. . . e q u i l i b r i u m | 21
maybe this time love means letting go /// miguel, always time
pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader
summary: it takes a long time to fully explore the thin line between love and hate. but seven minutes is a good start.
genre: academic rival!yeonjun / college au / enemies to lovers au / fake dating au
warnings: angst
words: 11.5k
masterlist / read from the beginning
✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 10 AM (DAY 13)
The sky hung low and colourless that Monday morning, like a lid clamped down over the city. A thin drizzle stitched against your bedroom window, leaving silver seams that caught the weak light of your desk lamp.
After a largely sleepless night on Yeonjun’s sofa and a questionable drive home, you’d promised yourself an hour’s nap. Your elective today had been cancelled after the professor got sick, so you figured you could spare sixty minutes with your eyes shut before your only remaining seminar of the day. Your bed waited, sheets rumpled and pleasantly warm.
Reina did not agree with this plan.
Every time she crossed the corridor while getting ready, she deliberately paused in your doorway.
When your face surfaced from the folds of your duvet, she bared her teeth. “Well?”
You burrowed deeper into the covers.
She breezed into your room.
“I know you’re awake,” she sang. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”
Groaning, you dragged yourself upright. Reina took that as consent and clambered onto the mattress, her knees digging into your thigh.
Ever since she’d returned from her hometown the previous night and discovered your empty bed, she’d been incandescent with curiosity. And when Soobin came back shortly after, announcing—with a faint flush in his cheeks—that you and Yeonjun were at his house, her curiosity turned into proper sport. Now she was in the first row and demanded fireworks by intermission.
You refused to give her a show.
Pointedly ignoring her excitement, you recapped the weekend in clipped bullet points: a meal with Yeonjun’s parents, then the funeral for his Nissan. Not much else.
Reina declared that you were recounting it like items on a receipt and shook her head, unimpressed.
Instead of interrogating you further, however, she filled in every gap herself, tweaking her theories based on how heavily you sighed. Much to her growing satisfaction, you sighed very heavily.
When you escaped to the bathroom, she was hot on your heels.
“Think it’s clear,” she declared while you reached for your toothbrush, “you are obsessed with each other.”
“It’s just one weekend,” you replied, toothpaste frothing at your lips.
“Technically, it’s your second one,” she said, hopping up onto the counter. Her slippers knocked softly against the door. “And I bet next weekend, you’ll already have a shared list of groceries. Milk, eggs, toilet pap—”
“Rei.”
She grinned. “You’re glowing, have I mentioned?”
You switched the toothbrush to the other side. “S’the lighting.”
She leaned forward and covered the bulb above the mirror with her hand, throwing half your face into shadow.
“Mm.” Her eyes sparkled. “Still glowing.”
You laughed despite yourself, bent to spit, then straightened. Reina bumped her shoulder into yours. You retaliated by nudging her hip, enough to make her wobble on the counter.
She yelped, laughing as she caught your sleeve to steady herself.
“For the record,” she said, bracing a hand behind her so you wouldn’t both topple into the shower cabin, “I support this development between you. Just one thing, if I may?”
You sighed. “You may.”
“I believe I did very much tell you so.”
You clicked your tongue, and, for a few bright minutes, the flat floated with her laughter.
Soon, infected with her energy, you started to feel giddy, too—childishly so. Like a little kid trying not to laugh in the middle of a very serious lesson. You didn’t mind when you caught your reflection and noticed the smudged mascara on the corners of your eyes.
Then Reina reached for her phone to check the time and gasped.
You looked up from the sink. “What?”
She turned her screen towards you. There were five messages from Soobin stacked on top of each other, warning her of his upcoming demise from the cold outside.
“He’s been waiting for ten minutes,” she said, jumping off the counter. “Says he’s writing his will.”
You snorted. “He couldn’t come up?”
“We sort of agreed to meet downstairs,” she admitted, crossing the bathroom. “But then I got distracted by you and your boyfriend, so…”
She trailed off, casting one last meaningful look at you.
You shook your head, lips twitching. “Go. Don’t make him suffer.”
She gave you a hurried hug, then headed down the corridor to grab her bag and find her shoes. A minute later, the front door slammed shut.
Silence unfurled around you, interrupted only by the gentle rush of water as you washed your hands under the tap.
You glanced at your own phone.
YEONJUN [11:29 AM] can we meet before class? i need to talk to you
The smile on your lips waned.
You’d noted the message when it came, but Reina had been mid-cross-examination, so you didn’t dare to pick your phone up.
Now you hovered over the keyboard, tempted to say something flippant (are we bringing knives to this talk, or why are you so ominous). You swallowed it back.
YOU [12:07 PM] sure, omw now
This weekend had shifted something fundamental between you and Yeonjun. And with the bet ending tomorrow, it was relatively obvious what he’d want to talk about.
The inevitable now what.
The awkward so what are we.
That would have made sense.
But, alone under the bathroom lights, you saw the unease in your reflection: shoulders pulled in, a subtle tremour along your jaw. There was a taste of mint and something metallic in your mouth.
You were thinking about the drive home this morning.
Yeonjun had insisted on coming with you. He’d buckled himself into the passenger seat of Reina’s Honda, commented that it smelled very strongly of citrus, and hadn’t said anything else.
You didn’t have to come all this way, you had teased, pulling out into early morning traffic. I had the car.
He had looked at the windscreen and shrugged.
How’s your wrist? you’d asked.
Fine.
You sure?
Yeah.
You’d waited, hoping he’d hear his short, terse responses and offer just a sliver more. He hadn’t.
You alright? you’d tried again.
He’d glanced down at his brace and tightened it until his hand paled. Just tired, I guess.
Something brittle had threaded his voice. You felt it and pulled back, pride sealing your mouth before you could embarrass yourself by asking again.
Later, after parking down the street, you’d stood with him for ten minutes outside your building while he waited for his taxi. He’d had his hands in his pockets. In all that time, he hadn’t looked at you once.
Now the memory clung to you, unpleasant and persistent, as you locked the flat and stepped into the stairwell.
Maybe, you thought, it meant nothing. He might’ve really been tired.
Outside, the drizzle thickened into a steady downpour. It dampened your coat and seeped through the seams. Your umbrella snapped open with a resentful crack, warning you it was nearing retirement. The street was empty of colour, even the car headlights were blurred into pale smudges.
The closer you drew to campus, the thicker the scent of coffee became. The Social Sciences building loomed on the edge, its red bricks darkened by rain so much that they looked charred.
Yeonjun was standing at the edge of the parking lot.
You saw him before he saw you.
He stood too straight, spine locked, shoulders squared as though he expected something to hit him and had decided, stubbornly, not to budge when it did. Rain gathered along the seams of his black leather jacket, turning it glossy. He held three bouquets of freesias, their pale purple blossoms absurdly bright.
“Hi,” you said, stepping off the kerb.
He turned.
Up close, he looked worse than he had this morning.
Shadows pooled under his eyes. The bruises from the crash stood out, livid against his pale skin, deepening his cheekbones to a painful violet. Rain had plastered his hair into damp strands across his forehead.
“Hi,” he replied.
“You okay?” You angled the umbrella to cover him. “Sleep at all?”
He drew in a shuddering breath. “Uh, a bit.”
“But not much?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “Not really.”
You readjusted the strap of your backpack, and your grip on the umbrella faltered. It tipped, and the corner tapped him on the head. He didn’t flinch.
