#hanni fluff

You had never been the loser, never the target of mockery, and certainly not the weirdo. If anything, your easy charisma had occasionally tipped into the casual cruelty of a boy who knew he couldn't lose. As the whispers went, you were born lucky: a wealthy family, natural talent, and the kind of looks confirmed by seven failed relationships and a dozen talking stages. You were the golden standard.

“Open here!” you shouted, executing a sharp cut under the paint to score an effortless two points.

“Nice Positioning, Y/N!” the coach bellowed from the bench.

“Thanks, Coach!” you replied, a practiced smile already in place. The final buzzer sounded. The scoreboard read 70-83. Another decisive win.

As your team migrated toward the locker room, a hand ruffled your sweaty hair. “Nice game, Y/N! You owned the paint.”

It was Todd, your ride-or-die since you were both short enough to play on the same tricycle. Todd, your ever-present wingman for fourteen years, was already reciting the highlights, his voice buzzing with borrowed victory. “Man, that crossover in the second quarter? You had that guy eating floorboards. We should hit up The Grill tonight, celebration on me.”

“Sounds good,” you agreed, wiping the sweat from your eyes with the back of your jersey. You felt untouchable. Your life felt like a highlight reel—smooth, fast, and always ending with a win. Everything felt easy.

Todd followed you into the locker room, still rambling about the game. “Seriously though, everyone’s talking about you. I heard Coach is already calling college scouts. Dude, your future is set. You just keep winning.”

The words were true, and you knew it. Your success was a given. As you pulled off your damp jersey, you caught your reflection in the misty mirror: the golden boy, ready for the next victory, completely unaware of the quiet, losing battle happening just three hallways away.

Three hallways, one flight of stairs, and a world away from the echoing triumphs of the gymnasium, the air was still, dusty, and faintly smelled of old paper.

You wouldn't have known the Literature Club was facing annihilation just by looking at the room. It was organized chaos: mismatched bookshelves lined the walls, each one stuffed past capacity. Titles spilled out, precariously stacked on the floor in winding, short towers. There was a collection of faded, water-stained paperback sci-fi novels barricading one window and a meticulous row of pristine, first-edition poetry anthologies sitting like relics on the mantelpiece.

This was Hanni's domain.

She was perched on a wobbly stool, her head tilted, completely oblivious to the chaos you had just commanded on the court. Her usual uniform—a cardigan that looked like it had been rescued from a thrift store and worn-out jeans—made her blend into the room's worn aesthetic. The light filtering through the grimey windows caught the dust motes dancing around her.

She wasn't reading an assigned text or a popular bestseller. In her hands was a battered, annotated script for a 1970s Polish New Wave film, the margins densely filled with her frantic, spidery script. A half-eaten bag of cinema popcorn sat beside her, forgotten, its kernels gone stale hours ago.

The large whiteboard in the corner told the actual story. Written in elegant cursive at the top were the words, "LITERATURE CLUB: REVITALIZATION GOALS." Below, a single, blunt line was scrawled in red administrative marker, likely added by the Principal:

4 Members. Required: 15. End-of-Week Deadline.

Hanni sighed, the sound barely disturbing the silence. She closed the script gently, as if handling a fragile antique. She picked up a thick novel, running her finger along the spine where it was creased from hundreds of previous readings. You could see the weariness in her posture, the silent knowledge that this was a losing battle against indifference.

She lifted a small, vintage film poster from her desk—a dramatic close-up of a brooding hero—and gently tucked it into the box marked "Storage." She wasn't just losing a club; she was beginning the painful process of dismantling a universe she had built. The noise from the distant gymnasium was a cruel, roaring reminder of where all the school's energy, fame, and attention truly resided. She knew she had to do something drastic, something entirely outside the silent world of books and films.

The scent of mesquite smoke and sizzling meat hung heavy in the air outside The Grill, a popular spot for post-game celebrations. You and Todd were perched at a picnic table, cold sodas sweating beside empty baskets of fries. The victory was still a warm, satisfying buzz.

Todd, leaning back, took a large bite of a rib. “Seriously, that was your best game yet. You’re going to be swimming in scholarships.” He swallowed, then nudged you. “Speaking of swimming, did you see Jennifer tonight? She was practically hanging off the railings trying to get your attention.”

You shrugged, spearing a piece of brisket. “Yeah, I saw her. She’s cool, but… nah.”

Todd raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. “Nah? Dude, she’s head cheerleader, popular, perfect grades. What’s the catch?”

