a small, sad smile forming. “i think i carry their love like a shield. and you… you’ve been fighting without one.”

the words hit deeper than you expect.

you exhale slowly. “i don’t want to be scared anymore.”

“you will be,” she says, quiet and certain. “but that doesn’t make you broken.”

something in you cracks — not in a bad way, but like pressure releasing. you lean back, looking at the rain dripping from the awning, thin lines of water catching the faint orange glow from the streetlights.

“i hate that it still affects me,” you whisper. “that i still look over my shoulder before i say something. that i can’t even post a photo with you without thinking twice.”

she doesn’t move closer, but her presence feels like warmth anyway.

“maybe that’s what surviving looks like for now,” she says. “it’s not fair. it’s not brave all the time. but it’s real.”

you laugh weakly. “you sound like a therapist.”

she shrugs. “occupational hazard of being emotionally literate.”

you snort, and she smiles — that small, quiet smile that always feels like a secret.

the rain slows to a drizzle. you both sit in the soft quiet that follows, the kind that feels like the world’s exhale.

“thank you,” you say. it’s simple, but it carries everything — the weight, the ache, the strange comfort.

she nods. “you don’t have to thank me.”

“still.”

her hand moves slightly — not reaching, just resting close enough that you could close the space if you wanted to. you don’t, but the possibility hums there, steady and alive.

“you’re not broken,” she says again, like she needs you to believe it.

you want to.

you look at her, and for the first time, the fear and the longing feel like two sides of the same truth.

“can i tell you something?” you ask.

she nods.

“sometimes i think about going back. not to stay, but just to show them i’m still here. still me.”

she studies you for a moment, then says, “you already do that. every day you live like yourself — even quietly — that’s you showing them.”

you let the words sink in. the rain has stopped completely now. everything smells clean, new, washed out.

you stand together, slow and wordless. when she walks you back to your dorm, she doesn’t try to hold your hand, doesn’t say goodnight too loudly. she just looks at you one last time before turning away, her face calm, eyes soft.

you watch her go, a lump in your throat you can’t quite name.

when you finally crawl into bed, the room feels different — still small, still quiet, but not hollow anymore.

you close your eyes and think, maybe healing doesn’t feel like warmth. maybe it just feels like being heard.

and for the first time in a long time, you sleep without dreaming of running.

the courtyard is alive in that dizzy, sunlit way the first big campus events always are — too many colors, too many sounds, everything slightly overbright. it’s the student organization fair, banners hung from trees, tables stacked with flyers and half-deflated balloons. someone’s blasting music from a bluetooth speaker; somewhere else, a group’s giving out iced coffee samples that taste mostly like milk.

you and sophia walk side by side, cups in hand, still a little sleepy from staying up late the night before. the rain’s gone, replaced by clean sunlight that makes the pavement shimmer. she’s talking about joining the literature society, and you’re pretending to listen, but mostly you’re just watching how she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear when the wind hits.

you stop near a booth advertising an lgbt+ alliance — bright tablecloth, pins shaped like tiny flags, a handwritten poster that says “everyone deserves to feel safe here.” sophia’s eyes light up.

“we should sign up,” she says.

you nod, but there’s a flicker of something small and tight in your stomach. the crowd, the noise, the attention — it’s too much. still, you let her lead you forward.

a few tables down, voices rise — sharp, fast.

you glance over. a group of students are gathered near the debate club booth. one of them, a tall guy with a camera slung across his chest, says loudly, “i just think people make everything political these days. like, can’t we just… exist without turning sexuality or gender into some kind of statement?”

another student fires back, “existing is political when people still get harassed for who they are.”

the crowd hums with tension — that uncomfortable mix of curiosity and the need to pick sides. sophia stops walking. you can see it in her face — the shift, the way her posture straightens, how her eyes narrow like she’s steadying herself.

“what’s your name?” she asks, stepping closer. her voice isn’t loud, but it carries.

the guy blinks. “excuse me?”

“you said people make identity political. but you’re the one deciding who gets to exist quietly. that’s not neutrality — that’s privilege.”

murmurs ripple through the group. the guy scoffs. “oh, come on. i’m just saying i don’t care who people sleep with. why does it have to be a whole parade?”

you feel it — that heat rising in your chest, that old instinct to disappear when voices sharpen. sophia doesn’t flinch.

“because silence doesn’t protect us,” she says. “it just keeps you comfortable.”

a few people clap softly. others shift away, pretending not to listen. you stand a step behind her, every muscle locked. you want to speak, to back her up, to say she’s right, but the words stay trapped in your throat.

the guy rolls his eyes. “whatever. enjoy your victim points.”

someone laughs, too loud. sophia’s face tightens, but she doesn’t bite back. she just exhales, steady, and turns away.

you follow her, heart still racing, guilt already prickling at the edges.

she doesn’t say anything for a while — just walks, jaw set, the rhythm of her steps sharp against the pavement.

“you okay?” you ask softly.

she gives a small, practiced smile. “yeah. i’m used to it.”

but you can tell she’s not. not really.

later, after she joins a few friends at the literature booth, you wander off to grab another drink. the fair’s noise feels heavier now, like everyone’s voices blur into one long, meaningless hum.

you’re half-distracted, waiting in line, when you hear it — two guys standing behind you, laughing under their breath.

“that girl from earlier,” one says. “the one preaching about silence and comfort? bet she’s just trying to get attention.”

“yeah,” the other snickers. “probably one of those performative lesbians who think being loud makes them interesting.”

your stomach twists. your first instinct is to turn, to say something — anything — but your body freezes. it’s the same paralysis from years ago, the one that kept you silent when your father shouted, when your mother said we didn’t raise you for this.

you stand there, pretending not to hear. you pay for your drink and walk away.

your hands are shaking.

across the courtyard, sophia’s laughing with someone at another booth, her smile easy, her guard down again. she doesn’t know.

you want to tell her. you want to say you didn’t mean to freeze. but the truth is you did. you froze because it felt safer — because somewhere deep inside, you still believe silence can save you.

that night, you can’t stop replaying it. the sound of their laughter. sophia’s steady voice from earlier. your own absence in that moment.

you lie in bed, the darkness pressing against your chest, and think about how your parents’ words built a reflex in you — to hide, to survive, to stay small.

but tonight, it feels like that reflex cost you something else.

you remember sophia saying, silence doesn’t protect us. it just keeps you comfortable.

you turn onto your side, eyes burning.

comfort feels like betrayal now.

—

the week after the fair feels quieter, like the air’s been scraped clean of color. the campus hums on as usual — lectures, group projects, late-night study sessions in the library — but for you, everything moves at a distance, muffled.

you start walking a different route to class, one that doesn’t pass the courtyard. you leave early, sit in the back rows, avoid the cafeteria when it’s full. megan asks if you’re okay once, and you tell her you’re just tired. she doesn’t push, though her eyes linger a little longer than usual.

sophia texts you twice that week. coffee after class? then later, everything okay? you’ve been quiet.

you type, yeah just busy, then stare at it for a long time before deleting the message altogether.

the truth is, you don’t know what to say. every time you picture her — her voice steady at the fair, her face when she said i’m used to it — something inside you folds in on itself. it’s not that you don’t want to see her. it’s that you don’t trust yourself not to break again.

the guilt doesn’t leave; it just hums under your skin, a quiet, constant ache.

by friday, you’ve run out of excuses. sophia corners you outside the library, her expression caught somewhere between concern and frustration.

“hey,” she says, stepping into your path. her tone is soft, but there’s an edge to it, the kind that only comes from caring too much. “did i do something?”

you blink, startled. “what?”

“you’ve been avoiding me,” she says. “if i said something wrong—”

“no,” you cut in too quickly. “it’s not you.”

“then what is it?”

you open your mouth, then close it again. there’s a pause, the kind that stretches too long, makes the air go stiff. she watches you, eyes steady, patient in that infuriatingly gentle way she has.

“i just—” your throat tightens. “i don’t know how to explain it.”

“try me,” she says quietly.

the words tumble out before you can stop them. “i’m tired of being afraid.”

it’s a confession that tastes like a wound.

sophia blinks, her expression softening. “afraid of what?”

you hesitate. “of being seen. of saying the wrong thing. of... what happens when people find out.” you shake your head, eyes fixed on the ground. “you don’t get it. i ran away from that once. i barely made it out.”

there’s a silence, heavy but not cold. when you finally look up, she’s watching you with that same quiet steadiness.

“you think being around me makes it worse,” she says.

you don’t answer, but the look on your face is enough.

sophia exhales, steps closer. “i can’t promise it’ll be easy. i can’t promise people will be kind.” she pauses. “but i can promise i won’t let you go through it alone.”

the words sink in slow, hesitant. you want to believe them, but belief feels like a door that locks behind you once you step through.

“i’m not brave like you,” you whisper.

her mouth curves in a faint, tired smile. “you don’t have to be. we can be scared together.”

you stare at her, the ache in your chest cracking open, something fragile and raw pushing through.

“that’s not fair,” you say quietly. “you shouldn’t have to carry that.”

“it’s not carrying,” she replies. “it’s just... not letting fear win.”

neither of you speaks after that. the sounds of campus drift faintly around you — a bike bell, someone laughing too loud, the low hum of conversation — but it all feels far away.

she reaches out, like she might touch your hand, but stops halfway. the air between you feels charged, unspoken, trembling with all the things you still can’t say.

“just—” she exhales. “don’t disappear again, okay?”

you nod, barely.

“okay,” you whisper.

she nods back, then gives you a small, hesitant smile before walking off, leaving you standing there, heart beating too fast, too loud.

for the first time in days, you don’t feel numb. you feel scared — but it’s a different kind of scared. one that feels almost like hope trying to surface.

the wall isn’t gone. but it’s cracked. and light is starting to leak through.

—

it starts like a coincidence — megan asking if you and sophia could help her and lara with a group project. something about comparative media studies, something vague enough that you don’t question it. you’ve both been avoiding eye contact in lectures since that talk outside the library, and the idea of being in the same room again makes your chest feel tight. but you say yes anyway. it feels rude not to.

the study room they booked is one of those small, glass-walled boxes near the back of the library — quiet, sealed, the kind of place where sound barely travels. megan and lara are already there when you arrive, pretending to be scrolling through notes. lara’s got her hair up in a messy twist, her nails tapping idly on her phone screen. megan glances between you and sophia with a little too much brightness in her smile.

“you’re here! perfect.” she closes her laptop. “i just need to print the article references. lara, wanna come?”

lara looks up, pretending to be surprised. “oh. sure. but the printer’s on the other side of the building, right?”

megan nods like it’s a long, inconvenient trek. “yeah, it’ll take a bit.”

you frown. “should we wait?”

“no, no, you two can start organizing the slides,” megan says, already gathering her things. “we’ll be back in a bit.”

before you can protest, they’re gone — the sound of lara’s laughter fading down the hallway. the door clicks shut. silence settles, thick and uneven.

sophia sits across from you, her laptop closed, hands resting on her knees. for a long minute, neither of you says anything. the hum of the air conditioner fills the space, a low, constant noise that makes the silence heavier.

you open your mouth. close it again. look at your notebook like it might rescue you.

“so,” she says finally, voice soft. “was this really about a project?”

you sigh, a small, helpless sound. “i don’t think so.”

her mouth curves — not quite a smile, but close. “figured.”

you trace the edge of your notebook with your thumb, eyes fixed on the table. the silence stretches again, thinner this time. it feels fragile, like it might snap if either of you breathe too loud.

“i didn’t mean to disappear,” you say finally. your voice comes out smaller than you want. “i just—”

“—got scared?” sophia finishes gently.

you nod.

she leans back in her chair, watching you carefully. “i’m not mad,” she says after a moment. “i just... wish you’d let me in.”

the words land heavier than they sound. you swallow. “i don’t know how.”

she studies you, and the quiet between you sharpens again. then she says, almost simply, “i won’t apologize for being myself.”

you look up. her expression isn’t angry — just steady, unflinching. “i know some people think it’s safer to stay quiet. i used to think that, too. but pretending doesn’t make the world less cruel. it just makes it lonelier.”

your throat tightens. “you make it sound easy.”