“Sorry,” you muttered, righting it.
“S’fine.”
His eyes hovered somewhere near your collarbone. You weren’t wearing a scarf.
He dropped his stare to the wet pavement and inhaled.
He’d spent most of the morning getting you flowers and staring at them on his kitchen island with a bottle of wine from the fridge. It didn’t count as day drinking, he’d decided, if he’d never gone to bed. His mouth still tasted sour, his limbs oddly distant. More than anything, he wanted to cease for a minute. Just not be.
“This, um—” His voice faltered. He held out the freesias. “For you.”
Sighing, you wedged the umbrella between your cheek and shoulder and accepted the bouquets. The stems were cool, damp, and slightly sticky against your palm.
“Why three?” you asked.
Technically, he owed you two: one for yesterday, one for today.
“It’s in advance.” His hand lifted to the back of his head, fingers pressing into his hair. “And it’s an apology.”
You were breathing in the soft fragrance when the word registered.
“Hm?” You looked up. “For what?”
His throat moved as he swallowed.
“It’s over,” he said. The rain hushed his words, but didn’t soften them. “The bet. You’ve won.”
You stared at him.
“I’ll leave the workshop,” he went on, his tone eerily even as though he was reciting a paragraph from a book. “We won’t talk again. It—that’s it. You’ve won.”
The parking lot seemed to shrink. White lines pressed at the edges of your vision.
Your fingers tightened around the bouquets. One freesia bent under the strain, and the stem snapped.
“What,” you said slowly, “do you mean?”
Yeonjun ran his tongue over his lips. They were as dry as the inside of his mouth.
“I said I’d prove you wrong about me,” he said. “And I’ve failed.”
Heat rushed up your neck.
You briefly questioned whether you’d imagined everything that had happened yesterday: from the A&E to his bathroom, his bedroom, his sofa.
“Mhmm.” The freesias rustled as you gathered them into one hand, gripping the umbrella with the other. Your ears burned. “So you think I don’t want you, then?”
A car rolled into the parking lot behind you, tyres hissing on wet asphalt. Instinctively, Yeonjun reached for you, hands lifted to guide you out of its path.
He stopped himself.
You saw the aborted movement. Saw the way his fingers curled inward instead.
The restraint hit like a punch to the gut.
“Wanting,” he said at last, drawing in a breath that scraped his lungs raw, “is not what love is.”
Recognition narrowed your gaze and tightened your throat.
You’d said this to him once, outside your flat, during your long, circular discussion about the purpose of the bet. About what love meant.
You’d waited for him to end the bet then.
But not like this.
Another car cut through the lot, spraying a fan of dirty water that stopped just short of your trainers.
Yeonjun flinched. “Could you move away from the—”
“I don’t get it,” you cut in, your pulse throbbing in your gums with every word. “What do you want me to say, then? Want me to tell you I’m in love with you?”
His chest seized. “I d—”
“I thought—you made it seem like this wasn’t a bet anymore.”
A frigid breeze swept across the parking lot, needling through your coat and whipping rain against your calves. The umbrella shuddered, dripping water from the rim. The paper around the flowers had gone limp and translucent.
Yeonjun was wondering if this was the last rain he’d ever get into with you.
“I know,” he said. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides.
“So it was just that, then?” you asked. Your voice had gone strangely calm. “A point to prove?”
He shook his head once, quick. “I—look, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything.” His gaze tracked the ripples spreading through a puddle at his boots. “Mostly for this.”
“What is this, Jun?” Your voice cracked on his name; it almost sounded pleading. You hated that it did.
“It—” He inhaled and forced himself to look up, but only managed half a glance at you before flinching away. “It’s over.”
The words propelled him.
Before he could reconsider, before you could say something that would pin him in place, he ducked out from under your umbrella and stepped past you.
The rain lashed down on him immediately, darkening his jacket, soaking his hair. For a heartbeat, you braced yourself, expecting him to brush against your arm. To hesitate. To stop.
He didn’t.
His boots skidded on the slick asphalt as he headed for his Mercedes. His movements were hurried, graceless, almost desperate. He was fleeing.
“You’re actually serious?” you called after him.
The rain drowned the question. He didn’t turn.
His fingers fumbled with the door handle. The brace on his wrist forced his hand into an awkward angle, grip compromised, knuckles pale with effort. He wasn’t supposed to be driving yet.
He slipped inside anyway.
You stepped forward without fully deciding to. Puddles swallowed the hems of your jeans, icy water seeping through your socks. The umbrella sagged against your shoulder. Rain found the gap at your collar and slid down your spine.
“So that’s it?” you demanded as his engine roared to life, too loud in the quiet parking lot. “We’re just not going to talk anymore?”
He didn’t answer.
For a wild second, you considered chucking the freesias under his tyres. Letting the petals burst purple beneath the wheels. Forcing him to get out and talk to you.
Inside the car, Yeonjun sat rigid, fingers locked around the steering wheel. The engine vibrated through him, a mechanical pulse that matched the frantic rhythm in his chest.
He could’ve driven off; you weren’t blocking him. There was space.
He didn’t move.
Through the rain-streaked windscreen, he felt the weight of your gaze, felt it land like a hand between his shoulder blades. Like your touch after he’d wrapped his Nissan around the oak.
Fuck.
You didn’t move, either.
Yeonjun knew you wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t chase him down the street, wouldn’t call him a coward, wouldn’t demand explanations. Partly out of pride, yes, but more than that, self-respect. You shouldn’t have had to ask for what he should’ve given freely.
He didn’t deserve you asking anyway.
And he had nothing to give.
Finally, almost involuntarily, he shifted into reverse. The car jolted slightly, then smoothed out. The indicator blinked, absurdly cheerful.
You watched the car retreat, tyres slicing through puddles. It turned the corner and disappeared.
Your coat clung heavily to your shoulders, water dripping from your sleeves. The freesias shook in your hands.
You inhaled. The air hurt.
Then you turned and went to class.
✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 1 PM
Professor Myers’ auditorium was very warm. One window at the back had been cracked open, allowing in a reluctant draught that did nothing but rearrange the dust. The room smelled faintly of rain and old carpet.
Ten of your classmates sat around the seminar table, discussing news cycles. Someone clicked their pen with an arrhythmic insistence.
Click.
Pause.
Click-click.
Pause.
Click.
Your nerves latched onto the sound immediately. Your pulse matched with it, thudding in your temples, your wrists, the soft hollow at the base of your throat.
You hadn’t done the reading last night.
You’d been busy.
The thought promptly reignited your irritation with Yeonjun. You pressed your lips together and tried to focus on the PDF on your laptop screen in front of you.
The institution-based media of mass communication is no longer—
You scrolled.
The virality of the content in the observed period—
You scrolled.
Nothing assembled into coherence.
The pen clicked again. You had to resist the urge to lean across the table and snap it in two.
The discussion around you fell into a hush. Professor Myers’ gaze drifted over the table. She paused on you.
Your stomach dropped.
You’d always been prepared. Always had a sentence ready, something brief but sufficient. Now your mind was empty.
The professor watched you for a second. Then she moved on.
Relief came, but it wasn’t satisfying. Your pulse did not slow.
You shifted in your seat. The freesias rustled on the floor beside your chair, their wrapping wrinkled and damp. A few petals had already fallen onto the scuffed linoleum. Reina, seated to your left, glanced down at them. The small smile she wore felt like a relic from a different life.