You didn't answer immediately. You were tired of the cycle. Every girl you dated was essentially a trophy, another accessory that proved your status. They were all beautiful, all popular, and all fiercely competitive—just like you, just like your life. You’d been down that road seven times, and every ending was the same: a spectacular, dramatic explosion that felt exhausting.

“I don’t know, man. It’s just… it’s a lot of work,” you admitted, pushing your plate away. “It’s always about the look of the relationship, the photos, the drama. It’s never actually chill.”

Todd laughed, missing the seriousness in your voice. “It’s high school, dude. It’s all drama. What do you want, a monk?”

You shook your head, gazing past the neon sign of the restaurant and out at the quiet street. You thought about the girls you knew, the loud, the beautiful, the girls who cared fiercely about their follower counts. And then, completely unbidden, your mind conjured a faint image of the girl you barely knew—the one hiding in the musty Literature Club room, buried under obscure film scripts. You didn't know anything about her, but you knew she wasn't chasing likes.

You sighed, finally articulating the vague desire that had been stirring since the last breakup.

“Honestly, I think I just want a normal girl, who loves what she wants, you know? Someone who isn’t trying to be the most popular thing in the room. Someone… real.”

Todd paused with his soda halfway to his mouth. He scanned your face to see if you were joking. “Wait, you want a nobody? You’re the star of the school, Y/N. You can’t date some girl who’s going to make us listen to indie folk and talk about the cinematography of a black-and-white movie from the fifties.” He shuddered dramatically.

The mention of "black-and-white movie" strangely resonated, and you felt a slight pull toward the distant thought of the club room.

“Just saying,” you finished, grabbing your drink. “I’m tired of dating the spotlight. I want something dimmer.”

The post-game buzz, still lingering from The Grill, was quickly replaced by the usual Friday afternoon chaos in the main hallway. You and Todd were shoulder-to-shoulder, navigating the crush of students, making easy plans for the evening, when a figure suddenly appeared in front of you, almost a ghost amidst the vibrant throng.

It was Hanni.

She looked even smaller out here, swallowed by the sea of teenagers. Her thrift-store cardigan and a stack of what looked like ancient pamphlets only amplified the impression. Whispers followed her, a soft, dismissive current in the hallway’s roar, phrases like "Did you see what she's reading?" and "Still obsessed with old movies?" fluttering around her like annoying flies. You knew the drill. It was the background noise for anyone outside the 'in' crowd.

Her eyes, usually downcast, were fixed on you with an intense, almost desperate plea. For a second, you were genuinely taken aback. You barely knew her name, only the vague, widely accepted label: "the Lit Club weirdo."

"Y-Y/N?" she stammered, her voice a reedy whisper against the hallway's clamor. "Could I... could I talk to you for a moment?"

Todd immediately stepped forward, a protective, slightly annoyed look on his face. "Sorry, Hanni, Y/N's kind of busy. We've got stuff to do." He gave you a look that said, Don't even think about it.

You hesitated, caught between your friend's dismissive warning and Hanni’s desperate gaze. Her desperation was palpable, almost painful. But the thought of standing there, enduring the stares and whispers alongside her, was a bridge too far for your reputation, especially right after the big game.

"Yeah, sorry," you mumbled, giving her a quick, apologetic shrug before Todd steered you firmly away, melting back into the crowd. You glanced over your shoulder once, catching her standing there, alone, the pamphlets clutched in her hand, looking utterly defeated. The image stuck, an annoying prickle in the back of your mind.

Hours later, the victory party at Todd’s house was in full swing, but the celebratory noise felt hollow. The cheap bass thudded in your chest, and the laughter around you sounded forced. You kept seeing Hanni’s face, that look of desperate hope dissolving into quiet resignation. It was stupid. Why did it bother you so much?

You excused yourself, muttering something about needing air, and found yourself aimlessly walking the deserted school hallways, the silence a stark contrast to the party. You weren't sure what you were looking for. Maybe just a way to shake the image.

As you rounded the corner leading to the Literature Club's wing, you saw it. The door was still open, a crack, a sliver of warm dim light escaping. Hesitantly, you pushed it open further.

And then you saw her.

Hanni was sitting at a small, cluttered table, surrounded by stacks of books and papers, a single desk lamp casting a warm glow on her face. She wasn't just pretty; she was captivating. Without the harsh glare of fluorescent lights and the judgmental murmurs of the hallway, her features softened. Her dark hair framed a delicate jawline, and her eyes, though still tired, held a depth that you instinctively knew no cheerleader's sparkling gaze could ever match. The quiet passion radiating from her as she traced a finger along the spine of a worn book, a half-smile on her lips, was truly arresting.