“it’s not.” she pauses. “it’s just... necessary.”

you stare down at your hands. they’re trembling, faintly. “i don’t think i can do that.”

“do what?”

“be like you,” you say, barely above a whisper. “you walk through crowds and people know. you don’t hide, and you still smile. i don’t know how to live like that. i ran away to be free, but i still live like i’m hiding.”

sophia’s eyes soften, the kind of softness that hurts more than kindness. “you think hiding keeps you safe?”

“it does,” you snap, then immediately flinch at your own voice. “it has to. because if people find out, they’ll look at me the way my parents did. like i’m something they lost. something they can’t fix.”

the room feels smaller suddenly, like the walls are closing in. your breathing’s uneven. sophia doesn’t interrupt. she lets the words spill, quiet and messy.

“i thought leaving them would make it stop. the fear, the shame, the way i flinch every time someone says the word ‘gay’ too loud.” you press your palms together to keep them from shaking. “but it’s still in me. i walk around campus and i see people like you — brave, open — and i feel like i’m still back in that house, still twelve years old, still wishing i could disappear before anyone noticed.”

the silence that follows is unbearable. you can’t look at her.

then, softly: “you don’t have to be brave to deserve peace.”

you look up, startled. sophia’s voice is low, even, but her eyes shine with something raw — not pity, but understanding.

“you think i never get scared?” she says. “i do. all the time. when i speak up, when people stare, when someone laughs behind me. but i decided i’d rather be afraid and alive than safe and invisible.”

you blink hard, because it sounds too close to the thing you’ve never let yourself admit — that maybe survival isn’t the same as living.

“i wish i could do that,” you whisper.

“you can,” she says, leaning forward. “not all at once. not in the way you think. you can start small. like not deleting photos. like saying yes when someone asks if you want to go to the queer book club, even if you only stay ten minutes.” she smiles faintly. “it’s not about being fearless. it’s about being tired of pretending you’re not already yourself.”

something in you cracks open — not like breaking, but like breathing.

you stare at her for a long time, searching for the right thing to say, but all that comes out is, “i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

“for freezing,” you say. “at the fair. when people laughed at you. i heard it. i didn’t say anything.”

her expression softens again. “you don’t owe me an apology for being scared.”

“then what do i owe you?”

“the truth,” she says quietly.

the words hang between you. the truth: that you like her. that she makes you feel seen in ways that terrify you. that every time she smiles at you, you think maybe you could stop running.

but the words don’t come yet. they hover at the edge of your tongue, trembling.

instead, you say, “thank you.”

she smiles — a real one this time, tired but warm. “you’re welcome.”

the door creaks. footsteps echo down the hall. megan’s voice calls, “hey, we’re back!” followed by lara’s unmistakable laugh.

you both look toward the sound, then back at each other.

“guess our captors are returning,” sophia says, trying to sound casual, but her voice wavers a little.

you nod, and for once, you don’t look away.

when lara and megan step back into the room, pretending not to notice the shift in the air, they find you and sophia sitting closer than before — still not touching, still wrapped in silence, but softer now. like the room’s learned how to breathe again.

—

the night air is thick with that quiet hum the campus gets after midnight — not silence, exactly, but the sound of everything winding down. far-off laughter from another dorm, the echo of footsteps across the courtyard, the soft drone of cicadas somewhere behind the trees.

you and sophia are sitting on the steps outside the library, sharing a single cup of tea that’s gone lukewarm. it’s the first time you’ve been alone together since that strange study-room trap, but the tension from before has dissolved into something gentler, looser around the edges.

you’re both tired, but it’s the good kind of tired — the kind that comes after too many words and not enough walls.

sophia leans forward, elbows on her knees, watching the steam fade from the cup. “you know,” she says quietly, “i used to think being brave meant not being scared.”

you glance at her, but she’s not looking at you. her voice is calm, thoughtful.

“but i think bravery’s just... showing up anyway. even if your hands shake.” she looks at you now, eyes soft. “you don’t have to be fearless, yn. you just have to be honest.”

the words linger, warm and heavy. you swallow hard. it feels like there’s something caught in your throat, like all the air you’ve kept in for years is pressing to get out.

“honest,” you repeat, half under your breath.

“yeah,” she says. “start there.”

you stare down at your hands, then at the empty cup between you. it’s trembling slightly in your grip.

“i’m not good at this,” you admit.

“at what?”

“saying things that matter.”

“you don’t have to say them perfectly.”

you laugh — a small, shaky sound. “that’s good, because this is probably going to sound terrible.”

she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. she just waits. and that patience — that quiet, steady presence — makes something inside you finally give.

you take a breath. then another.

“i like you,” you say.

it comes out soft, cracked, almost too quiet to hear. but it’s real. it’s the kind of confession that doesn’t feel like a beginning or an ending — just an exhale after years of holding your breath.

you expect the world to shift, to spin or explode, but it doesn’t. it just settles — like everything’s been waiting for you to catch up.

sophia blinks once, her lips parting like she’s absorbing the sound of it. then she smiles — not wide, not bright, but slow, certain.

“you don’t sound terrible,” she says. “you sound like someone telling the truth.”

your throat tightens. “i don’t know what to do with it.”

“you don’t have to do anything,” she says. “just don’t run from it.”

you nod, tears prickling behind your eyes before you can stop them.

“i’ve spent so long hiding,” you whisper. “from my family, from the people here, from myself. i thought if i stayed small enough, the world wouldn’t notice me.” you pause, voice breaking slightly. “but you did. and it scared me so much that i almost pushed you away for it.”

sophia’s eyes glisten in the dim light. she reaches out, slow, deliberate, like she’s asking permission. when her fingers brush yours, you don’t flinch.

the contact is small — barely there — but it feels like the bravest thing you’ve ever done.

you turn your hand over, let your fingers intertwine. her hand is warm. steady. real.

she shifts closer, and for a heartbeat, neither of you move. then she leans in, just enough that your foreheads touch.

you can feel her breath, soft against your skin, and then her lips — tentative, trembling — meet yours.

it’s not a cinematic kiss. it’s quiet, fragile, almost clumsy. but it’s full of relief, not hunger; a promise, not a claim.

when you pull back, she’s still close enough that her voice is barely a whisper. “see? that wasn’t so scary.”

you laugh through a shaky breath. “maybe a little.”

“a little’s okay.”

you sit there together, the night breathing around you, your hands still linked between your knees. the fear doesn’t vanish — it never does — but it feels smaller now, like it’s finally sharing space with something else.

for the first time in years, you don’t feel like you’re running. you feel like you’ve stopped. like you’ve chosen to stay.

and maybe that’s what freedom really is — not the absence of fear, but the decision to live anyway.

sophia squeezes your hand once before resting her head against your shoulder.

“we’ll figure it out,” she murmurs.

you nod, smiling into the dark. “yeah,” you whisper. “we will.”

and the night, quiet and full, feels like it believes you.

—

the campus looks different in the morning light. not because anything’s changed, but because you have. it’s subtle — the way you walk slower now, the way you don’t shrink when people pass by, the way you laugh a little louder without flinching at the sound.

it’s saturday. the air smells like wet grass and coffee from the student café. sophia’s beside you, hair tucked under a cap, scarf hanging loosely around her neck. you’re holding her hand. it’s not something you planned. it just… happened. one moment her fingers brushed yours, and the next they were linked, easy, like they’d always known how.

you’re walking across the quad — the same one that used to make your chest tighten, the same open stretch of space you always avoided when it got too crowded. now you’re right in the middle of it, palms pressed together, steps in sync.

the world doesn’t stop. students still rush past, arms full of books, laughter bouncing off the pavement. somewhere nearby, someone’s playing music from a speaker, soft and crackling.

but then — a pair of eyes. a whisper. a small, sharp pause in the air, like the moment before a storm.

you feel it instantly. your fingers tense. your first instinct — always your first instinct — is to pull away.

but sophia doesn’t.

she keeps walking. her thumb presses lightly against your knuckles, a silent question, a quiet anchor.

you take a breath. one heartbeat. two. and you don’t let go.

the whisper fades behind you. maybe it’s just in your head. maybe not. either way, the sky stays blue, the music keeps playing, and your hand stays in hers.

for a long time, you thought bravery had to look like shouting — like standing on a stage and declaring yourself without fear. but this — walking across the quad, holding sophia’s hand, the sound of your shoes against the path — this feels braver.

you pass the lgbt+ alliance booth, the one from the fair months ago. the banner’s brighter now, new flags pinned along the edge. someone waves from behind the table — a girl you vaguely recognize from class. she grins at you both, not surprised, just warm.

you smile back, small but real.

sophia squeezes your hand once. “you okay?”

you nod. “yeah. i think i am.”

it’s not freedom in the way you used to imagine it — loud, dazzling, cinematic. it’s quieter than that. it’s the warmth of her palm against yours, the steadiness in your chest, the sunlight catching on the windows ahead.

and for the first time, you believe that being seen doesn’t have to mean being hurt. sometimes it just means being here.

—

your dorm room smells like laundry and light. not the stale, dusty air from that first day, but something lived-in — warmth, detergent, faint traces of tea and notebook paper. the curtains are half open, sunlight spilling across the desk.

your boxes are gone. the walls have photos now — some of friends, some of places, some of nothing in particular. one of them is a blurry shot of you and sophia at the café, mid-laugh, faces half cut off. you never deleted it.

megan’s left a note on the desk — went out with lara. don’t wait up. :) with a doodle of a heart.

you smile, shaking your head. it’s strange, how these people — these accidental connections — have become something like a home.

sophia’s curled up on the bed, reading something on her tablet. her hair’s still damp from a shower, the ends brushing against her collar. she looks up when you move closer.

“hey,” she says softly.

“hey.”

you sit beside her, your knees touching. the quiet between you feels different now — not a wall, but a kind of language.

on the desk, beside the lamp, is the photo frame you turned face down your first day here. the one you couldn’t bear to look at.

you stand, pick it up.

it’s a picture of you — younger, smiling, standing in a park near your old home. someone else’s arm rests across your shoulders, cropped out of the frame, but you remember whose it was. you remember everything that came after.

for a long time, you thought you’d never be able to face that version of yourself again — the girl who hadn’t yet learned what it meant to be afraid.

but now, as you look at it, you don’t feel the ache of loss. you feel something gentler — grief, maybe, but also grace.

you turn the photo face up. leave it on the desk.

sophia watches you, silent, then reaches out a hand. you take it without hesitation.

the room fills with the soft hum of the afternoon — distant voices from the hallway, the rhythmic click of a keyboard from next door, the whisper of wind through the open window.

you exhale, slow and steady.

“when i first came here,” you say quietly, “i thought this room would swallow me whole.”

sophia tilts her head. “and now?”

“now it feels... full.”

she smiles, small and knowing. “that’s because you finally let it.”

you nod, and the simplicity of that truth makes your chest ache.

the sunlight shifts, sliding across the floorboards, touching the edge of your hand. sophia leans her head on your shoulder. you close your eyes for a moment and just breathe.

the world outside is still the same — some people whisper, some don’t. some places are still unsafe. but here, in this small, borrowed corner of the world, you are not hiding anymore.

you are seen. you are held. and for the first time since you ran away, you are home.

the light stays soft. the air feels clean. the silence is no longer hollow — it’s alive.

you sit there, hand in hers, the photo turned up toward the sun.

Y/N and Sophia had come a long way since college. With Sophia becoming a successful astronomer, one of the Philippines' only few. She became the pioneering head of a new astronomical unit in the Department of Science and Technology, and pushed for more scholarship opportunities for students who wanted to pursue the field of astronomy and theoretical physics, to learn about the universe and its inner workings.

While Y/N, well, she established her own construction and designing firm, quickly becoming one of the biggest firms for the private sector. She refused to do government work because they were all shady, and she'd much rather keep her integrity and stand by the ethics that were taught to her than sign projects that won't even be there or sign off on structures that weren't even designed properly.