When the seminar finally ended, the pen-clicker left first, abandoning the offending object on the table. You shot it a withering look as you pushed back your chair and slipped your laptop into your backpack.
Professor Myers called your name.
You looked up, startled.
She stood at the front, papers gathered in her hands. “A moment, please?”
Your stomach lurched with an unsettling sense of déjà vu.
You nodded.
At the doorway, Reina lingered just long enough to catch your eye. She mouthed I’ll see you later?, her brows raised in silent question. You managed a small nod. Nodding back, she disappeared into the corridor.
The auditorium felt larger now that it was empty, but no less stifling. Someone had dropped a tissue; it lay crumpled at the leg of the table.
You slung your backpack over your shoulder and collected the freesias. The stems had softened, bending slightly under their own weight.
You checked your phone on the way to the professor’s desk.
No new messages or missed calls.
Alright, then.
“So,” Professor Myers said, and paused for a long moment.
She sat behind her mahogany desk, arranging and rearranging a stack of papers that did not appear to require it. Her email was open on her desktop.
“There’ll be some changes to the workshop,” she said at last. “Yeonjun stopped by before the seminar.”
She made no comment about his absence at said seminar. You swallowed every tart reply that rose to your tongue.
“Yes,” you said. “He mentioned something.”
The professor hummed. “Do you think you’ll be alright continuing on your own?”
For a moment, you were acutely aware of your posture, the damp denim at your ankles, the awkward grip you had on the flowers.
You didn’t know if you would be alright continuing on your own.
“Yes,” you said anyway. Your voice sounded distant, as though you were borrowing it from someone else. “Of course. I’ve just been following the study plan.”
“Right, right.” She lifted the same stack of papers, tapped them into alignment, and set them back down. “To be honest, I don’t quite understand his reasoning. He made a very compelling case to co-host. It seemed important to him.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I can’t see why he’d suddenly withdraw. He—he did look tired, I suppose.”
She was subtly asking you if something had happened to him, you surmised. Perhaps some dramatic, sudden disease that had eaten away at his brain.
You were wondering the same thing.
“Yeah,” you said. “I don’t understand it either, Professor.”
She exhaled. “Well. I told him to formalise the withdrawal with the Administration himself. Hand back his staff badge, all that fun stuff. I assume he’ll sort that today, so he likely won’t join you tomorrow.”
“Right.”
Distracted, you glanced over to the clock above the door.
It was 2:45 PM.
The administrative hours began at three.
You could still catch him, if you wanted to.
You didn’t know if you wanted to.
“I was a bit curt with him,” the professor admitted, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I could’ve handled the paperwork for him. But I admit, I felt rather blindsided.”
Blindsided was a good word.
It nearly made you laugh.
“It’s a busy time,” you said, nodding towards her stack of papers. Someone’s midterms, you guessed from the student ID numbers at the top. “I’m sure he’ll manage himself.”
The professor studied you for a moment, more closely. Inevitably, her gaze slid to the bedraggled flowers in your hands.
At last, she leaned back in her chair, fatigue setting into her shoulders. Whatever rumours she’d overheard, whatever conclusions she might’ve privately drawn, she set them aside. With spring break starting next week, she had better uses for her energy.
“Would you mind stopping by tomorrow after the workshop?” she asked. “Any time before five. I’d like to hear how it went, in case we need to make adjustments.”
You assumed she meant finding you a new co-host.
You’d had quite enough of those.
“Of course,” you said. “Although I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s a good class. Very motivated.”
That was a lie, of course.
The students weren’t motivated so much as deeply aware of their credit requirements. But Professor Myers looked too weary to interrogate your claim.
“That’s good,” she said. “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage it.”
You produced a smile that finally allowed her to dismiss you.
Fixing your backpack, you turned a little too quickly and caught the corner of her desk with the bouquets. More petals fell, bright against the dark wood. You didn’t stoop to gather them.
The corridor outside was noticeably cooler. You stopped by the window at the far end and leaned your hip against the windowsill.
You needed a moment.
The glass of the window was faintly fogged. Outside, students crossed the quad, their umbrellas tilting every which way with the wind. You slipped your hand into your coat pocket and found your phone.
Then, movement by the staircase caught your eye.
Reina and Soobin were approaching with identical expressions of cautious concern. They stopped on either side of you, unintentionally blocking every exit.
“Everything okay?” Reina asked, chin tilting toward the auditorium behind you.
You released your phone and pulled your hand out of your pocket.
“Yeah,” you said. “Just workshop stuff.”
Soobin hovered to your right, framed by the weak afternoon light.
He kept glancing at Reina as though waiting for her permission to speak. She looked at him and nodded.
“Um,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeonjun just texted me. Said he’s not going to be home the rest of the week. Have you two got plans? Because I don’t mind you staying at the house, I can just—you know.”
You lifted your head slowly.
Yeonjun wasn’t just leaving the workshop, then. He was leaving.
You couldn’t understand.
If this was about pride—what more did he want from you, your heart clearly wasn’t yours anymore—then yours had taken the bigger hit. You were the one standing in the parking lot, trying to process the end of something that had never even officially started. With three fucking bouquets of freesias.
“We haven’t got plans,” you told Soobin, “I don’t know anything about that.”
Reina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “S’he coming with you to the library?”
“No.”
Soobin edged half a step back, closer to Reina. They exchanged a look over your shoulder, brief but loaded.
“Did something happen?” he ventured. His eyes dipped to the freesias.
You exhaled and set the bouquets on the windowsill. One stem rolled lazily before settling against the damp paper. Then you hoisted yourself up beside them, palms braced against the sill. The glass pressed cool against your spine.
Yeonjun was probably at Administration by now.
“Nothing happened,” you said. “I won the bet.”
Soobin’s face lost colour in increments. Even his black turtleneck looked a shade lighter.
Reina blinked once. Twice. Then closed her eyes and frowned.
Their surprise steadied you. If they were this bewildered, then you weren’t losing your mind.
“What does that mean?” Reina asked.
You shrugged. “He said I’ve won. So he’s left the workshop. And we’re not speaking anymore.”
“Wait,” Soobin said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth all of a sudden. “So he just—and you—h-how—wh—”
Reina placed a hand on his forearm, squeezing briefly in a quiet command to stop, please.
She turned back to you. “Start at the part that makes sense, babe.”
You stared at the plant slumped in the corner of the windowsill. Its leaves were yellowing at the edges.
“Don’t know where that is,” you said. “He texted me this morning, said he needed to talk. So we talked. He said the bet was over.”
You lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Reina released a breath that sounded like it’d been trapped inside her lungs for days.
“It’s really not much of a plot twist when you look at it like that,” you added, dry. “We agreed on two weeks. Two weeks are over. Apparently, I won.”
Your gaze drifted back to the freesias beside you. Their purple blossoms had already started to bleach, as though reconsidering their earlier optimism.
For one reckless second, you imagined scooping them up and hurling them out of the window. Watching them arc against the low clouds and scatter across the quad like fucked up confetti.
The corridor was quiet.
Reina watched you without blinking, her hands clenched at her sides. She had a meeting with her thesis advisor in an hour. Now she was calculating whether she could squeeze in assault and battery beforehand. Perhaps just battery.
“Has he hit his head very hard at some point yesterday?” she asked, her tone honed to a fine point. “This is clearly not a fucking bet.”
The ferocity in her expression was familiar. Reina’s protectiveness had always bordered on criminal.