You realized, with a jolt, that the "weirdo" persona, the uncool interests, were like a veil. Peel that back, and there was an undeniably attractive, even beautiful, girl beneath it all. She wasn't consciously trying to be pretty, and that made her even more so. This wasn't the kind of beauty you dated for social points; this was something real, something that made you pause.

You stood silhouetted in the doorway, the gym's neon swagger stripped away by the soft glow of Hanni's desk lamp. The sudden silence of the club room felt like permission to be someone other than "Y/N, the Star Player."

Hanni looked up, startled, but quickly composed herself. "Y/N?" she whispered, her voice a mix of surprise and defensiveness.

You took a step inside, letting the door click shut behind you. You consciously softened your expression, dropping the practiced, easy smile you wore in public. You suddenly felt a little embarrassed about your earlier quick dismissal.

“Hey. Sorry ’bout earlier,” you said, your voice gentler than it had been all day. You shoved your hands awkwardly into your pockets. “Todd and them… they’re a lot. Didn’t mean to blow you off.”

Hanni studied your face. Her brow furrowed, not in anger, but in confusion. This was not the arrogant, confident jock she'd seen in the hallway. This Y/N was quiet, almost vulnerable. She finally caught on, recognizing the shift. “It’s fine,” she replied, her guard lowering a fraction. “It’s just… important.”

“I figured,” you said, glancing around the room. You nodded toward the stacks of books. “You guys are getting shut down, right?”

Hanni sighed, the small sound heavy with defeat. She picked up a worn copy of a classic novel. “Yeah. This week. We don’t have the members. The principal made it pretty clear.” She explained the situation quickly, her words tinged with a passion you hadn’t expected. “It’s not just about reading. It’s about having a space for stories, for ideas that don’t fit anywhere else.”

You listened, your mind already ticking through solutions. You could post something online, use your influence, get twenty signatures by tomorrow. It would be easy. You were about to offer exactly that when Hanni spoke again, her eyes fixed on the book in her hands.

“But look, you don’t have to worry about it,” she said, her voice turning firm. She finally met your gaze, her expression sad but resolute. “I appreciate you coming back, but I know what it means for you to get involved with… a weirdo. I know the whispers. You’d risk everything for a club that reads old books and watches obscure foreign films. Just wish me luck, okay?”

Her words hit you hard. She was right. Your reputation was a carefully constructed shield, and tying yourself to the "Lit Club weirdo" was social suicide. You opened your mouth to give her the kind, safe answer—Hope it works out, Hanni. Best of luck.—when your eyes drifted past her shoulder to the whiteboard.

Beneath the Principal's harsh red ultimatum ("Required: 15. End-of-Week Deadline."), written small and neat in Hanni’s cursive, was a tiny, charming note, surrounded by a drawn starburst:

Carpe Diem.

The phrase slammed into you like a physical hit, ringing louder than any buzzer. It was the driving force behind every layup, every early morning practice—your grandfather's last words.

You stared at the motto, seeing your easy, effortless life flash before your eyes. Seize the day. Were you seizing the day by taking the easy path and protecting your image, or by taking the monumental risk of actually helping someone pursue their deep, authentic passion?

You looked back at Hanni, the girl who loved her "weird" things so much she was willing to fight for them, even knowing she would lose. And for the first time all day, the path forward wasn't easy, but it was clear.

"No," you said, your voice low and determined. "I'm not wishing you luck." You took a deep breath. "I'm joining the club. Tell me what we need to do to get fifteen members."

The next morning, the basketball court felt strangely cold. The usual easy chatter and pre-practice jostling were replaced by a tense, low hum. You noticed the subtle shift instantly: the averted eyes of the junior varsity guys, the quick, pointed silence when you approached the water cooler. It wasn't hatred; it was confusion, the collective social mind trying to compute a logical error.

You were mid-stretch, trying to ignore the awkward atmosphere, when Todd finally cornered you near the equipment rack. He didn't slap your back or offer a greeting. His face was a roadmap of genuine worry mixed with confusion—a look you rarely saw directed at you.

"Dude, seriously. What the hell happened last night?" Todd's voice was low, urgent, and lacked its usual easy confidence.