Though, if asked about their biggest achievement, the pair would say the same thing. No awards or amount of money from contracts could equate to their little one. A little girl they had through in-vitro fertilization using Y/N's egg cell. Sophia had been the one to carry because they had agreed beforehand that since the nature of Y/N’s work required her to be on the field often and Sophia just worked on papers from home and in her observatory, it made sense for Sophia to be the one to carry their first child and the others they would have if they decided to have more.

They couldn't have been more ecstatic when they found out that they were having a little girl. Sophia, especially, since she had been praying for a little girl ever since they found out that the fertilization was successful. Why did she want a little girl? Well, duh. Because she never had any sisters growing up, and she really wanted a mini her to dress up and play with.

Their little girl, now four years old, named Elizabeth Jett Laforteza Y/LN, was a mini Sophia. She was spoiled to bits by Y/N because how could she say no to that face? A mini version of her wife? That was just a cheat code for Elise, a gateway to getting whatever she wanted.

At the moment, though, the little girl was sick. Burning up with a fever. This was the first time she got sick, so Sophia was panicking, of course. Elise wouldn't eat anything unless Y/N cooked it, and Y/N was out on the field, supervising a project. She really needed her wife to come home.

Sophia let out a relieved sigh as soon as Y/N said she was coming home. She was usually calm and collected, but this was the first time their first baby had gotten sick. She looked down at Elise and gently caressed her warm forehead, pushing away the stray hairs that covered her tiny face.

“Mommy, where's Mama na?” The little girl asked softly with that cute grogginess from her still being half-asleep.

“Mama’s on her way home, anak. Just rest, ha? Wag nang makulit,” Sophia answered with that warm motherly tone of voice. “Do you want something to eat while we wait for Mama?”

Elise shook her head in response, snuggling into Sophia for some comfort. “Sorry, Mommy. Mama just makes the sinigang with magic. I still love you. I don't have a favorite mama… not like Axe from school. His favorite is his dada.”

Sophia let out a soft chuckle. Right. This was definitely Y/N’s child, because who else did she know that still rambled and yapped even while sick?

——

Sophia's shoulders dropped in relief as she heard the familiar sound of Y/N’s Audi pull into their garage. Finally, she'd have some back up.

“Is that Mama?” Elise asked with the most excitement a sick four-year-old could muster. Despite being flushed and sweaty from her fever, she sat up with the quickness of a kid that just heard the ice cream truck stop by.

“Yes, bug, it's Mama. Pero just stay here, okay? Babalik si Mommy kasama si Mama, ha?” Sophia ordered warmly, but still firmly as she got up from where she sat at the side of Elise's bed.

After getting Elise's nod of agreement, Sophia padded downstairs to greet her wife, sighing softly after planting a gentle peck on Y/N’s cheek.

“How's she doing? Nanghihina ba siya? Mainit ba siya?” Y/N queried, eyebrows knitted together in deep concern, placing the bags of ingredients, medicine, and fruits aside.

“She’s okay naman right now. Madaldal pa nga, eh. Manang-mana sa Mama.”

Y/N couldn't help but crack a small smile at Sophia's remark. “Saglit lang. I'll slice up some fruit for her before I cook. She needs to eat something.”

“No, mahal. I'll do it. Go see her na lang. Susunod ako, okay?” Sophia gave Y/N’s cheek a soft caress with her thumb before going to the kitchen and washing up the fruit that Y/N bought.

Y/N, always unable to disagree with her wife, just nodded and went upstairs with the medicine bag to see how Elise was doing. What she saw when she walked into the little girl’s room shattered her heart.

Elise was shivering even underneath her blanket, even though the thermostat in her room was already set at just a gently cool 26 degrees Celsius. When she heard the sound of feet shuffling, however, she turned in her bed to look towards the door, perking up when she saw her Mama.

“Mama!” The tiny human cheered softly, scrambling to sit up as Y/N approached her. “You're home, you're home!”

“Hey, nugget. How are you feeling?” Y/N asked softly, sitting next to Elise, feeling her forehead to see if her temperature was high enough to be worrisome. She then took out the box of Koolfever from the medicine bag.

“I feel all warm and icky,” Elise replied with a small huff just like how Sophia did it when she felt even the slightest amount of discomfort. Elise truly was just a little Sophia.

“It's nice that you're home. Because you're laging nasa work, Mama. Work na lang lagi. So me and Mommy naman today, okay?”

Y/N melted inside, turning into a gooey mess of slight guilt and affection for their little girl. “Okay, nugget. Dito lang si Mama, promise.” She carefully peeled open a strip of Koolfever and gently stuck it to Elise’s forehead, hoping that it would relieve some of her discomfort from the warmth the fever brought.

Soon enough, Sophia joined them, a small bowl of sliced up fruit in hand, as well as a glass of cool water. “Here, Elise. Eat some fruit na. This will help you get better and be strong.”

Elise reached out and took the small bowl, beginning to dig into the sliced up fruits. Y/N had made sure to only get the fruits Elise liked. Strawberries, bananas, apples, and oranges.

“Magluluto lang si Mama, okay? Just finish your fruit, nugget. Mommy will be here while I cook,” Y/N said softly, kissing the top of Elise's head before going to the kitchen.

“Sinigang??” Elise asked excitedly, looking up at Sophia.

That look made Sophia chuckle softly. The kid even got the sinigang obsession from her. “Yes, bug. Sinigang.”

——

Y/N came back upstairs with the food, a perfect serving of rice and pork sinigang in a bowl, complete with some meat, kangkong, labanos, and even some okra. Honestly, Y/N felt lucky that the kid liked the dish enough to like the vegetables in it, too. Elise even asks for more vegetables. Talk about insane luck in the food division.

“Here you go, nugget. Kain nang marami para lumakas.”

Y/N handed the bowl over to Sophia and Sophia took over, feeding Elise so that the food wouldn't spill on the bed or burn the little girl. With each spoonful that Sophia fed her, Sophia would always blow on it first to make sure that it wasn't too hot.

All the while, Y/N just watched her favorite girls with a fond smile. She had this look in her eyes that was filled with all the love, fondness, and gratitude that she had but could never put into words. So she just let her eyes do the speaking.

“Mmm! Ten out of ten, Mama. Really good today. It's so maasim,” Elise suddenly commented after finishing her last spoonful, giving Y/N a thumbs up gesture, making the architect chuckle softly.

“Glad it was good, nugget. You're not too full, right? Just right?”

Y/N sat next to Elise, across Sophia, giving Elise's little hand a squeeze.

“Not too busog, Mama,” Elise confirmed softly.

“Okay, you gotta have your medicine na.” Y/N reached into the medicine bag and pulled out a box of fever medicine. She opened it and shook the bottle up before opening the bottle and pouring some of the medicine into the lined cap.

Elise shook her head, hiding in her pillow, clearly not wanting to take the medicine.

“Elise,” Sophia called out sternly. Yeah, they had to play good cop, bad cop, sometimes, and more often than not, Sophia had to be the sensible and strict parent because Y/N had the tendency to just melt for Elise, but there were times when Y/N used her stern voice and it always made Elise listen.

Like now.

Elise shook her head vehemently once more, a whiny ‘nooo’ coming from underneath the pillow.

“Elizabeth Jett Laforteza Y/LN,” Y/N called firmly, giving Elise the mom stare when the little girl peeked out from her pillow.

The kid just sighed in defeat, dramatically, before sitting up and letting Sophia help her take the medicine and wash it down with water. Elise's nose scrunched up in disgust. Another Sophia thing. Y/N remembered seeing that for the first time when she took Sophia to a steakhouse for a date, and the kitchen overcooked her steak. It never failed to make Y/N snicker, even now when she saw it in Elise.

“Good, tulog na, bug. You need your rest,” Sophia murmured, helping Elise get comfortable again.

“Can you sing the song? Please? So I can sleep?” Elise requested, pouting, as if her mothers wouldn't have already done anything before the pout. The pout was just to seal the deal.

“Okay, but you gotta go to sleep na after we sing, okay?” Sophia smiled, putting the empty food bowl aside on the nightstand next to the empty fruit bowl.

Elise nodded, getting comfy in her little princess bed, under her teddy bear sheets, hugging her favorite stuffed bear, Mr. Russell. Like the kid from Up. That Russell. Yeah, she named her teddy bear after him after learning that he was both her moms’ favorite cartoon characters.

The wives looked at each other and nodded, silently agreeing to just sing Elise's favorite part of the song they've been using as a lullaby for her since she was born.

“Save your eyes from your tears… when everything's unclear, you'll be safe here from the sheer weight of your doubts and fears, wounded heart…” Sophia sang softly, watching as Elise's eyes fluttered closed.

“When the light disappears, and when this world's insincere… you'll be safe here, when nobody hears you scream, I'll scream with you, you'll be safe here,” Y/N continued, caressing Elise's knuckles with her thumb, watching as the little girl's breathing evened out.

The pair of mothers quietly left the room, shutting the door behind them with a soft sigh of joint relief.

“We made such a perfect little angel, Phia,” Y/N mumbled with a smile.

“Yeah. We really did. And I'm not just saying that because she's basically a small me.” Sophia laughed softly, leaning forward to lay her head on Y/N’s chest for a moment.

“Let's go and eat together. The kid needs some rest.”

But reality, cruel as ever, pulled you back. Soon, you were in LA again, caught up in the whirlwind of schedules and stardom.

The months that followed passed in a blur, yet somehow, you and Dani carved out a world of your own within the chaos. Every other Sunday became sacred: the two of you trading books, meeting in the quiet buzz of morning for walks and coffee, conversations spilling from the book’s storylines to childhood trauma.

She filled your phone with pieces of herself. Selfies that made your chest ache with how beautiful she looked, little snapshots that only you were meant to see, voice recordings of her reenactment of musicals that she was currently into. 

In return, you sent her the most random things: crooked street signs, your messy desk, half-made lego sets, your newly assessed pokemon cards, sunsets and sunrises captioned “almost as pretty as you. almost", When you overindulged in nerd merch, you texted, “I might’ve… overdone it…”, knowing full well she’d tease you for it. 

Every week, you found excuses to give her something small: plushies, trinkets, flowers, just because you could. Just because showering her with material things felt like the only way to say what you both couldn’t.

But what you treasured most were the things she shared only with you. Videos of late-night dance practices where she choreographed just for herself. Silly clips of her in her styling chair, pulling faces while her members laughed in the background. The nightly video calls she insisted on during her drives home, which always stretched into the early hours until she fell asleep with the phone still on. Sometimes she’d wake to see you still on her screen, fast asleep, and her soft “wake up” would pull a groggy “five more minutes” from you.

Whatever this was…this fragile, tender, maddening thing, you couldn’t quite name it. All you knew was that it was something more than friendship, and something just shy of love, and you wouldn't exchange it for anything else. 

Still, that didn’t stop you from sulking. While Katseye prepared for their Lollapalooza performance, you were sprawled on the couch, spoon in hand, trying to drown your envy in ice cream. No matter how many bites you took, the frustration stuck. You couldn’t buy your way into performing; you had to settle for the priciest tickets with the lounge like any other normie.

“You have got to stop pouting. It’s been weeks, and we’re about to go on a world promo tour,” Cami groaned, throwing you a look as she stretched across the armchair.

“But we could’ve performed,” you mumbled around a mouthful of vanilla, pointing your spoon like it was a weapon.

“We barely debuted. Chill" Amara snorted and flopped down beside you, nearly knocking the pint from your hands. 

“We’re still more interesting than half the lineup” you countered, scrolling on your phone until the Coachella poster filled your screen. Your thumb hovered over Katseye’s name, already circled with a little heart; Cami’s handiwork, of course.

Rina, who had been quietly curled up with her sketchpad, looked up with a soft frown. 

“Don’t be mean. They worked hard for that stage. They deserve to be there" She softly reprimands, her voice ringing like bells

“I never said they weren’t talented. I’m just saying we’re more interesting. Big difference" You smirked, holding up your phone

Before the argument could escalate, Hana’s voice cut sharp from the kitchen. 

“If I hear one more whine about Lollapalooza, I’m scheduling a fanmeet and triple rehearsals for that week"

The room fell into immediate silence.

“...Bloody hell” Amara muttered under her breath.