Once, years ago, during a night out in a basement club, some random bloke had asked for your number at the bar. You’d given it; he was very cute. Ten minutes later, Reina spotted him in a corner, devouring another girl with alarming enthusiasm.
She hadn’t stopped to think for one second.
She’d marched across the club, seized him by the collar—how she managed it, given he was twice her size, remained one of life’s enduring mysteries—and dragged him into the men’s room. Afterwards, she’d wedged a decorative plant against the door and left him there to reflect on his life.
He’d emerged twenty minutes later, looking very sober, and promptly left the club.
You were briefly tempted to unleash Reina on Yeonjun.
You resisted.
“Rei—”
“Hang on,” Soobin interjected, pressing a hand to his forehead as if his thoughts were threatening to spill out. “She’s right. He—I talked to Jun about this a few days ago. At Gyu and Kai’s.”
The memory of that party rolled through you like nausea. You’d lived three different lives in the space of this past week.
“That’s smashing,” you said, staring at a crack in the windowsill. “I talked to him today.”
“Okay, that—” Soobin frowned. “But it’s not just a bet. I asked him. I—”
“Well, then he lied to you too, Bin,” you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
A group of students passed behind Reina, their chatter loud and careless. It washed through the corridor.
The quiet after they disappeared into the stairwell felt hostile. The light behind the window dulled another shade.
Reina shook her head slowly. “I don’t think he lied.”
“Yeah,” Soobin said. “I don’t believe that, either.”
Their certainty pressed against your ribs, gentle and a lot like hope. You tried not to let it in.
“Something must have happened,” Soobin insisted, his gaze drifting past you to the rainy quad.
Reina stood next to him, deep in thought. She was rifling through every story you’d told her about Yeonjun, turning each detail over, pulling out screws, checking for loose wiring.
Either Yeonjun was in mortal danger, she reasoned, or she was going to put him in one.
“Could be his parents,” she said.
Soobin opened his mouth beside her, then turned to you, wide-eyed. “His parents.”
Your heart kicked and then slowed, wary.
“They were docile when we saw them, though,” you said, inclining your head. “Nothing happened.”
Reina shrugged. “So, they did something after you left.”
“What could they have done?” you returned. “We were together nearly the whole time.”
There were reasonable doubts in your voice.
Soobin shared none of them.
He knew Yeonjun’s parents well. They had deemed his family a good match and always welcomed him to their immaculate dinners. He’d seen Yeonjun’s mother smile at guests, and he’d seen that smile vanish the moment everyone’s attention shifted. He knew her. And he knew her control could travel through phone calls, through texts. Even through silence.
“They said something to him,” Soobin said, raking a hand through his hair hard enough to spark static. A few strands lifted at the crown. “They had to. Fuck.”
He began pacing in tight circles, visibly agitated. His boots squeaked faintly against the tiles.
“I warned him about playing games,” he muttered. “I fucking told him—” He cut himself off and pivoted back to you. His eyes found yours, but there was nothing in them that recognised you. “But I don’t—I still don’t understand.”
Uncomfortable under his vacant stare, you glanced at Reina.
She gave a shake of her head: let him dig.
“Even if his parents had said something to him,” Soobin dug, “he took this bet seriously. Swear he did. He wouldn’t have just—I mean, I talked to him. He was all ‘I’ll think about it’ and ‘fuck the scheme.’ He obviously knew what would happen if—”
“Wait.” You lifted a hand, palm out. “What?”
He finally blinked. “Hm?”
“What scheme?”
The silence in the corridor deepened.
Soobin’s shoulders drew up, his chest locking rib by rib.
“It—no,” he said, swallowing. “No, that was a joke.”
You stared at him. “About me?”
Reina got a very bad feeling and shifted a step back, putting a touch of space between them. Soobin watched her with naked horror.
“No,” he said quickly. His voice frayed. “It wasn’t about—not—not about you. Not exactly. It—”
“Bin,” Reina said, calm in a way that was almost threatening. “What’s this about?”
“Nothing, my love,” he replied automatically, forcing a smile that looked painful to maintain. Blinking too fast, he turned back to you. “It’s—have you tried talking to him again? Maybe he’s having—maybe he’s gone insane.”
“Maybe you have,” you said, pushing off the windowsill. Your trainers hit the tiles with a blunt thud. “What’s going on?”
Soobin tried to exhale, but lost sense of his breath halfway through. With his wide eyes and flushed cheeks, he looked abruptly younger. Like a kid who’d accidentally dropped something expensive and now waited for an adult to scold him.
“You should really speak to him,” he said. “There must be something you can do about—”
“I don’t want to do anything.” Your anger bit at your chest before it reached him. “What scheme?”
“It’s nothing.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if that might reverse time. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was stu—”
“What scheme?”
His jaw clenched so tightly that you heard his teeth click.
“Please,” he said, glancing at you. “Just—just talk to him.”
You looked at Reina.
Her expression mirrored yours: the same disbelief, the same slowly rising fury.
Without another word, you gathered the freesias, scattering another handful of petals, and strode away. Your footsteps ricocheted against the stairwell walls.
For a moment, neither Reina nor Soobin moved.
Reina stared at the fallen petals, her chest tight.
“What the hell, Bin?” she said softly.
Soobin swallowed. The corridor felt smaller now, suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Then, quieter, “fuck.”
✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 3:30 PM
You crossed the quad in time to see Yeonjun step out of the Administration building, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind him. He headed for the parking lot without a backward glance, head down, eyes glued to the darkened pavement.
The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the scent of wet grass and damp stone.
By the time you reached him, he was already unlocking his car.
“Yeonjun.”
He froze.
He hadn’t expected to see you again today. He’d checked your timetable after he’d talked to Professor Myers. He’d calculated everything so he could leave campus before your library shift began at four.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, pulling the car door open wider. “I’ve got to—”
“What does ‘fuck the scheme’ mean?”
His hand tightened on the door handle.
You stood directly in front of him, close enough to see the pulse jumping at his neck as he looked up at you.
For several long seconds, he only stared. It was a change from his earlier avoidance, and you didn’t know what to make of it. You held his gaze anyway.
A car alarm chirped somewhere in the distance.
Yeonjun tried to find his words and ended up finding too many: “Where—what—wh—”
“Soobin mentioned it,” you said. “What scheme?”
The corner of his left eye twitched. He loved Soobin. At that moment, he loved him enough to consider throttling him.
He briefly shut his eyes, then opened them again.
He’d done this himself.
It was his fault.
“It’s not—” He exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing serious. Just an old joke.”
Your expression did not soften. “Let’s have a laugh, then.”
He swallowed, eyes darting over your shoulder to the gradually filling parking lot. A pair of students passed behind you, laughing about something. Their joy felt inappropriate. Obscene.
“I should really go—”
“You won’t be going anywhere,” you said, inching closer, “if you don’t explain that shit to me right now.”
His pulse jumped in a familiar reflex. He inhaled and forced his chest to settle.
He knew he shouldn’t be speaking to you here, under the Administration windows, where the glass reflected everything, including his mother’s office two buildings over.
Yet he found, with nauseating clarity, that he feared walking away from you now far more than the consequences that awaited him if he didn’t.
“Okay,” he said finally, his voice subdued. “Can we just go over there? It’s quieter.”
He motioned to the empty bench against the far wall, half-hidden behind a bare sycamore. Its branches swayed anxiously in the breeze.
You turned towards it without replying.
He followed.