You finished the stretch, trying to keep your own expression neutral. "What do you mean? I joined a club."

"No, you didn't join a club, Y/N," he stressed, glancing around to make sure the coach wasn't listening. "You joined that club. The one run by Hanni. The one everyone already knows is a total social black hole."

He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Word spread faster than that stomach bug last month. People are saying you're desperate, that you're pity dating her, that you lost a bet. And the worst one? They're saying you're trying to be deep now." Todd shuddered dramatically at the last word.

He grabbed your arm, his grip serious. "Look, I’ve had your back for fourteen years. I know what you’re trying to do, but you can’t protect everyone. You're the main draw here. Your scholarships, your future—you can't tie all that to the Lit Club weirdo. This is social suicide, man. Tell me you told her you're backing out."

You pulled your arm away gently, the warmth of the grandstand's lights suddenly feeling oppressive. Todd was right, of course. Everything he said was logical, practical, and perfectly aligned with the life you were supposed to lead. But logic was what got Hanni shut down in the first place.

"I'm not backing out, Todd," you said, your voice firm.

Todd stared at you, his mouth agape. "Why? Why risk the whole ecosystem for that?"

You took a basketball and spun it slowly on your finger, watching the pattern blur. "Because she needs the help, and the club deserves to stay open. It's a risk, yeah, but... I told her I'd do it." You didn't mention the "Carpe Diem" that had flipped the switch; it was too personal, too easily mocked.

Just then, Hanni walked past the glass doors of the gymnasium on her way to an early class. She looked small, nervous, and utterly out of place amidst the athletes. She glanced in and immediately saw you talking intensely with Todd. Their eyes met for a fleeting second. Hanni's face tightened with guilt and understanding before she quickly looked away and hurried down the hall. She had clearly heard the whispers, and she knew she was the cause of the sudden instability in your perfect world.

Todd watched her go, then looked back at you, shaking his head. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you, Y/N. You just chose black-and-white over color."

That afternoon, you walked into the Literature Club room with a backpack full of notebooks instead of gym gear. The scent of old paper and dust was a stark contrast to the antiseptic tang of the locker room.

The awkwardness was immediate and heavy.

Hanni was sitting at the main table, flanked by the three other members—a quiet girl meticulously knitting, another girl who’s furiously typing on a laptop, and an older student who appeared to be asleep behind a tower of fantasy novels. All four looked up as you entered, their expressions ranging from wary disbelief to profound confusion.

Hanni quickly cleared a spot for you, gesturing toward a shaky metal folding chair. "Welcome," she said, her voice strained. "To... the Literature Club."

The first official meeting with you as a member was excruciating. Every time you spoke—offering a logistical suggestion or asking a practical question—the other members stared, clearly waiting for the punchline. They didn't see a potential ally; they saw a spectacle.

Hanni, however, pushed through the discomfort. She slapped a piece of paper onto the table, trying to project competence.

"Alright," she began, addressing the group, but mostly looking at you. "We have two months, officially, to garner fourteen new members. On paper, it's easy. That's less than one member a week."

You leaned forward, trying to inject some of your usual athletic strategy into the situation. "So, a campaign, right? Big posters, social media push, maybe a short video—"

Hanni held up a hand. "The campaign is the immediate goal," she confirmed. "But the reality is, we're starting with a massive deficit."

She gestured toward the whiteboard, not at the Principal’s red threat, but at the empty seats in the room.

"Look at the optics," she continued, her voice gaining a sharp, defensive edge. "We have the infamous 'Lit Club Weirdo'—that’s me," she supplied dryly, "mixed with the 'Popular Jock Who Everyone Seems to Think Lost a Bet'—that's you."

She paused, looking directly at you. The air thickened.

"This," she stated, sweeping her hand to indicate the five of you trapped in the room, "looks like a string of web that no one in their socially-influenced life wants to be caught in. Your presence helps us survive the deadline, but it also creates a massive, contradictory public image that scares away anyone on the fence."

The weight of your choice settled on you again. It wasn't just a membership; it was a commitment to a life that had suddenly become messy and difficult. Your easy popularity, the very tool you were supposed to use to fix this, was now actively repelling potential members. Your sacrifice wasn't a quick fix; it was a permanent anchor to the periphery.

"So," you said, meeting Hanni’s intense gaze, "The usual campaigning won't work."

"No," Hanni confirmed. "We need to sell the story, not the celebrity."