You pressed your lips together, fighting a laugh, but any further comeback was shut down when Hana added:  

“And put the ice cream back in the freezer before you spoil your appetite. Dinner’s almost ready"

“Yes, mom.” the four of you chorused in unison, scrambling to clean and set up the table

From the kitchen, you could hear her chuckle, just barely, but you knew she was smiling.

The night stretched longer than either of you had planned. 

What had started as a simple coffee had somehow spilled into a quiet walk, music drifting softly from your speaker, until now Daniela was curled up on your bed, legs tucked under her, eyeliner smudged just slightly from hours of laughter.

“You can’t just buy your way into performing at Lollapalooza!” she said, laughing wholeheartedly, the sound wrapping around you like a warm breeze.

“I bought my way to a lot of stuff” you pouted, leaning back against the pillows. 

“Never my education though, or my training… or our success… uhhh, amusement parks maybe. Also bought my way to revenge one time” you added with a mischievous grin.

“Mhmm, isn’t this buying your way to success?” she giggled, the corner of her lips curling up as her eyes sparkled.

“No, this is allocating resources to a dream I have” you shot back, smirking.

“And what’s that dream?” she asked, tilting her head in curiosity.

“To perform on the same stage as you” you answered, taking her hand gently and pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

“You’re such a flirt” she teased, her voice low, pulling you closer until her lips brushed yours in a gentle, lingering kiss.

You hadn’t planned for this. You had only meant to take some of her stress away, to offer her a small reprieve from the weight of performing on one of the biggest stages of her career.

It should’ve ended there, but neither of you moved. You couldn’t bring yourself to ask her to leave, and she didn’t seem in any rush. The air between you was thick with something fragile and electric, as if it could snap or ignite at any second.

She leaned a little closer, and suddenly, her presence was impossible to ignore: warm, sweet, with that sharp, intoxicating edge of her perfume that clung to your skin and made your pulse stutter.

“You’re staring” she murmured, voice low, teasing, eyes glinting in the dim light.

“Am I?” you countered, though your throat was tight, your lips dry, and your heartbeat too loud to ignore.

Daniela’s gaze flicked down to the lipstick that had rolled out of her bag earlier. She twirled it between her fingers slowly, deliberately, and your pulse jumped. Without a word, she uncapped it, pressing the rich pigment to her lips, which suddenly looked fuller, softer, almost dangerously inviting.

“Hold still” she whispered, leaning in, her breath brushing along your jaw.

Then, deliberate and slow, her lips pressed against your collarbone. You shivered as her fingers brushed your shoulder to steady you, the kiss leaving a bold, crimson mark; a silent claim, an unspoken invitation. She pulled back just enough to admire her work, her smile languid, confident, teasing.

“Perfect. Now everyone will know you’re mine” she murmured, the words sending a thrill straight through you.

“You do realize this won’t come off easily, right?” You swallowed hard, caught somewhere between laughter and heat.

“Good,” she said simply, before pressing a quick, warm kiss just above the mark. It was fleeting but deliberate, leaving no doubt about her intention.

The room fell into thick, heavy silence, broken only by the rapid thud of your heartbeat. Daniela tilted her head, her hair brushing your shoulder as she lingered just a second too long, and in that quiet moment, the line between almost and too much blurred in a way you weren’t sure you ever wanted to define.

After that, the night seemed to blur into something softer, something weightless. Gentle smiles exchanged in the hush between words, slow kisses that lingered like promises, the warm press of her body molding perfectly against yours. The room was cloaked in candlelight, golden flames flickering along the walls, their glow dancing across her skin as though the universe itself conspired to frame her in warmth. The air held the faint trace of her perfume: sweet, familiar, grounding; woven together with the earthy aroma of the late-night tea you’d made hours earlier, now forgotten on the nightstand.

Every laugh you shared, every whispered word breathed against your ear, every quiet brush of fingertips trailing over skin, each moment pressed itself into you like sunlight spilling through a window on a winter morning.

And then it came. The realization.

Ah. You truly do love this girl.

It wasn’t a sharp jolt, not a sudden revelation. No. 

It was gentle, calm, inevitable, like the slow unveiling of something that had always been there, waiting to be seen.

You gazed down at the sleeping beauty in your arms, her breaths soft and steady against your chest. She’d been too tired to fight her heavy eyelids, too exhausted to stay up, and now she lay curled against you in the most unguarded stillness. Carefully, you let your eyes trace her features, memorizing her in the fragile silence of the night: the delicate weight of her eyelids, framed by lashes so dark and long; the graceful slope of her nose; her lips, still tinted with the faintest trace of lipstick she had applied hours ago. Lips you knew by heart now, lips that haunted and healed you in equal measure.

Your heart ached with longing, tender and relentless. You wanted to press a kiss to the tip of her nose just to watch it scrunch in sleepy protest. You wanted to press your lips to the crown of her head as she burrowed deeper into your arms. You wanted to bury yourself in the curve of her neck and let the world disappear as sleep claimed you both.

And in that quiet, fragile moment, you could almost believe forever was possible.

But morning came too soon. The light crept in, pale and merciless, tugging you out of the cocoon of night. With painstaking care, you began to untangle yourself from her embrace, every movement slow, stealthy, unwilling to break the spell. She stirred only faintly, a sigh slipping past her lips, before falling still again.

You brushed one last glance at her: her messy hair spilled across the pillow, her skin glowing faintly in the early light, you smiled before reaching for your phone. A quick reply to Sophia, a soft explanation: Daniela stayed over.

Then you rose, moving on quiet feet, tiptoeing past your sleeping members, the house still cloaked in peace. The air felt different without her warmth tethering you, but the imprint of her lingered against your skin, against your soul.

And you carried it with you into the day, mind buzzing with a secret little checklist:

Tattoo Daniela’s kiss mark, literally.

Coffee and croissants.

A book she had been eyeing for weeks, knowing full well she’d be annoyed to find you gone when she wakes up.

Hours later, you slipped back in, hands full of breakfast, the quiet of the house broken only by the soft hum of the morning. Most of your members were still asleep, curled up in blankets in their respective rooms, but one figure remained awake on the sofa, absorbed in her book. Thick-rimmed glasses framed her face perfectly, her hair falling just so over her shoulders, and you froze for a moment, taking her in.

“Where have you been?” Her voice cut through the stillness, calm but edged with something teasing, a gentle reprimand that sent a shiver down your spine, not from fear, but from the way she said it: soft, raspy, deliberate, intimate.

“Breakfast?” you offered, voice sheepish as you held up the paper bags, trying to look nonchalant, hoping the simple gesture could buy your way back into her good graces.

“Breakfast, huh? You’re lucky I’m hungry” Her eyes flicked up from the page, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her lips

You set the bags down carefully, trying not to let your pulse show as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, eyes glinting with amusement. The air between you was warm and quiet, but the electricity from last night still lingered, a subtle current that seemed to hum through the space even across the sofa cushions. She closed her book and stretched, slow and deliberate, a movement that made your chest tighten. 

“You’re luckier that I’m craving croissants,” she teased, reaching for one from your carefully balanced paper bags.

“Lucky… or observant and romantic?” you countered, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, letting your fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. 

Her laugh was low, teasing, and it sent a thrill straight down your spine. You smiled at the sound of her laugh, trying to mask the cuteness aggression that was bubbling up. 

“Maybe a little of both,” she murmured, eyes sparkling as they finally met yours, truly met yours, as if weighing exactly how mischievous you’d been.

And in that quiet morning, over the smell of fresh croissants and warm coffee, the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you, tangled in moments that could have stretched forever.

Then, mid-bite, her fingers suddenly tugged at your shirt. 

“...Is that a cling film?” she blurted, eyes widening as she pulled your shirt down even further, exposing the full fresh artwork on your skin.

“DID YOU GET MY KISS MARK TATTOOED?!” she shrieked, half laughing, half horrified.

“Surprise…” You shrugged, a sly grin tugging at your lips. 

Her hands flew to your chest, trying to tug the shirt up again as her laugh turned into a mixture of disbelief and delight. 

“You’re crazy" she gasped, shaking her head in mock exasperation, eyes still wide and sparkling with mischief.

And you couldn’t help but grin back, heart racing, not from fear, not from guilt, but from the undeniable, deliciously charged intimacy that had somehow become your morning routine.

The studio lights were low, just enough to catch the sheen of sweat on your skin and the faint outlines of your reflection in the mirrors. The room smelled faintly of wax and old wood, a familiar cocoon where every move was dissected and sharpened. 

You felt guilty, you were lying to Dani, lying to the rest of the girls, but the truth was tangled. When Sohey asked you to step in after one of their backup dancers got sick, you should’ve hesitated. Instead, you’d said yes without thinking. Not just for the thrill of Lollapalooza, not even for the challenge. You wanted this because it meant her. 

It meant surprising Daniela in the one place she belonged most: on stage.

So, here you were, in secret rehearsals with Grant and Sohey, burning through hours to master the Gabriela dance break, the part she loved most, based on the excited tone of her voice whenever she talked about the choreography, and the numerous videos she sent of their rehearsals.

“Again. From the top. I want it to be cleaner" Grant’s voice cut through your haze of exhaustion, his clap echoing against the empty walls like a gunshot.

You nodded, sucking in a shaky breath. Your lungs burned, your shirt clung damp to your back, but none of it mattered. Across the room, Sohey adjusted the track on his laptop, shooting you a grin that was equal parts encouragement and mischief.

“She’s going to lose her mind when she sees you out there,” he teased.

Your stomach flipped. You can picture it in your mind already; Dani’s face lit by stage lights, her eyes widening the second they landed on you. The thought made your muscles ache less, made your body move even when your bones begged you to stop.

“Only if I don’t mess it up,” you muttered, rolling your shoulders loose.

“You won’t. Your body knows the steps. Trust it. And remember… ” Grant snorted, snapping his fingers while he demonstrated the move again, sharp and precise, imitating Daniela’s spin

“...you don’t shrink from her. You meet her. You match her fire. That’s how she dances best, with someone who gives it back"

The track started, the familiar Latin guitar flooding the room, heat curling in your chest. You slid into position, counting the beats in your head. Spin. Step. Catch. The movements lived in your body now, no longer forced, but flowing, alive. In the mirror, you almost startled at what you saw: not the shaky idol who still second-guessed herself, but someone sharp, magnetic, dangerous. Someone who could stand beside Daniela, not behind her.

“You’re good,” Sohey said from the sidelines, though his tone was edged with something more thoughtful. He walked over, tapping lightly against your sternum. 

“But you’re holding back here. Don’t just dance the steps, make them mean something. She’ll feel it"

Your throat tightened. Because that’s all you wanted. You wanted her to feel you, really feel you, through every breath, every step. As if she hadn’t already unraveled you with the smallest glance, the way her fingers sometimes brushed yours between takes.

The music cut. Silence fell heavy. Grant leaned back, arms crossed, his grin wide and satisfied. 

“That’s it. That’s the one. That’s what you bring to Lolla" Sohey hoots, clapping you at your back

Your legs finally gave out, and you sank to the floor, pressing your back against the cool mirror. The glass soothed your overheated skin, a relief against the burn in your muscles. Breathless, you lifted your water bottle, your grip still trembling from the endless repetitions.

The secret burned in your chest. It was reckless, risky, but exhilarating. Not even your members knew. You could already imagine it: the moment the lights hit, the crowd roaring, and Daniela’s face when she realized. That flicker of recognition in her eyes, that was what you were working for.

And soon, the chance arrived.

Screams detonated through the arena, a tidal wave of sound that shook Daniela’s chest and made her heart beat harder. The crowd wasn’t just loud; they were alive, chanting their names with a force so powerful it nearly carried her off her feet. This was what she lived for, the connection, the joy, the intoxicating rush of being seen by thousands at once.

“Mean Girls” had ended in chaos and laughter. The song wasn’t choreographed, just pure fun: a camera was shoved into their hands, silly faces at the big screens, dancing like kids playing in the rain. Daniela’s lungs still ached from laughing when the last note faded.

But then came the first pulse of “Gabriela" The air shifted. Instantly, bodies snapped into position, sharp, sultry and certain. The crowd’s cheers rose like fire catching wind. Daniela smirked, rolling her shoulders back. They weren’t ready.