Two weeks ago, you’d have made a joke about the bench being conveniently secluded; fewer witnesses if you’d killed him. He would’ve snorted and teased you about wanting to get him alone. You would’ve rolled your eyes.
Now you walked beside him in silence with a deliberate gap between you. And Yeonjun had a sinking suspicion that it would not be your rage that ultimately undid him. It would be this gap.
The bench was cold.
The moisture from the wood seeped into your jeans. You placed the freesias beside you, pretending not to feel the chill. Yeonjun lowered himself next to you with visible hesitation, leaving a careful inch of space. He rested his braced wrist on his thigh. His leather jacket creaked in the quiet.
Above, the sycamore stirred. Its few remaining leaves scraped together in dry, conspiratorial murmurs.
He needed a moment before he could speak. He had to make sure that when he opened his mouth, what emerged would be more than just a defeated heugh.
“Okay,” he said at last. “So, uh—a long time ago, I told Soobin that Amy and I had split up. ‘Course that didn’t mean much since we were never actually—well, you know the story.”
“Right.”
The single syllable fell flat between you.
Yeonjun fixed his eyes on the gravel under his feet. He nudged a loose stone with the toe of his boot.
“Well, after that break-up, my parents started parading candidates again,” he continued. “Organising dinners where everyone pretended we weren’t one meal away from an arranged marriage.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I kept refusing to go. My parents kept not caring.”
You stole a glance at him. The wind pushed a strand of hair into his eyes; he didn’t notice.
“So I was venting to Soobin about all that,” he went on. “And I said—it—this was long ago by the way. Years. I don’t even remember when exactly—”
“Get on with it, Yeonjun.”
His shoulders stiffened.
He couldn’t remember the last time you’d called him by his full name.
At once, he felt the past two weeks begin to lose their meaning. Felt them fading as though they’d never been more than a suggestion.
He knew he shouldn’t have cared. There was nothing he could do now. But, shit, his spine could barely find the strength to hold him upright.
“I-I told Soobin,” he forced out, scratching the corner of his eye, “that I was so tired of this rubbish that I was considering going out with someone my parents would hate. Someone they’d never choose for me. Different background, different everything. Just—someone to spite them. To piss them off.” He swallowed. “To prove they didn’t own me.”
The wind rose. The branches rustled, and a twig snapped somewhere directly overhead.
You couldn’t remember when you’d last inhaled.
“I was joking,” he said, staring at the ground. “It wasn’t serious. I said, uh—said I didn’t even know anyone who’d fit that scheme.”
The word lingered for a moment.
You heard it repeating, mixing with the echo of your pulse in your ears.
“And then,” he said, voice dropping, “Soobin joked that, um—that you would.”
He looked at you then. Saw the shutters slamming down behind your eyes as you turned away and clenched your jaw.
“He wasn’t being serious,” he added hastily. “He used to bring you up just to get a reaction. It was—it was a bit of a running joke.”
Slowly, you returned your gaze to him.
“You had a running joke,” you repeated, each word level, “about how I am exactly the sort of person that would embarrass your parents.”
“That—no.” His breaths grew uneven. “It wasn’t about—shit. It wasn’t like that. Bin mentioned you because he was trying to get under my skin. We—we laughed. S’all it was. Just—a stupid joke.”
You gave a curt nod. “Yeah, no, s’funny. Because I do, actually, fit the scheme.”
He blinked, instinctively prepared to contradict you, then stopped himself. Denying it, he knew, would only insult you further.
“Technically,” he said weakly, “I guess you do. But that’s not—this was before you and I started to—”
You stood from the bench. The wood gave a harsh creak.
Yeonjun flinched at the sound. Something in his chest choked him, like a knot he’d meant to loosen but ended up tightening instead.
“No, see,” you said, slowly shaking your head. “I knew it.”
The memories in your head realigned. You recalled sitting with Yeonjun at your flat, when he’d first told you that he and Amy had never actually dated. You recalled how carefully he’d chosen his words.
All the better for me, he’d said after you pointed out that you weren’t from a so-called respectable family.
You’d found that phrasing odd. Tried to excuse it.
But of course, it was better for him. This way, he could spite his parents.
Your skin crawled.
You couldn’t remember anything else from that night, not the piano at Taehyun’s theatre, not the walk home. And what did any of it matter anyway?
“I told you that you had motives,” you said, a sardonic smile on your lips. Your eyes were hollow. “And when you said you’d only gone out with Amy to get your parents off your case, I thought, oh. Maybe you’re doing the same with me.”
Yeonjun opened his mouth to argue. You cut it off with a sharp scoff.
“I didn’t fucking realise,” you went on, “that you were using me to get back at them instead.”
The wind swept low across the quad, pressing the grass into obedient waves. Its steady rush filled the space between you.
Yeonjun swallowed, as though he could force your accusation down with his breath.
“It wasn’t that,” he tried, his voice barely audible over the wind. “I didn’t want my parents to know about you. I told yo—”
You let out a short, humourless laugh.
“Yeah. You said they’d never support this relationship. Turns out that was the whole point.” You turned to him, eyes blazing with a heat so merciless that it made him feel entirely flammable. “And, really, you could’ve picked anyone for your little rebellion, couldn’t you? But you picked me. Because I fit the scheme best, yeah?”
His fingers twitched against his thighs.
Everything that he had said to you over the past two weeks was crumbling and reforming into the version of him you’d always accused him of being. The version you’d dreaded.
“S’why you asked about my family on our first date, wasn’t it?” you went on. “Just doing your research. Making sure I came from nothing. That’d really show them.”
He felt flayed open under your gaze.
When you looked away, however, he felt even worse.
“I asked about your family because I wanted to know,” he said. The words had to scrape their way up his throat. “That was real. It wasn’t about anything else.”
“Right.” You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “But the bet itself was about your parents.”
Yeonjun dropped his gaze back to the gravel.
He understood painfully well that he couldn’t fix this without breaking something else. If he explained everything properly, he’d end up telling you he loved you again. And he couldn’t tell you he loved you if he couldn’t be with you.
“I fucking knew it,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “And you made me feel stupid for thinking you were hiding something.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Until his mother’s call that morning, he had believed the two of you might stand a chance. He’d thought you’d have a real shot, none of this game shit. Thought you’d be happy.
He couldn’t believe now that you never would be.
“I’m sorry,” he said, clutching his jeans hard enough that his palm stung. The words were flimsy and inadequate, and still, he couldn’t find better ones.
Your voice was flat: “Don’t be.”
You bent down to gather the freesias from the bench. The faint scent of your perfume brushed past him, painfully familiar. The flowers looked terrible up close: bruised and battered, their stems bent at defeated angles.
You stepped onto the gravel without looking back.
Yeonjun felt each of your steps as if they’d landed inside his chest.
You only paused once, at the rubbish bin by the low wall. Every fracture in your heart seemed to echo outward. You felt the cracks spread to your lungs, your ribs, your skin.
You weren’t breathing.
One by one, you dropped the bouquets into the bin. The flowers struck plastic with a hollow thud, their colour vanishing into shadow.
The sound emptied him.
He knew he should’ve stayed where he was. Should’ve let you walk away.
If you believed he had used you, you’d stop fighting. You’d leave. And if you left, his parents couldn’t reach you.
He knew that.
And still, he stood. Still, he followed you down the path.
“Wait—please.”