The awkward silence that followed Hanni's blunt assessment of your social standing was broken by Hanni herself. She stood up, motioning toward the few occupied chairs around the cluttered table. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting a sickly pale glow over the room that didn't quite reach the corners.

"Since we are now an officially expanding, if doomed, operation," Hanni said, forcing a weary smile, "we should introduce the rest of the crew to our new... associate."

She started with the small, quiet girl who was so engrossed in her needlework that you'd barely registered her presence.

"This is Haerin," Hanni explained. Haerin didn't look up, her brow furrowed in concentration as tiny, rhythmic clicks punctuated the silence. "Haerin views her interests through a literary lens. She doesn't just love music; she sees sound as a complex, narrative art form. Every symphony, every album, is a meticulously structured novel of auditory experience. She's here to argue the structural poetry of musical composition."

Next was the frantic typist, a girl hunched over a laptop whose screen reflected the dim light.

"That's Minji," Hanni continued. Minji briefly glanced up, her eyes wide and slightly frantic, before immediately returning to her keyboard. "Minji is our resident storyteller. For her, literature isn't a hobby; it's the only freedom she truly possesses. She views her writing as the necessary scaffolding of a life she wants, not the one she was given. She needs this club to be the safe harbor for the worlds she's fighting to create."

Hanni then moved to the older student, who was now slowly waking up from behind the fantasy tower, blinking in the dim light. This girl radiated an almost impossible cheerfulness that seemed misplaced in the dusty room.

"And this is Danielle," Hanni said. Danielle offered you a dazzling, if slightly sleepy, smile. "Danielle is our resident sunshine and media critic. She believes that movies are more than just entertainment; they are essential cultural mirrors and narrative blueprints. She's here to prove that a three-hour blockbuster has the same thematic weight as a 500-page classic, and she sees all of life through the lens of cinematic history."

Finally, Hanni pointed to the youngest member, a girl sitting on the floor with a large sketchbook spread open, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration.

"And that's Hyein," Hanni finished. Hyein barely acknowledged the introduction, consumed by the pencil scratching across her paper. "Hyein loves drawing, and she sees the club as a way to translate narrative structures into visual form. She needs literature to give weight and meaning to her characters."

Hanni stood before you, folding her arms. "So, Y/N, you're not just signing up for a book report. You're signing up for a group of people whose passions are ridiculed, misunderstood, or simply ignored by the rest of the school. We are the weirdos. We are the inconveniently deep. You're now one of us. Welcome to the web."

The plan was simple: test the waters. See how aggressive the "sharks" were, or how "cold" the social climate had become. Handing out flyers felt like an easy enough tactical opening. You nodded, agreeing to the plan, and after one blink, you saw yourself standing at the main hallway intersection, holding a stack of glossy, artsy flyers for a dying literature club.

The failure was immediate, yet subtle. Some students accepted the paper out of the kindness of their hearts, or perhaps hoping to win yours, but their eyes were distant, already looking for the nearest trash can.

“Join us today and learn from movies! Analyze the greats!” you shouted, forcing the kind of easy, high-energy volume you used on the basketball court.

Hanni stood beside you, holding her own stack, and you caught her eye. She chuckled slightly, quickly hiding her amusement behind the flyers. Your enthusiasm was clearly out of place here.

“Hey Y/N! What’s that?”

The voice was high and confident. Jessica, the popular girl from Room 2-A—your last failed talking stage—approached you. She wore a shimmering top and a smile that glittered with calculated charm, her cleavage demanding attention. Even Hanni stiffened, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer force of Jessica’s social presence.

“What do you want, Jessica?” you asked, your voice immediately dropping the cheerfulness.

“Oh, nothing! Just wondering what ridiculous bet you lost to stand here shilling for the library,” she shouted, loud enough to stop several nearby conversations. She threw her head back and started laughing, an artificial, pealing sound.

“Whatever, get out,” you said, dismissing her with a wave of your hand.

She gasped dramatically. “Ouch! So rude! Look, I’m accepting a flyer, but only from the Lit Club President!” Jessica grabbed a flyer from Hanni's stack, but her eyes were clearly looking down on Hanni, measuring her and finding her lacking.

“Hey, back off of her,” you said, your voice almost angry, loud enough now to form a small, curious crowd.

“Wow, look at this, guys!” Jessica shouted, relishing the attention. “The famous prodigy is protecting a weirdo now! How romantic!”

"Oohs" and gasps filled the suddenly silent section of the hallway. The whispers had found their microphone. The public confrontation you were trying to avoid was now happening live.