The choreography was electric; Latin rhythms fused with sharp k-pop methodology, every step rooted in who she was. As she spun, her skirt whipped around her like flames, catching the stage lights, making her feel as though she was dancing inside her own fire.

Sophia’s lift drew a wave of gasps, and then it was Daniela’s moment, her solo. She braced, every muscle taut with adrenaline, ready to strike.

And that was when she felt it.

Warmth at her waist. Steady hands. The unmistakable presence of someone guiding her through the movement, grounding her even as the world spun. Her eyes widened, and instinct carried her through the flip; perfect, seamless, the roar of the arena nearly shaking the floor.

She turned, breath hitching.

Your eyes locked on hers, sultry, steady, burning with something unspoken. The sight made her breath hitch. For a heartbeat, Daniela forgot the lights, the music, the thousands screaming her name.

There was only you.

The two of you moved together in perfect synchrony, executing the partnered dance steps that she held so close to her heart. Every touch, every pivot, every slide of your hands across her back was electric. She could feel the strength in your arms, anchoring her with ease. Your rhythm mirrored hers so perfectly that it felt less like choreography and more like fate, the way her world seemed to narrow until it existed only between the two of you.

Her eyes betrayed her, flicking again and again to yours. Even as her mind screamed to focus on the steps, she couldn’t ignore the flashes that she stole: the taut curve of your arms, the raw intensity in your gaze. Every glimpse made something coil tighter in her chest, made her skin hum with awareness.

It terrified her.

Because it felt too natural. Too easy. Too right. Too effortless. She had never been with a woman before, never imagined she could feel this way. 

She had told herself this… whatever this was, couldn’t be real. That it was just curiosity, a reckless fascination she could bury if she tried hard enough. But here you were, living proof of how wrong she’d been.

But today with her in your arms, with your eyes locked on hers and your touch lingering in all the right places, she realized that wasn’t enough. She could get used to this. She could grow addicted to it. Not just used to you, she could care. She could want you in ways that would set back feminism by decades. 

Most of all, she could… love you, in a way she had never allowed herself to imagine.

And that realization hit her like a tidal wave, thrilling and terrifying all at once. It made her chest tighten, her stomach flip, and yet, in the middle of all the lights, screams, and music, it felt impossibly intimate, impossibly right.

But the ache beneath it all was sharp; the ache of knowing the world outside this moment was complicated, messy, and not quite ready for what she was starting to feel. The thought of losing you, of having to step back from this fire that had sparked so suddenly, clawed at her heart with the force of a storm she hadn’t seen coming.

And yet, even with that fear gnawing at her, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning into you, from letting herself be carried by the rhythm, by the closeness, by the undeniable gravity of you. Every brush of your skin against hers, every subtle glance that lingered just a moment too long, set her pulse racing.

Then, almost against her will, came the darker thought, sharp as broken glass: 

What if someone else was here instead of me? 

The thought twisted in her chest, an ache of possessiveness and fear. The idea of another hand tracing the lines she so desperately wanted to only belong to her, someone else’s hand at your waist, someone else’s eyes drawing that same heat from you, made her stomach knot and her breath hitch. 

She could feel it: pure, primal jealousy, fierce and unreasoned, and it terrified her almost as much as it thrilled her.

God forbid she imagined anyone else in your position; the thought alone made her pulse spike, her hands clench in her lap. She could…no. She would protect this, protect you, with every ounce of herself if she had to.

It scared her. It thrilled her. It consumed her. Onstage, surrounded by thousands, Daniela had never felt so exposed. So alive. So consumed.

Because tonight, in your arms, she realized the truth. No matter how terrifying or impossible, she couldn’t stop wanting you.

Not anymore.

You barely had time to catch your breath after your Lollapalooza cameo. The fans caused such a massive uproar on every social media platform, clips of you and Daniela dancing as well as Manon and Lara’s surprise choreography in “MIA” shocked the crowd so much that they kept editing those clips until now. In fact, you were still trending even after months, which caused your group’s fame to skyrocket once more.

The break you were promised never came, only a sharper, hungrier grind. Especially with your cancelled concert and that extended “vacation” in the Philippines, time had collapsed into nothing but a blur of motion.

Airports. Security lines. Airplane cabins where you didn’t remember takeoff, only the sudden jolt of landing. Rehearsal studios with mirrors that magnified your exhaustion until it mocked you. Interview chairs where your mouth smiled and spoke as rehearsed, even while your spine screamed and your voice frayed at the edges. Fans looked at you as if you hung the stars in their sky, and you let them. You clung to it, even when your own sky had long since burned out.

The machine was swallowing you whole. Every city bled into the next. Every cheer melted into the same faceless roar. But through it all, there was Dani.

Her voice notes raspy with sleep, soft enough to make your heart unclench. Her 2 a.m. texts are trivial, ridiculous, but grounding in a way nothing else could be. Her blurry hotel selfies with her visibly half-asleep, hair a mess, but proof she was thinking of you even when her world pulled her in a dozen directions.

For a while, she was your light at the end of the tunnel. A small, stubborn flame you carried in your pocket, reminding you there was something more than choreography and contracts, more than airports and empty hotel rooms.

Until that light began to dim.

Her replies came slower now. A voice note once every few days instead of every night. You caught yourself staring at her read receipts too long, watching the little gray text: seen sitting there like a bruise. Hours became days. Days became silence.

Every time you typed something, you stopped.

Are you okay? Are we okay? Do you still want me?

Then you erased it, the blinking cursor eating the words until your screen was blank again. Because asking meant risking the answer. And the thought of her confirming your worst fear felt worse than the silence itself.

So when her name finally lit up your phone, you became someone else. Your voice went bright, teasing, a little too light. You talked about your day. You laughed when she said something funny. You swallowed every question clawing up your throat. 

As long as she was happy, then you’d be happy for her. That’s what you told yourself, over and over, even as something inside you splintered.

But no matter how you spun it, the silence pressed against your lungs until it hurt to breathe. The tunnel you’d been running through for months was closing in, and Dani, your Dani, was still the flicker of light you chased. Only now, it felt like it was dimming.

And then came the night that finally broke you.

You had just finished performing for the Sailors, the fans who screamed so loudly you felt your skin might split under their noise, who smiled at you like you were everything they needed. You smiled back until your cheeks burned. You kept it up until you could finally leave the stage.

Back at the hotel, fatigue seeped into your bones. You were running on autopilot; peeling off your stage clothes, pulling on sleepwear, collapsing face-first onto the bed with a groan. For a heartbeat you let yourself imagine her next to you, brushing the hair from your face, whispering something soft.

Then you made the mistake of opening your phone.

“SIREN5 SYRE performed at Lollapalooza with KATSEYE” “KATSEYE Lara hinted at a relationship with SIREN5 Amara?” “SIREN5 Cami and KATSEYE Megan spotted at the 2hollis concert” “Daniela Avanzini spotted downtown LA with Jonah David" “Are Jonah and Dani the next it-couple?” “Exclusive: eyewitness accounts confirm Jonah and Daniela’s chemistry"

The headlines bled into your feed, one after another, each post louder than the last. At first you scrolled faster, as if speed could save you. Then slower, as if maybe reading every word would explain something. Then you just stared, thumb frozen, while the comment sections tore into a story that didn’t belong to you but somehow gutted you all the same.

The phone screen glowed in the dark of your hotel room, the only light against your sleepless eyes. You replayed her fading replies in your head. The half-hearted excuses. The silences that stretched too long.

Was it one-sided? Were you just a phase? An experiment she discarded? Had you imagined a happy ending with a girl who only saw you as a chapter in her life?

You wanted to call her. To ask. To fight. But your fingers wouldn’t move. You’d built your entire world around her voice, her smile, her texts, and if you asked the wrong question, it might all shatter. 

So you stayed quiet. You stayed loyal. You stayed hers, even if you weren’t sure she was still yours.

And the next day, when the cameras rolled, you still had to be you: the dorky loser in a hot body, the chaotic gremlin who tripped over cords in rehearsals and made fans laugh with terrible impressions. On stage you winked, smirked, played into the power you’d built. To your group you cracked jokes, teased, pretended to be fine.

But inside, every smile felt heavier. Every laugh felt hollow. Every glance in the mirror showed a girl who was breaking in places no one was allowed to see, especially not the girl she loved.

You carried on because that’s the only thing you knew how to do.

She fucked up.

Oh, she knew she fucked up.

She could try to blame it on the schedule; the endless stream of interviews, rehearsals, flights, and photoshoots that blurred together until she collapsed into hotel beds before her phone even buzzed. She could point fingers at the fans, the paparazzi, the relentless flash of cameras that made her every step public property. She could even curse the time zones, the exhaustion, the jet lag. But excuses were smoke, and smoke didn’t hide the fire.

The truth was simpler. Sharper. Crueler.

She was a coward.

A coward who flinched at the intensity of her own feelings, who let fear dictate silence. A coward who couldn’t look directly at how much she cared for you without choking on it. She had kept it buried, convinced herself that it was safer to pretend. Safer to let things stay undefined. Safer to keep her heart behind glass.

But safety had a price. And now… she could feel it: sharp, hollow, merciless in her chest. 

She was losing you.

It struck her like a riptide, dragging her under.

You hadn’t turned cold, not exactly. That would have been easier. 

No, you were worse, you were distant. Softly, politely distant. Not cruel. Not unkind. Just… careful. Careful in ways you hadn’t been before. You treated her like a college acquaintance. 

The signs had been small, but she couldn’t unsee them now.

Your replies still came quick, but they were clipped, thinner somehow. The kind of fast that felt obligatory. You still sent her pictures, but only if she asked and never the floods of candid snapshots she used to drown in at random hours, laughing at your chaos. You still asked about her day, still nodded at her stories during late-night calls, still gave her that polite half-smile through the camera but the warmth that once poured through the screen had dimmed.

It was like talking to you through a pane of glass. She could see you, hear you, but she couldn’t reach you.

And she knew whose fault it was.

Every distant look, every hesitant word, every silence where laughter used to be, those weren’t accidents. They were consequences. Consequences of her cowardice.

She had told herself this was normal. That it was just the chaos of two busy lives colliding, schedules grinding against each other until the seams frayed. That nothing had changed, not really. That it was just in her head. 

Until… Sophia barged into her room, phone in hand, eyes blazing with anger and urgency.

“Daniela! Are you serious? Look at this!”

The image flashed on the screen, a photo fans had snapped, dissected, and blown into a story she had no idea existed. Her with Jonah. His hand holding her bag. Matching outfits. Casual smiles. The closeness misread, misrepresented, spun into rumors that had grown wild overnight. Her stomach dropped, chest hollow, pulse skyrocketing.

“No…” she whispered, voice trembling, hands clutching the edge of her chair. 

“No, no, no, that’s not- he’s not- I have no idea-”

“You have no idea?” Sophia’s voice cut through her panic like lightning. 

“Do you ever stop to think what this looks like from her point of view? It looks like you’re cheating on her. And you’re not even together yet. Daniela Avanzini. What do you think you’re doing, huh? Is this just a game to you? Is she some doll you can play with? Because she's not."

The words hit like a slap. The truth, undeniable, unrelenting: she had been blind. She hadn’t checked her phone, hadn’t scrolled, hadn’t seen the storm building until it had landed squarely on your shoulders. You were hurting, and she hadn’t noticed.

Mortified, heat crawling up her neck, palms slick with sweat, Dani’s chest ached, lungs tight, heartbeat frantic. She needed to fix this. She had to. But… where? How? The thought of approaching you, seeing your eyes and risking a refusal, a hurt, a coldness, she didn’t know if she could bear it.

“I- I can explain!” she blurted, pacing in a frenzy. 

“Jonah! He’s just a friend! He was holding my bag because the strap snapped! The matching outfits? Pure coincidence! I was smiling because I saw the eyekons and waved at them from across the street! I didn’t even know the fans got a picture-”

Sophia blinked. Her mouth opened then closed. Then blinked again. Then… facepalmed. Hard. The sound echoed off the walls.