His voice cracked behind you, splitting the steady crunch of gravel beneath your feet. The sound startled a pair of pigeons pecking at the edge of the grass. They burst into the air in a frantic flurry of wings and landed on the roof of the Administration building. Its tall windows reflected the colour of old tin.
You heard the rhythm of his boots, heard his strained breathing.
You did not slow. If you slowed, you might stop. And if you stopped—
Yeonjun’s hand closed around yours.
His touch jolted your bloodstream, igniting a cascade of tremors along your spine. You stopped.
When you turned to him, your face was stone.
He released you at once. “I—I’m sorry.”
You folded your arms across your chest again, rebuilding the barricade between you. Your fingers dug into the sleeves of your coat.
“I just—I wanted to say,” he began, floundering, “that it’ll be okay. You’ll forget about me.”
Your brows furrowed. “What—”
“You will,” he rushed on, looking at you like he needed you to believe this so that he could too, “because you deserve better.” His throat tightened helplessly. “But I—I’ll never forget.”
The air thinned inside your lungs.
A ray of sun slipped through the cloud cover and caught on the slick pavement. For a moment, the quad seemed jarringly bright.
“I’m really sorry,” he said again.
He took a step back, barely. Still, the distance struck you with palpable force.
You sucked in a sharp breath, grasping for words before pride could cauterise them.
“Jun.”
His breath shuddered. His head dipped slightly forward like he’d been hit.
For a long, burning second, he hesitated, trying not to imagine what would happen if he walked back to you. If he explained everything. If you listened. If you—
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he said, hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He turned back towards his car.
Each step felt like he was walking through something viscous. He wanted to drive away. Disappear into roads that led nowhere, until he couldn’t recognise anyone, not even himself, anymore.
You didn’t move.
You watched him climb into his Mercedes. Heard the engine start. And watched, for the second and final time that day, as the car accelerated and disappeared at the end of the street.
When it was gone, the world did not pause for you to catch your breath.
A cyclist cut across the quad, with shorts that were too flimsy for this weather. Someone’s phone rang behind you with a generic Apple tone. A window opened above.
Yeonjun had been wrong.
You would not forget.
✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 4:25 PM
When you checked the time, the screen of your phone blinked up at you with cold indifference.
You were twenty-five minutes late for your shift.
You stared at the numbers for a moment longer, as if willing the clock to rewind. It didn’t. Your reflection stared back, warped faintly by the smudges on the glass, tired and unfamiliar.
You rang in sick before you could talk yourself out of it.
Your voice sounded distracted and stifled, even to your own ears. Eunji wasn’t in today, but her assistant believed you without question. The ease of it all left something hollow behind your ribs.
You lowered your phone.
You’d go home, then. Sort yourself out.
The campus stretched before you in brick and glass and damp concrete. Noticeboards sagged under layers of outdated flyers. Students passed, laughing and arguing. Someone was lying on the bench by the marble fountain.
“Hey!”
The voice reached you from behind, pulling you back by force.
You turned back to see Soobin in the doorway of the Social Sciences building, his hand hooked in his backpack strap, the other one raised in a tentative wave. His hair was mussed by the wind.
You stopped, hesitated awkwardly, then wandered over to him.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping down the stairs by the entrance.
Your gaze flicked past him automatically, searching.
“Sure,” you said. “Do you, um—where’s Reina?”
Soobin glanced back without thinking. “Uh, still with her advisor. Her meeting’s running late.”
You turned to the dark first-floor windows. “Okay.”
There was nothing else for you to do with yourself.
Soobin shifted his weight. He didn’t know what to do with himself, either. He clasped his hands together, then let them go.
“Did you, uh,” he tried, “find Yeonjun?”
Your jaw clenched before you could stop it. “I did.”
He lowered his voice as though Yeonjun would materialise beside you at the sound of his name. “Did you talk to him?”
“I did.”
He paused.
Clearly, he shouldn’t ask how it went.
“I—I’m really sorry,” he said.
Something volatile churned in your chest. You’d heard at least twenty apologies today, which was about twenty more than you’d needed.
“For what?” you asked. The question came out quickly, sharper than you meant, and Soobin took a surprised step back. Guilt followed swiftly behind your irritation.
“For mentioning, uh—that so carelessly,” he said, then frowned at his choice of words. “I didn’t mean to make anything worse. I know you’re sort of fighting and—”
“We’re sort of not,” you said. “It’s over.”
Lips parting, he glanced down at your hands. You didn’t have the freesias anymore. Your fingers were clenched into fists.
“You—you brought up my name,” you said.
His gaze shot up. “Hm?”
“When Yeonjun couldn’t think of someone to fit his idiotic scheme, you suggested me.”
The wind tore across the quad, tugging at the hem of your coat. Behind him, a door slammed shut in the draft.
Soobin’s boots scuffed against the gravel. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”
“That really hurt, Bin,” you admitted. “I thought we were friends.”
He winced.
“We are friends,” he said. “We are. I swear, it—God, this is such a mess.” He dragged a hurried hand down his face. “The reason I suggested you wasn’t—I wasn’t really suggesting you at all. Back then, Yeonjun talked about you constantly. Complaining or ranting or—whatever. I told him he probably had a crush on you. He denied it, but he denied anything that didn’t make him look cool.”
Your heart made an old, treacherous jump. You ignored it. You were getting very good at it.
“So I-I said your name to wind him up,” Soobin explained. “I brought you up to him whenever I could. I was teasing. That’s all it was.”
A group of girls hurried past him, hunched against the wind. Introduction to Sociology was printed in thick blue letters across the spines of the books clutched to their chests. First years, most likely. They looked purposeful. Keen. You almost envied them.
“I shouldn’t have said your name in that context, though,” Soobin added, quieter now. “Even as a joke. It was disrespectful. I’m sorry.”
You turned back to him, measuring the sincerity in his eyes against the uncomfortable ache spreading quietly through your chest.
“I get that,” you said at last. You did not have the energy to dig through another argument today. “It’s okay.”
Soobin knew it wasn’t okay.
But he hoped, perhaps selfishly, that you wanted it to be okay.
“I really wasn’t trying to plant ideas in his head,” he continued, the words stumbling out of him as though on a run from something. “I just wanted to tease him. And he was—he was angry about—about Amy, I think. Or his parents. We were both talking out of our asses.”
“It makes sense, though,” you said, staring at the building steps behind him. “I do fit the scheme.”
The wind dragged a scatter of dry leaves across the quad. They scraped over the gravel with a loud, brittle sound that set your teeth on edge.
Soobin watched the distance settle in your eyes.
“Okay,” he conceded reluctantly. “Maybe you do. But that’s not the reason he wants to be with you.”
You exhaled. Your gaze drifted past him to the spindly trees lining the gravel path. Their branches clawed at the grey sky.
“He doesn’t want to be with me,” you said.
I think I’m in love with you
I think I’m in love with you
I think I’m in love—
“We had a bet,” you added, stubbornly fighting against the tightness in your chest. “And now it’s over.”
“Right,” Soobin said. “But it wasn’t just a—”
“Well, even if it wasn’t,” you said, voice growing louder despite your attempts at restraint, “even if the scheme doesn’t mean anything, he left, yeah? Said whatever he had to say and left.”
Soobin swallowed. “Okay. But that still doesn’t mean that he—”
“Oh, forget it, Bin. It doesn’t—”
“No.” His voice was sharper now. It startled you both. “Just—just listen to me for a second, alright?”