“Wait” Sophia said, trying and failing not to laugh. 

“You’re… telling me all this… was because… eyekons think you're in a relationship… with your friend who held your bag for five seconds?” Dani froze, the blush of embarrassment creeping up her neck. 

“Yes! And- oh god, I- I didn’t see the rumors. I wasn’t… I mean, I wasn’t scrolling. I was thinking about her- about you know who- and I-” Her voice cracked. 

“I’m in love with her, Sophia. I’m in love with her. And I’ve been too stupid and too scared to say it and now she’s- she’s pulling away, and I don’t know what to do!”

Sophia laughed. Hard. Loud. Her head shook as tears of exasperation glistened in her eyes. The Filipina leader can't believe that she's dealing with two overdramatic idiots who can't communicate properly, two idiots who'd rather sulk than actually talk to each other like proper adults.

“Oh. My. God. Dani. You- you just invented a dating scandal over… holding a bag. And color-coded outfits. That’s your big crisis. You’re a disaster" She gestured dramatically at Dani, voice still caught between disbelief and amusement. 

“But also… okay, okay, fine. I get it. You love her. Good. That’s progress. But seriously? Fix this before you accidentally invent a whole fanpage about a nonexistent affair. Miscommunication is seriously not my favorite trope"

Dani’s shoulders slumped, the weight of mortification settling over her, but somewhere underneath, relief bloomed.

“So… I just… go to her?” she asked quietly, voice tentative.

“Yes,” Sophia said, smirking, the laughter softening but still lingering in her tone. 

“Go. Apologize for being oblivious, apologize for panicking, apologize for the bag fiasco… maybe leave Jonah out entirely. And Dani? Don’t fuck this up again."

The words lingered, echoing in Dani’s mind, but instinctively, only two names sprang to her lips.

“Megan. Lara"

Before she could second-guess herself, she barreled into their room, breath ragged, words spilling faster than her brain could keep up with. Megan and Lara, the queer duo of the group, shot her sharp, calculating glares, the kind that silently warned her they weren’t in the mood for nonsense. 

Yeah, they heard all about it from their respective girlfriends and have been ignoring Dani for the past week or so.

“You-” Megan began, but Dani cut her off, pacing frantically, hands tangling in her hair.

“I know I hurt her. I know I took too long. I know it’s my fault. I know it’s my mistake! I need to make it up to her, and I don’t know how to do this because I’ve never been in love with a girl besides that one girl in high school, but like, I don’t even know if I liked liked her or-” The words tumbled out, frantic and unfiltered, almost incoherent. The room felt smaller, spinning around her panic, walls closing in.

“Dani, breathe,” Lara said, calm and grounded, moving forward to steady her. Her hands found Dani’s shoulders, halting the frantic pacing. Megan’s eyes softened slightly, but she stayed seated, arms crossed, watching Dani with patient intensity.

Dani’s chest heaved, throat tight, eyes wide. She wanted, no, needed to call you, to apologize, to beg forgiveness, to make things right. But fear gripped her. The terror of seeing your expression, of risking rejection or coldness, froze her in place.

“I… I can’t lose her,” she whispered, voice cracking, almost swallowed by the room’s quiet. 

“I can’t. And I don’t know how to fix it" She sobbed, burying her head on Lara’s shoulder

“Then start. Just start. Reach her. Be honest. No excuses, no hiding. Just… tell her the truth. That’s your only chance” Lara wrapped her arms around her gently, grounding her. 

“Yeah. You screwed up, big time. But the fact that you’re panicking like this? That you care enough to come to us instead of letting it rot? That’s the first step. Don’t waste it" Megan leaned forward, her voice low but firm.

Dani nodded, heart hammering, a flicker of resolve threading through her panic. Somewhere between fear and hope, determination sparked. She had to reach you. She had to show you, truly, completely, that she had only ever wanted you, and that she would do whatever it took to make sure you knew it.

“Besides, it’s not that different from a guy, you know? You don’t have to overthink too much.” Lara added, patting her shoulder with an encouraging smirk. 

“Ehh… it is… it’s a little different… dating women is definitely harder,” Megan countered, arms crossed but teasing in tone.

“True. All you need to do with a man is stroke their ego, give them head, and boom, you’re fine,” Lara said solemnly, nodding as if delivering sage advice.

Dani blinked. She had been panicking moments ago, and now she was hearing sex talk from her friends, who are younger than her, mind you. She froze.

“Let’s not get off topic here,” she sighed, facepalming herself.

“Oh yes! Do you need our help?” Megan’s eyes twinkled, full of mischief.

“Say yes,” Lara said, smirk curling on her lips, gaze boring into Dani’s, spine-tingling in its intensity.

“Uhm… sure?” Dani admitted, surrendering.

The duo erupted, whooping in celebration, arms flailing. Dani exhaled shakily, a smile tugging at her lips despite the chaos. She had a feeling relying on these two gay disasters might be a mistake but what choice did she have?

She needed help. And they were it.

“Oh wow. Couples galore" Your voice dripped with bitter sarcasm as you stepped into the dressing room assigned to your group.

The promo tour had wrung you dry, your body still damp with sweat, hair plastered to your temples, every muscle aching in ways that made you wonder if you’d ever stop feeling sore. You were tired. Bone-deep tired. Not just physically, but emotionally, romantically, like every part of you had been stretched too thin.

And yet, the second you walked in, the scene before you only added to the weight pressing down on your chest.

Lara was straddling Amara on the couch, arms looped lazily around her neck as if they hadn’t seen each other in decades, whispering and giggling like schoolgirls in love. Across the room, Cami sat perched on Megan’s lap, head tilted back in laughter while Megan fed her grapes with the over-the-top flair of a Roman emperor.

It was domestic. It was sickeningly sweet. It was everything you didn’t have.

“You jealous? You can always join us." Cami teased without missing a beat, her voice sing-song as she leaned down to press a playful kiss against Megan’s lips.

You made a face, clutching your stomach dramatically. 

“I’m going to throw up" You fake-gagged, the noise earning a snort from Lara.

“Oh, please. You could just, you know… put on a strap and confess to Dani already" Lara wiggled her brows, voice laced with mischief.

“What?” Your face heated up instantly.

“No way” Cami cut in before you could recover, sticking her tongue out at Lara like a child. 

“Dani needs to confess to her or I’ll rip her extensions out myself"

“You wouldn’t dare-”

“Don’t" Your voice cracked like a whip, sharp and final. The laughter faltered, leaving behind a ripple of silence. Your lips pressed into a thin line as you busied yourself with your bag, unwilling to give them more fuel.

“Hey” a softer voice broke through the tension. Rina. Always Rina. She appeared at your side, moving with quiet efficiency. 

“Hana told me to make sure you take these" She slipped a packet of lozenges and a teabag into your bag, tucking them neatly into a side pocket. 

“I heard your voice turning scratchy at the end there. Drink these, okay? And sleep. No excuses."

The gentle care in her tone nearly undid you. You nodded, swallowing down the tightness in your throat.

“Where’s Hana anyway?” you asked, hoisting your duffel onto your shoulder with a grunt as you headed for the door, leaving the couples’ laughter muffled behind you.

“She went ahead to confirm the hotel rooms" Rina’s reply was casual, but her smile was soft as she waved at the cluster of fans pressed against the barricades outside.

You followed her lead, plastering on a grin, winking at a few fans, and grabbing as many gifts as your free hand could manage. A sharpie appeared in your grip as if by muscle memory, and you signed albums, photocards, scraps of paper, anything they pushed forward. Their screams grew louder as Cami and Megan spilled out of the building, hand in hand like something out of a music video, followed closely by Lara and Amara, equally wrapped up in each other, making you bite back a sigh. 

“This is giving me a headache,” you muttered as the van door slid shut behind you, sealing you away from the chaos.

The ride to the hotel dragged. The driver took a longer route to avoid the cars tailing behind, weaving through backstreets and dim-lit intersections. Your head rested against the cool window, city lights blurring into smears of gold and red.

You should’ve felt relief. Safety. But instead, all you felt was the yawning ache in your chest. Surrounded by love, you had never felt more alone. 

You moved like a zombie: keycard from Hana in the lobby, elevator with staff, trudging the hallway with your hood up, headphones sealed over your ears, mask hiding what little expression you had left. The card beeped against the lock, and you pushed inside with the kind of sigh that felt ripped out of you. Your bag on the floor. The door shut. Shoulders slumped.

You stripped your shirt off without a thought-

“Oh…"

You froze, skin prickling as if the air had changed.

Daniela stood in the middle of your room, a bouquet clutched in her arms like a lifeline, surrounded by a ridiculous explosion of balloons, confetti and rose petals.

The scene felt surreal, like stepping into someone else’s life. Candles glowed warmly from every surface (a fire hazard if you’d ever seen one, how the hell did the hotel allow this?). A cake sat waiting on the table, scrawled with the words I’m so sorry, mi vida. A teddy bear taller than you slouched in the corner. Fairy lights tangled across the walls and ceiling. Confetti dusted the carpet in a glittering mess. On the bed, a stuffed tiger and moose sat side by side, as if they too were nervous.

But the centerpiece was her.

Dani… Fuck. She was stunning in a curve-hugging dress, curls loose and wild, lips worrying at themselves nervously. She looked like she’d been waiting for hours, fidgeting with every heartbeat.

“So, uh… I mean, I like the view but…” she joked weakly, her voice breaking the silence that had thickened between you. Heat flared through your face. 

“Fuck! Yes, sorry. I’m always half-naked and humiliated around you, it seems" You tugged your shirt back on with fumbling hands, as if fabric could shield you from the sudden intensity of being seen.

Silence again. A silence that wasn’t comfortable, not anymore, one that hummed like static between you, heavy with all the things unsaid.

Dani shifted the bouquet from one arm to the other. Her knuckles were white against the stems. 

“I know I messed up" Her voice was quiet, too quiet, like she was afraid it would splinter if she spoke louder. 

“I- God, I don’t even know where to start. I’m sorry" The words trembled, naked and unpolished, not the soundbite-perfect apology you’d expect from someone used to cameras.

“I thought distance would protect me. Protect you" She swallowed hard, her eyes darting between you and the carpet littered with petals. 

“I thought if I kept… at the safe distance, I wouldn’t drown in how much I feel for you. I thought that I’d be satisfied with what we had. I took you for granted. For so long. And I-”

Your throat tightened. The air smelled of roses, sugar and her intoxicating perfume; it pressed in on you, cloying and suffocating. She took a step forward, breath hitching audibly, the flowers trembling in her grip. 

“But all I did was hurt you. And the worst part is… I saw it happening. I saw you retreat, little by little, and I still couldn’t stop myself. Because I’m a coward" Her voice cracked on the word. 

“I’m scared of what happens if we cross this line. I’m scared that I’ll lose you. I’m scared of what it means about me. About everything I thought I knew about myself"

“Do you even know what it felt like? To see the rumors, the pictures, him, and think maybe I was just some… experiment? Some distraction until someone easier came along? Someone perfect and someone who society can swallow easily?” You swallowed hard, your voice slipping out before you could stop it, trembling and raw.

Her face crumpled like glass under pressure. She looked so unlike the Dani the world knew; no confidence, no pose, just a girl shaking under the weight of her own heart. 

“No. No, mi vida. You’re not- God, you’re not that. Never that." Her voice broke, a sob trapped in her throat. 

“You’re her. You’re it. You’re all I want. All I’ve ever wanted, even when I was too scared to admit it"

The bouquet slipped. Petals drifted to the floor like tiny wounded things as she reached for you with one trembling hand. Not demanding, not insistent, just there. Open. Desperate.

“Please” she whispered. 

“Let me make this right" she sobbed, her lips trembling like her hand

You stared at her hand, your own hovering above it. Your heart was hammering, a cornered rabbit’s heartbeat, your mind screaming with everything you couldn’t say: how you’d been holding yourself together with tape and string; how you’d rehearsed telling her you were happy for her, even if it meant she never came back to you; how you wanted her happiness even at the price of your own. Your fingers brushed hers, tentative. 

“Do you mean it?” you asked. The words tasted like surrender, like hope you didn’t dare name. Your hand shook in her grasp, your voice trembling with the effort of holding everything back.

Her eyes shone. She nodded once, fierce, as if the movement itself was a vow. 

“I mean it,” she said, low and hoarse. 

“I’m done hiding. I’m done pretending. I don’t care if it terrifies me. I don’t care if the world burns me for it. I choose you. I want you" The words landed in you like a blow and a balm at once. Something inside you splintered, not in pain, but in release, like a dam finally cracking.

You wanted to say I want you too. You wanted to fold into her arms, bury your face in her shoulder, and let her promises be enough. But instead you closed your eyes, swallowing hard, your thumb brushing the back of her hand in a small, trembling gesture.

“You don’t have to ruin your life for me,” you murmured, soft but steady. 

“If the world isn’t ready, if you’re not ready, I can… I can live with being a secret. I just want you to be happy"

Dani’s breath hitched like she’d been struck. Her grip on your hand tightened; not painful, but grounding, like she was holding onto an anchor. She stepped closer, until the air between you thinned to a fragile thread, your joined hands pressed between you, her forehead lowering until it hovered just above yours.

“I’m only happy if I’m honest,” she whispered, voice trembling but sure. 

“I’m only happy if it’s you"

The room seemed to hold its breath: candles flickering, fairy lights glowing soft, petals like scattered confessions on the floor as the distance between you shrank to mere inches. Her perfume mixed with the sweetness of the cake, the sharpness of roses, a scent that felt dizzying and real all at once.

“Ikaw lang ang gusto ko" Dani spoke with an accent so adorable, so tender, it cracked a laugh out of you before you could stop yourself.

“I swear Sophia said it meant-” She fumbled, cheeks flushing, eyes darting away.

“Yes love, it meant ‘You’re all I want,’” you said, a soft giggle spilling out despite the ache still coiled in your chest. 

“You’re so cute" You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her skin was warm under your lips, and she let out a shaky exhale like she’d been holding her breath for months.

“I mean it” she murmured, her voice catching but not breaking. 

“I love you. It’s you I love" Her lips hovered over yours now, trembling, the words quivering in the space between you like an open wound and a prayer.

“I love you as well,” you muttered back, your hands finding her waist, hesitant at first, then firm, like you were anchoring yourself to her.

And then you closed the gap.

It wasn’t fireworks at first; it was a tremor. A shudder. A sigh you didn’t know you’d been holding. And then, as her mouth moved against yours: slow, reverent, desperate, the world shifted. Warmth bled into you until you felt dizzy with it. Colors burst behind your eyes. The ache in your chest eased, replaced by something molten and vast.

You didn’t just feel butterflies. You felt wings. You felt galaxies. When you broke for air, foreheads still pressed, her nose brushing against yours, you felt as though everything clicked into place.

“Minamahal kita,” she whispered against your lips, her accent softer this time, like the words belonged to her now.

“Te quiero más” you whispered back, the syllables trembling out of you like a secret you’d always kept.

And for a moment, just one, stolen, infinite moment, the world outside the room ceased to exist. There were no eyekons, no sailors, no fame, no cameras, no management, no PR nightmare. Only her hands on your waist, only your trembling breaths mingling, only the quiet, aching truth you’d both been too afraid to name until now.

She was your undoing and your salvation in the same breath. The spark that unraveled you and the fire that nursed you back together. You had written her into lyrics a thousand times in shadows and melodies, and here she was: flesh, blood, trembling lips, writing, etching herself into your very soul in return.

What is an artist without her muse? A song without rhythm, a canvas without light.

And what is a muse without her artist? A flame with nowhere to burn.

“...Was the confetti Megan’s idea?” 

“Yep.” 

“Figured… The strap?”

“...Lara.”

“That checks out.”

fin

a bonus compilation of you and dani being the “private but not secret” couple

I.

The next few weeks with your now girlfriend… god, you still couldn’t believe you got to call her that, felt strangely the same and completely different all at once. Nothing had really changed, not outwardly. 

But every stolen glance, every casual brush of her hand against yours carried a weight now, a secret language you both were still learning to speak.

Loving Daniela Avanzini was slow but all-consuming. Being with Dani meant being her safe place. She was still figuring things out, still skirting around labels when cameras were rolling or when questions turned sharp, but none of that stopped her from being clingy. If anything, it only made her more so. She was in your room nearly every other night, curled against you on the couch with some excuse about “needing warmth and background noise to sleep,” or shamelessly hogging your bed like she had always belonged there.

It led to funny moments, too, like the time Lara was sneaking down the hall at midnight with snacks in hand, only to nearly collide with Megan, who was smuggling Dani out of your room with her hoodie pulled over her head. The three of them froze like deer in headlights before bursting into stifled laughter. 

Officially, you weren’t public yet. Management made sure of that, warning both groups about the media storm that would inevitably follow. But fans weren’t oblivious. Not when you and Dani seemed to orbit each other no matter how big the room was. Not when there were clips of you automatically carrying her bag, or her casually fixing your hair before stages, unaware of the cameras capturing every second. 

SIREN5 and KATSEYE didn’t help much either. Between Amara’s offhand comments about “our girlfriends” and Sophia’s mischievous smirk whenever anyone asked who was dating who, the lines blurred more than management would ever like.

The worst offender, though, was the so-called “forgotten footage” incident: a livestream you and Cami swore was harmless until it wasn’t.

You’d been rambling happily about your most recent LEGO build, the Cullen family home you built for Manon, when Cami squinted at the screen and groaned.

“‘Does the carpet match the drapes?’” she read aloud, gagging so dramatically she almost fell off her chair. 

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t checked in a while. I’m sure your mom has a picture of it somewhere.” You rolled your eyes, shooting the camera a dry look. 

Chat went feral. Cami wheezed, choking on her laughter, then leaned in to your ear just enough to mutter

“Pretty sure Dani does.”

Your palm connected with her arm so fast she yelped. You were still smiling for the stream, but your wide-eyed glare at her could’ve cut through steel.

Both your phones buzzed at the same time. 

Hana: Stop. The. Live. Now.

The footage was gone within minutes, but not before clips had already circulated, cementing the incident into fandom lore.

The real tipping point, though, was the newly released vlog: “a day of beautiful chaos.”

It was supposed to be simple: just you, Manon, and Daniela heading to the gym as part of the tour promotion series. But fans didn’t miss the way Dani lingered a beat too long while handing you your water bottle, or how you instinctively wiped sweat off her temple with your towel like it was second nature. When she cracked a joke and you doubled over laughing, Manon side-eyed the camera, shaking her head as if she knew something the audience didn’t.

And then when Dani volunteered to be your spotter while you were doing hip thrusts, the camera caught her sweeping stare and slightly parted jaw. 

“Oh my god, she’s not even counting, she’s just watching her” Manon laughed in the background, the audio wasn’t edited out, which only made it worse.

The rest of the vlog didn’t help either. During squats, Dani’s staring was so obvious that Manon had to nudge her with an elbow. Dani jumped, blinking like she’d been caught, and quickly turned away only for the camera to pan and catch her sneaking another glance a second later. The comments section went wild with freeze-frames and timestamps.

Even during breaks, Dani gave herself away. When you bent to retie your shoelaces, she crouched down beside you like it was the most natural thing, handing you a hair tie you didn’t even ask for. Manon’s muffled laugh carried over the clip, followed by her muttering:

“Subtle, Dani. Real subtle.”

Later in the vlog, when you and Dani shared a set of weights, she muttered “Careful” so softly it almost didn’t register on audio, but your answering smile was enough to send comment sections into overdrive. And when Manon playfully shoved both of you toward the treadmill, the way Dani’s hand automatically found your lower back as you stumbled sealed the deal.

And then came the moment that the sailors clipped eternally. It was you taking off your pump cover in front of the mirror. Manon and Daniela both screamed in harmony, seemingly fangirling over you while your face heated up in embarrassment.

By the time the vlog ended with Manon dramatically flexing for the camera while you and Dani whispered something off to the side, viewers didn’t need confirmation. They already knew.

It wasn’t a confession. Not yet. But the vlog lived up to its title: beautiful, chaotic, and threaded with all the little secrets that made fans watch it on repeat, frame by frame, desperate to confirm what they already suspected.

II.

Oh yeah, the fans definitely knew now. You still hadn’t confirmed it, your management were holding onto that “no comment” line for dear life but with all the edits and compilations being made? You basically knew that they knew. 

Daniela? She was thriving in it. Teasing, baiting, and practically fanning the flames every chance she got.

How could it be any less obvious? You were both spotted wearing each other’s clothes on multiple occasions. The most damning one: you walking into an official fan meet wearing the exact leather jacket Dani wore during KATSEYE’s “debut” at Lollapalooza, her name written in bold jewels across the back. Photos of you in it trended for three days straight, the hashtag #PropertyOfDani filling every platform.

Then came your own slip-ups. You had developed a habit of bolting straight to any fan holding a Daniela photocard (“instinct,” your members teased, though you never denied it.) But the real kicker was that one chaotic fan meet.

“SYRE! Can you give this to Dani for me???” a fan yelled, waving a bag over the crowd.

The sound of your girlfriend’s name made your neck snap instantly, your hand already reaching out before you even processed what you were doing.

“Thank you! I’ll make sure bubby gets this.”

The words left you so naturally, fatigue slurring your tone, that it took a second too long for your brain to catch up with your mouth. Your eyes widened, your jaw slackening just slightly as the crowd erupted. Bubby. The pet name you only ever used when your guard was down.

You prayed, begged, that no one had caught it on video. Naturally, it was clipped from three different angles, subtitled, slowed down, and uploaded within the hour. By the two-hour mark, “Bubby” was trending in ten countries.

The fallout led to a frantic emergency call with your PR team. You were forced to sit stiff in front of your laptop camera, nodding solemnly while rehearsing damage control statements while Dani lounged unbothered in your bed just out of frame, laughing so hard she nearly choked on popcorn. You threw her at least five sharp glares, which only made her laugh louder.

Not that she was any better. During one KATSEYE fan meet, her phone lit up mid-signing, the screen angled just enough for fans to catch a glimpse of her lockscreen: a photo of you pressing a kiss to her cheek, her own smile so bright it softened every edge of her. It was innocent, technically, but innocence didn’t stop the fandom from exploding.

After that, she stopped hiding altogether. The necklace you had given her? She wore it almost every day. Your photocard? She stuck it into the back of her phone case like it was nothing. And the polaroid you two had taken in a cramped photo booth one late night? That became her go-to bookmark, conveniently visible every time she carried her books to practice.

Her most iconic moment, though, was during KATSEYE’s tour performance of Gabriela. Mid-song, her eyes caught a fan’s sign in the barricade:

“Can you give your girlfriend to me? I knew her first.”

She broke into a grin, eyes narrowing mischievously. Still singing, she pointed at the sign, then at you, seated proudly with your members just a few feet away. The cameras caught the exact moment you burst into laughter, your head dropping into your hands as the crowd roared.

Dani didn’t miss a beat. She stepped closer to the edge of the stage, locked eyes with the fan, then with you, and sang her verse like it was a direct answer:

“Ella llegó conmigo y conmigo se va sus ojos son míos eso no va a cambiar me quiere a mí no importa la demás no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

With each “no,” she wagged her finger at the fan, her smile widening, her gaze flicking back to you. And when you doubled over laughing, Hana and Cami smacking your arm, the whole section of fans screaming, well… that was the night the ship stopped being a ship.

To fans, it wasn’t “are they dating?” anymore. 

It was simply: they are.

The moment was sealed during a concert, mid-chaos, when the stage turned into a playground. You and the rest of SIREN5 were roaming free, singing and goofing off with fans. Out of nowhere, Cami yanked you toward her side of the stage, jabbing a finger at a sign in the pit.

“Camyre hug please!!” it read, glittery letters shining under the lights.

You laughed, already bracing yourself when Cami launched at you like a koala. You caught her easily; one arm wrapped around her thighs, the other clutching your mic as you kept singing like nothing happened. The crowd lost it.