The campus had fallen unnaturally quiet. A lecture must have started; every building around you stood solemn.
You’d never heard Soobin raise his voice before.
You nodded once, brief.
Soobin exhaled.
“He’s tired,” he said. “He’s been doing what his parents told him since he could walk. I think it’s reached the point where he doesn’t even feel like a person anymore, just going through the motions. Following obligations. Day in, day out.”
He scratched his neck, searching for words that would explain his point without betraying everything Yeonjun had trusted him with. This felt like force majeure, though. He hoped Yeonjun would forgive him.
“S’why he races,” he went on. “S’why he goes out so much. He’s got nothing that’s actually his. That’s why he came up with that scheme, too. Out of desperation, I guess.” He stopped, catching himself. “It—it’s not an excuse, of course. Just... context? A-and I was—I was scared for him. Living like that, always at someone’s command, it—that’s not a good life. But, um—with you, he’s different.”
Your fingers found the edge of your backpack strap and pulled it tight.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Soobin said, exhaling slowly. “He still never thinks before he speaks, I don’t think he ever will. But he started to look more awake when he met you. More alive. He had a—well, a purpose. Of course, that purpose was to piss you off, yeah—but still. It was his. No one else’s.”
Your thoughts were tangled together. You felt them splinter, felt them fight to make sense.
You remembered the way Yeonjun had looked at you—last night and two weeks ago. Remembered that he’d wanted to cover up your relationship using the rumours about himself and Amy.
Maybe, he’d said, I didn’t want to lose the one thing in my life that’s got nothing to do with my parents.
You swallowed. “How do you explain what happened, then?”
Your voice had changed. The new softness made Soobin’s chest twist.
He could hear, unmistakably now, that you were hurt.
Instinctively, he glanced at his coat pocket. His phone sat there completely useless. He’d texted Yeonjun a solid half a hundred times already. He’d left voice notes that ranged from frantic yelling—do you realise what the fuck you’re doing?—to desperate reasoning—try to use your brain, for once—and none had received a response.
Soobin knew there probably wasn’t much of a response anyway.
“He’s protecting you,” he said. “From his life.”
Something inside you recoiled.
You did not believe that leaving could ever be protection.
“Mhmm.” You clicked your tongue against your teeth. “Or maybe he’s still making it useful. Turning this into some other way to get his parents to fuck off. A new scheme, if you will.”
Soobin’s jaw tightened.
He could see you didn’t fully believe this. But reverting to your old habit of hating Yeonjun restored your balance.
Hurt made you feel small. Anger did not.
“I’m really sorry,” he said again, softer this time.
“I told you, it’s okay.”
“No.” He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. “I mean, about what happened with Yeonjun.”
You drew in a slow breath. The air in your lungs felt cooler now, sharper somehow. You held it in for a second, then let it go.
“Well,” you said with a faint lift of your chin, “it’s fine. I won the bet. So that’s something.”
Soobin wondered, distantly, what his dentist would say about the way he’d been grinding his teeth for the past ten minutes. It’d probably involve a mouth guard.
“Were you heading home?” he asked.
The question dislodged your mind from the dark depths it’d wandered to. You glanced over your shoulder, as if to check if the road you’d been taking was still there.
It was.
And if you squinted, you could just make out the trash bin, two streets over, where you’d tossed out the freesias.
“Yeah,” you said.
“Let me walk you.”
You turned back to him. “What? No. You’ve got to pick up Reina from her meeting.”
Soobin was already fishing his phone from his pocket. “I’ll text her.”
“No.” You brushed your fingers over the edge of the device. “Seriously. I’m fine.”
He lowered his phone and looked at you properly.
Your voice held steady, admirably so. But your eyes were overbright, like glass reflecting an aggressive slice of sunlight.
You noticed his scrutiny and offered him a small, stubborn nod. You weren’t fine, but you would force yourself to be.
“I’m staying with you until Reina comes to replace me, then,” he decided, just as stubborn.
You let out a short scoff. “Am I on suicide watch? You really think I’m down that bad?”
Panic flashed across his face. He mentally cursed himself for not having better articulation. He might just stop speaking altogether after today.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “I just think you could use some company. It’s been a long two weeks.”
“It—” you began, but the weariness in your lungs stole the rest of the words. You exhaled what little air remained and nodded. “Yeah, alright. It has been.”
His shoulders dropped an inch.
“Come on,” he said.
He draped an arm around your shoulders, careful, very afraid of startling you. His coat smelled faintly of Reina’s perfume, floral and familiar. You allowed yourself to lean into it, just slightly.
“Let’s stop by the corner shop, and we can come back, pick Reina up,” he said. “Saw they restocked the ice cream you and Rei always hoard.”
A ghost of a smile flickered over your face. “We don’t hoard it.”
“It’s been sold out for months.”
“Not our fault they don’t stock enough.”
He snickered, his chest moving gently beside you. The gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you walked.
“Thank you,” you said, quietly.
He gave your shoulder a light squeeze. “S’what friends are for.”
✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 5 PM
By the time you and Soobin made it back to the Social Sciences building, sugar buzzing through your veins, plastic bags of ice cream biting into your fingers, the streetlights had begun to flicker on one by one. Behind the buildings, the sky had sunk into a flat, depthless blue.
Reina was just stepping out mid-sentence, Taehyun beside her, caught in a debate about a reality show that they both claimed to have never seen. Her hands carved passionate shapes through the air, nearly thumping into his chest as she made her point.
Taehyun noticed you first.
His gaze dropped immediately to the waffle cone in your hand, then the bag swinging from your wrist.
He gave Reina a distracted, “mhmm, yes, yes,” and crossed to you with singular purpose. Without ceremony, he reached into your bag and extracted a strawberry ice cream.
“Appreciate it,” he said, as though you’d got it for him personally, and tore into the wrapper with his teeth.
You snorted. “You’re welcome.”
He paused, cone halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked to your tense shoulders, then to the restrained clench in Soobin’s jaw.
He almost asked what was wrong, but guessed, from the ice cream bags and the conspicuous absence of Yeonjun at your side, that you wouldn’t want to talk about it.
“Cheers,” he said instead, and stepped in to hug you. It was firmer than usual, deliberate, even as he angled the ice cream away from your hair. Cold syrup from his cone still brushed your sleeve as he pulled back.
He transferred the embrace to Reina, who squealed about the stickiness of his hands, but still wholeheartedly accepted the hug.
Then he gave Soobin a sticky fist bump, saluted you vaguely with his melting ice cream, and walked down the gravel path towards his theatre.
Reina stepped into the space he left behind, eyes alight when she spotted the second bag.
“You angels,” she breathed while you rummaged for her favourite pear flavour, holding your cherry cone between your teeth.
“Meeting okay?” you asked, pressing the ice cream into her expectant hand.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just a bunch of new reading he wants me to do. And I’m still about two thousand words short of the minimum.”
You huffed. “More literature review, then?”
“Yeah. Or something close to it, anyway.” She shrugged. She wrote most of her thesis at three in the morning; that was when her brain worked best. “I’ll worry about it before my next meeting.”
You smiled softly, biting into your waffle cone.
She watched your face as she unwrapped her ice cream. Your gaze seemed carefully neutral.
Soobin cleared his throat lightly.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll head home, then. Give you two some—”
“No,” you said quickly. “Stay. The three of us could hang out.”
Reina’s eyes flicked to him.
He nodded.
She continued to watch him, another question passing through her gaze.
This time, he gave the slightest shake of his head.
She inhaled sharply and licked the melting edge of her ice cream.
“Alright,” she said, linking her arm through yours. The pear cream was a little tangy on her tongue. “Let’s go.”
The three of you walked back towards your flat. Conversation drifted in and out without committing to anything heavy: homework, spring break, graduation. The pavement glittered faintly beneath the streetlights. Your shadows stayed close together.
As soon as you unlocked the flat, warmth folded around you. The air inside still held the clinging sweetness of freesias.
For a second, you considered turning around, claiming you’d forgotten something, camping out in the stairwell. Anything to avoid the scent.
Reina brushed past you, clasping your hand and tugging you inside.
“Right!” she announced, kicking off her trainers in the corridor. She only released you when Soobin shut the door. “Takeaway. Do you want noodles? Or something spicier, maybe. Or pizza? Actually, pizza sounds great. But noodles are—noodles are nice. Oh, maybe soup? Is soup too depressing? Soup can be depressing, s’very—actually, maybe we should skip straight to dessert. I read somewhere that fruit yoghurt works with roasted vegetables. Not cauliflower, though. I hate cauliflower. Would you want cauliflower with yoghurt? I think it—”
You laughed.
Her gaze snapped towards you, eyes lighting up with cautious victory. She’d distracted you, then, if only for a second.
“I’m going to put these in the fridge,” you said, taking Soobin’s bag. “But if you order cauliflower with yoghurt, I’m moving out and taking the ice cream with me.”
She laughed—louder than she’d meant in her eagerness—and nodded. Then she turned to help Soobin disentangle the absurd knot on his scarf.
In the kitchen, the freesias made it awkward to open the fridge. Petals brushed your wrist as you shifted them aside. The scent clung to the back of your throat.
You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the brushed steel of the fridge, refusing to look at the flowers directly. Refusing, especially, to think about where they had come from.
You’d throw them out tomorrow, you decided. You didn’t want to make a scene in front of Reina and Soobin.
You jammed the ice cream into the freezer, forced the door shut, then washed your hands to get rid of the stickiness from the cherry syrup.
With Reina and Soobin still arguing about noodles in the corridor, you slipped into your room. Your backpack landed on the bed with a soft, tired sigh. You unzipped it, pulled out your laptop and plugged it in.
While it powered on, you gathered the clothes draped over your chair and dropped them onto your bed. The shirt from last night was still faintly damp, cold at the cuffs. You dropped it quickly.
A soft ping.
You turned to your laptop. There was a new email notification in the lower right corner.
Subject: Offer – Predoctoral Research Fellowship, Sociology
Frowning, you lowered yourself into your chair and clicked it open.
The email started with your name.
It continued with words you couldn’t understand.
Following a faculty review of candidates nominated to our office, the email read, we are delighted to offer you a place in the Predoctoral Research Fellowship Program in the Department of Sociology at New York University.
You blinked. Then scrolled down.
The more you read, the less plausible the email seemed.
It claimed to be about a fully funded, nine-month fellowship with a monthly stipend, health insurance, and guaranteed access to graduate housing. At one of the leading research universities in New York.
Your head spun. Your heart beat so fast it felt briefly unmanageable.
Institutions like that were for people who wrote their names with bold, golden letters. You had never even dared to visit their admissions page. You could only imagine the acceptance rate, the cost.
You scrolled back to the top and checked the sender. Director of Predoctoral Studies. When you hovered over the address, a proper New York University domain appeared.
Official, then.
Real.
You stood abruptly. The room tilted around you. You steadied yourself against the desk, then dropped to your bed, pulling the laptop to your knees. The charger stretched across the room.
You read the email again. Then read it three more times.
The quiet in your room had grown unnatural.
Reina knocked lightly against the doorframe, Soobin just behind her shoulder.
“You good?” Reina asked.
You craned your neck towards her, then silently angled the screen.
They stepped inside. Soobin tripped on the charger and knocked the vase on your desk. He caught it before it hit the floor, muttering a distracted Jesus—fuck, then placing it back on your books.
They leaned in and read the email. Then read it three more times.
“Shit,” Soobin finally exhaled. “I didn’t even know you applied.”
“Me neither,” Reina murmured, her eyes locking onto the stipend figure.
“I didn’t,” you said. “Says it was a nomination.”
Something tight pressed into your chest, neither joy nor anticipation. It made your eyes water. You swallowed and scanned the email again.
“They’re citing my Master’s thesis,” you read, blinking too quickly. “Said some—someone from the programme attended the Spring Conference last year. When I presented my research project. Said they were—” Your throat caught. You cleared it. “Said my work was noted for its rigorous methodology.”
You remembered that conference room last year, the harsh light of the projector. Remembered how dense your slides had been, how fast you’d rushed through them, words tangling on your tongue. Your hands had been shaking.
You’d been proud of your work before, but during that conference, you were certain you’d embarrassed yourself. You couldn’t remember who you’d spoken to after that, if anyone at all.
What you did remember, however, was that Yeonjun had been there, too, sitting in the back row. He hadn’t presented anything, but he’d won the scholarship for outstanding academic achievements in a school year shortly after. It had reeked of nepotism. You’d hated him for it.
Exhaling shakily, you returned your gaze to your laptop screen.
“Fully funded, too,” Soobin said, leaning closer. “Shit—you’d only need to cover the flight.”
Your hands trembled against the keyboard. “Yeah.”
Reina was the first to notice the shine at the corners of your eyes.
“Babe,” she said gently, sitting beside you on the bed. Her arm came around your shoulders. Her cashmere sweater was warm and soft against your side. “This is incredible.”
You wiped at your cheeks with the heel of your palm, irritated by the heat in your eyes.
“I know,” you said. “Yeah.”
Your voice sounded small, even if it refused to tremble.
Reina watched you, brows drawn together, her chest weighted with everything you weren’t saying.
Only this morning, the two of you had chatted in the bathroom, laughing as you dissected the previous night. Following her relentless badgering, you’d told her about Yeonjun’s careless joke that you were practically living together. Told her about his infuriating smirk.
Would you mind, though? she’d asked, waggling her brows at your reflection. Actually living with him, one day?
Horribly, you had replied, smiling despite yourself, not at all.
Now your eyes burned, and you couldn’t understand why.
Reina could.
“Come here,” she whispered and did not wait.
She pulled you into her, one arm firm around your shoulders, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head. You folded into her without resistance, forehead pressing into her jumper. Her strawberry shampoo washed over you.
Your fingers curled into the fabric at her waist. Your breath hitched, then steadied. Then hitched again.
Soobin hovered tactfully in the doorway, pretending great interest in the peeling paint near the frame. He shifted his weight once, cleared his throat, and wordlessly excused himself to gather the takeaway menus abandoned on the kitchen counter.
Your bedroom held its breath. Your laptop cast a faint blue glow on the bed beside you. Staring at the screen, at the new life waiting for you there, something old stirred in your memory.
A poem.
You’d read it in your first year, sprawled across your bed while you waited for Reina’s late seminar to finish. The book had been second-hand, its spine broken, its margins annotated in cramped handwriting that wasn’t meant for you to understand.
You couldn’t remember the poet now. Couldn’t even remember what the poem had really been about.
Only the final lines had remained, lodged deep inside you, dormant and patient. Waiting.
And the fairytale ends early,
On an unexpectedly sad note.
THE END
SEQUEL COMING SOON
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