A few songs later, as you went for the climactic high note, disaster struck. You cracked halfway through, doubling over with a cough. Your members froze, concerned, until you looked up, face tomato-red, and confessed into your mic:

“I’m sorry, someone just flashed their tits at me. Holy shit.”

The arena exploded. Your mortification was projected onto the giant screens for everyone to see. And then the cameras cut, of course, to the VIP section, where KATSEYE sat. 

Dani’s expression was priceless: a half-playful pout masking something sharper. She frowned, glared, then smirked at the camera like she knew exactly what it was doing. Fans roared with laughter, but you felt the warning loud and clear.

Two strikes. And she never lets you off easy.

When the show ended, the final blow landed. Fans caught sight of you outside, carrying Dani koala-style to her red mustang, just like you’d carried Cami earlier while Manon trailed behind, laughing so hard she nearly dropped her phone as she filmed Dani’s exaggerated pout.

That night, no one asked questions anymore. The story had written itself.

III

Fans had started editing you into the infamous Boss Baby TikTok sound that said:“Every night at dinner… I’ll be there…” and honestly, it wasn’t unearned. Wherever Daniela went, you always seemed to appear, like a shadow that was a little too devoted, a little too obvious.

She went live? You’d mysteriously materialize in the background before vanishing like it was an accident, though everyone could see the corner of your smirk before you ducked out of frame. Every photo Dani posted? Somehow, your very recognizable scissor-tattooed hand was there, caught in the corner like a signature watermark, no matter how much she tried to crop it.

But the two biggest fan-favorite moments? Those were impossible to deny.

First was the Gap ad. KATSEYE had been dancing in coordinated denim, and then the camera cut wide, only for you to be there, casually part of the choreography, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the internet lost its mind when the ad panned across you holding Dani’s leg steady as she nailed a standing split in her customized denim jeans. The way your hand slid a little too far down before the frame cut off was immediately slowed, zoomed, replayed, and dissected with captions like “we see you, SYRE” and “suspicious hand placement.”

Then came the TikTok. The official KATSEYE account posted an extended cut of your partner dance in Gabriela, and it was… lethal. Dani in her white tank top, joggers, and those ridiculous UGGs they all have. You beside her, in an oversized graphic tee that read: “lesbians eat what?” plastered with open-mouthed cats, paired with black joggers and white sneakers. The contrast should’ve been funny, but the moment you moved in sync, it was electric.

The chemistry bled through the screen, your sharp movements softening whenever she brushed against you, her grin slipping every time you spun her a little too close. Fans didn’t just watch, they devoured it. Comments flooded in by the thousands:

“both. at the same damn time.” “I love when hot people date hot people.” “the sexual tension is CRAZY, pls let them be.” “SYRE’s shirt choice… she knew what she was doing.”

The video looped endlessly on timelines, edits stacked on edits, captions screaming about how obvious you both were.

And then came the live that broke the internet.

It started harmlessly enough: Manon and Daniela crammed together in front of the phone, half-eating, half-bickering, while Eyekons filled the chat with emojis and rapid-fire questions. Dani was scrolling, laughing at the comments, when she suddenly grabbed her phone off-screen and started typing. A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

You stepped in, hands full with the snacks she’d “casually” requested, balancing them like a waiter trying not to drop anything. You made a quick wave to the camera, mumbling, “Hi, Eyekons,” before attempting a swift exit. Fans noticed the way your eyes darted at Dani like you were silently pleading, Don’t make this a thing.

Of course, she made it a thing.

Not even ten minutes later, you were tugged back into frame, and Manon immediately collapsed into maniacal laughter, clutching her stomach as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The chat went ballistic, rows of “???????” and “WHAT IS SYRE WEARING” flooding the screen faster than the comments could load.

Because this time, you weren’t in your usual oversized tees, baggy pants, or hoodies. No. 

Daniela had managed to stuff you into one of her own backless dresses: silky, black, and scandalously low in the dip. The camera caught just enough to show the sweep of your shoulders, the curve of your chest, and when you leaned forward to shush Manon, the tattoo no one had ever seen before: a small, delicate lipstick mark etched in ink across your collarbone. A lipstick mark in Dani’s exact shade.

The chat detonated.

“IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS” “LIPSTICK TATTOO??? COLLARBONE???” “SYRE IN A BACKLESS DRESS I AM ASCENDING” “DANIELA THIS IS YOUR FAULT”

Meanwhile, you were a mess of flushed cheeks and nervous laughter, fumbling to cover your chest with your hands while shooting Dani a glare that screamed, You’re dead later. Dani only leaned back in her chair, smirking at the chaos, pretending to “innocently” sip her drink while her eyes sparkled with victory.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you hissed, tugging at the fabric of the dress like it might magically grow two more inches.

“Way too much,” Manon agreed, her laughter bubbling over as she switched to a mocking British accent. 

“You look very pretty, innit?” She nearly choked on her noodles mid-cackle.

You lasted another thirty seconds in frame before storming off, muttering under your breath, “I hate you” which only made Dani laugh harder.

Later, in the privacy of your shared space, you didn’t get a verbal apology, at least not right away. What you did get were endless kisses pressed to your collarbone, soft hands tracing the tattoo that had outed you, and a whispered: 

“You looked beautiful, bubs. Let them talk.”

And for once, you couldn’t stay mad.

The city breathed with its usual Sunday rhythm — the hum of escalators, the chatter of strangers, the faint smell of roasted coffee beans carried through the mall’s endless corridors. It was a rhythm Y/N knew, even in a place unfamiliar to her, here in Tokyo.

Y/N walked without a real destination, letting the crowd pull her along. Something about today felt charged, like there was a reason she had ended up here, in a mall she didn’t even know well. A tug in her chest whispered that she was supposed to find something. Or someone.

It was a foolish, hopeful feeling — the kind of wish she made when she tossed a coin into a fountain. She knew it was a long shot. The city was too vast, and the mall itself was a labyrinth of a thousand different paths, yet she followed the feeling anyway.

She passed a café, the glow of its warm lights spilling across the tiled floor. A barista scribbled names on paper cups, and laughter spilled from a group tucked into the corner. Y/N slowed, glancing inside, then kept walking. Just minutes later, the door opened again, and Sophia stepped in. The warm, rich scent of a matcha latte hung in the air as she approached the counter, a feeling of bright energy sparking in her chest for no reason she could name. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she scanned the menu, never knowing that the person who had just left had almost turned back. Y/N, standing just beyond the threshold, had almost done it, almost turned around to get a drink she didn't even want, a fleeting thought to prolong her stay.

Elsewhere, Y/N slipped into a small boutique, brushing past racks of clothes that smelled faintly of fabric softener. She didn’t stay long, only a few minutes — the kind of stop you make when you’re too polite to leave right away. She exited out the opposite door, footsteps fading down the hall. Moments later, Sophia lingered outside the store’s front entrance, drawn by the display in the window. She stood there, unaware that if she’d arrived just a heartbeat earlier, Y/N might’ve walked past her. Y/N's fingers had just brushed a silk scarf on a rack that she would later look at, a near-touch in a space they both shared, yet remained strangers.

The hours blurred like this: little coincidences, invisible threads stretched thin.

At one point, Y/N’s laughter echoed with a friend’s joke, bouncing off the glass walls of an atrium. Sophia walked past on the floor above, the sound floating up toward her. She paused, lips quirking at the brightness of it, though she didn’t know why. Later, her own laughter rang out in another corner of the mall, a melody Y/N almost heard as she wandered by on the other side.

Their reflections even brushed against each other once. A tall glass storefront caught Sophia’s figure in its gleam just as Y/N walked past outside. Two shapes — side by side, almost aligned — but never aware. Like shadows of each other, flickering in and out of reach. For a single, fleeting second, their outlines were a perfect match, a silent acknowledgment in the glass that was gone as soon as it appeared.

By late afternoon, Y/N’s legs ached. The hopeful anticipation she’d been carrying all day dimmed into fatigue. Maybe she had been searching for nothing. With a sigh, she decided to call it a day, heading towards the nearest escalator. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through messages, her mind already on other things, the hum of the escalator a low drone beneath her tired thoughts. She stepped onto the moving stairs, descending, absorbed in her screen.

Just as she reached the bottom, stepping off and turning towards the exit, Sophia was stepping onto the escalator Y/N had just left, ascending. She was looking up, her attention drawn to the vibrant lanterns on the floor above.

Their paths, for a fleeting moment, were perfectly aligned, moving in opposite directions on the same gleaming metal stairs. Y/N was too busy. Sophia was looking elsewhere. They were just thirty minutes, one escalator ride, and a moment of distraction apart.

Y/N stepped out into the fading light of Tokyo. The day's rhythm shifted to the rush of traffic and the murmur of the evening crowd, and she carried with her a quiet, unplaceable ache. Hours later, Sophia did the same. She stepped into the cool evening air, a feeling of bright energy lingering from her day, unaware that it had been sparked by someone she'd never met.

Two souls moving through the same space, caught in the same orbit, yet never colliding. Parallel lines drawn by an unseen hand — so close, impossibly close, but never meeting. Not today. But the ache of it, the haunting memory of that near-miss, would stay with Y/N long after the day was over.

But perhaps one day, when the universe grows tired of keeping them apart, it will fold the lines until they finally cross.

Her curls weren’t glossy curtains that shined in the light. They weren’t the kind of hair that boys complimented or girls envied. "They were too much."

So she learned to silence them with a flat iron and bleach. Blonde, pin-straight, ordinary.

And it worked— at least, she thought it did.

Until the morning it didn’t.

The alarm hadn’t gone off, her homework wasn’t finished, and there was no time for the ritual.

No time to wrestle steam and iron, no time to tuck away what she had always hidden. When she caught her reflection before leaving, she almost cried.

Her curls were out. Every coil, every bounce, every stubborn strand daring her to step outside.

By the time she made it to school, Daniela’s heart felt like it was beating in her throat.

She tried to shrink into herself, avoid mirrors, keep her head down. She told herself maybe no one would notice. Maybe—

But then there was you.

You, who had known her since freshman year.

You, who sometimes borrowed her pens and walked with her halfway home.

You, who made her laugh when she didn’t mean to.

You, who was looking at her now, in the middle of class, like she had suddenly turned into something worth staring at.

It made Daniela squirm in her seat. It made her want to hide. It made her want to be seen.

By dismissal, her nerves were raw.

She stuffed her notebooks into her bag quickly, desperate to escape before someone said something cruel.

But when she stepped outside, there you were again, falling into step beside her like you always did.

The silence stretched.

Sneakers scuffed against the sidewalk.

Daniela gripped her strap so tightly her fingers ached.

And then you said it.

“I love your curls.”

The words were so simple, so casual, that Daniela almost thought she had imagined them.

Her feet faltered, her breath catching in her chest. She glanced at you, expecting a smirk, a laugh, something to tell her you were joking.

But you weren’t.

You were just smiling at her, warm and unbothered, like the sun itself had decided to speak.

“You’re lying,” she blurted, too quickly.

“I’m not.” You shrugged, as if the truth was the easiest thing in the world.

“They’re… you. I mean, they bounce when you walk. They look soft. And—” You hesitated, then grinned.

“Honestly? You look kind of magical.”

Daniela’s face burned.

Magical?

No one had ever said that to her.

She looked away, curls brushing her cheek. “Everyone likes it better straight.”

“Not me.”

Her stomach flipped. She bit her lip, unsure what to do with the warmth blooming inside her chest.

“You’re ridiculous,” Daniela muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a twitch of a smile.

You caught it instantly, your grin widening. “See? Even your curls are smiling with me.”

Daniela laughed despite herself, a soft, breathless sound that startled her.

The tension in her shoulders eased, and for the first time all day, she let go of her bag strap.

As you walked, a breeze swept through, tugging a strand of hair into her face. She reached to push it back, but your hand moved first— gentle, careful, brushing the curl away.

Your fingers lingered for just a moment, and Daniela thought her heart might burst right out of her chest.

“You should wear them like this more often,” you said softly, almost shy now.

Daniela swallowed, her throat tight, her eyes fixed on the ground. But her lips curved into something real this time. Something small and sweet and terrifying.

“Maybe,” she whispered.

“Only if you’re around to say that again.”