“Just leave, LEAVE!” you demanded, your patience snapping, and you shoved her away—not violently, but firmly enough to break the confrontation and send her stumbling back toward the crowd.

The silence that followed was heavy with judgment. The "sharks" had shown their violence, and the waters were definitively cold. You had just publicly chosen the weirdo and her dying club over your entire social ecosystem. 

Todd remained leaning against the bookshelf, his arms crossed, surveying the quiet, crowded room and its occupants. He looked at you, then shifted his gaze to Minji, whose fingers were still twitching as if she were typing. Then to Haerin, whose intense focus on her knitting seemed to be an active barrier against the world. He stopped when he reached Danielle, whose dazzling smile was now muted, radiating nervous energy. He didn't look hostile, just genuinely bewildered by this collection of people who existed so far outside his social orbit.

"So, you guys... really read, huh? Like, for fun?" Todd asked, trying to sound casual, though his confusion was palpable.

"We analyze. It's about finding the narrative structure of things. Why stories work," Danielle offered with a small, tentative smile.

"Right. Narratives," Todd muttered, mostly to himself. "We've got narratives on the court, they're called plays." His attempt at bridging the gap fell flat, but it broke the tension.

You used the moment to finally sink into the nearest chair. You felt physically drained, the effort of maintaining your public composure finally gone. Todd watched you, his expression softening slightly as he saw the genuine fatigue.

Hanni waited until the brief, awkward exchange had completely died down. She walked slowly toward you, clutching her stack of salvaged papers. Her earlier frustration was gone, replaced by a profound concern that smoothed the edges of her face.

"I owe you an apology, Y/N," she said, her voice quiet, private, and focused entirely on you.

"You don't owe me anything. Jessica was a bully," you responded, looking up at her, surprised by the shift in tone.

"Yes, but I knew the risk," Hanni insisted, sitting down on the edge of the adjacent stool, closing the distance between you. "I knew what would happen if you publicly chose this club. You threw away your security for us. Your reputation... that was your shield. And now it’s gone. I should never have let you get involved to this extent."

She looked directly into your eyes. "Thank you," she said, the sincerity in her voice making the simple words heavy. "Not just for defending me, but for seeing the value in the club when no one else would."

You found yourself studying her face. Without the high-stakes confrontation and the judgmental hallway, she was simply Hanni: determined, passionate, and now, genuinely contrite. The distant sting of the whispers didn't matter anymore; only the quiet appreciation of this sincere, shared moment.

"It’s fine, Hanni," you said, a genuine, soft truth escaping you. "My shield was getting heavy anyway. Maybe... maybe I needed to see what the view was like without it."

Then silence swallowed the room whole.

The tension finally broke when Minji, ever the pragmatic one, stood up. "The flyers won't un-crumple themselves. And the library closes soon."

Hanni, sensing the immediate crisis had passed, nodded. "Yes. We need to go home and plan. We'll just start fresh tomorrow, Take it easy everyone."

The other club members gathered their bags and materials. Haerin tucked her knitting needles into a case, and Hyein carefully closed her sketchbook. Danielle, offering one last, still-soft smile to the room, headed for the door.

That smile, however, caught Todd's full attention. He watched Danielle intently as she moved. The girl who analyzed movies, who possessed a genuine, uncomplicated brightness, suddenly became more interesting than his confusion.

"Hey, hold up, Danielle!" Todd called out, pushing himself off the bookshelf. He moved toward the door, leaving his best friend behind without a second thought. "You guys walking toward the north exit? I can... uh... tell you about some of the narrative flaws in that new superhero movie."

Danielle paused, her smile widening slightly, recognizing the clumsy attempt at conversation. "Oh? Like the pacing issues?"

"Yeah! Totally! Pacing!" Todd repeated, clearly relieved, and quickly followed her, Minji, Haerin, and Hyein out the door. The loud, athletic sound of him trying to impress the cheerful film analyst faded down the hallway.

The room was silent again. The scattered chairs, the towering books, and the single desk lamp seemed to exhale a collective sigh.

You and Hanni were alone.

You still sat on the stool, and Hanni remained perched on the edge of the adjacent one. She picked up a stray piece of paper, idly smoothing out the creases. The quiet of the room was thick with the residue of your anger and her sudden, shared vulnerability.

"It doesn't make sense, does it?" Hanni asked, her gaze fixed on the paper. "Why the star basketball player would risk everything for a cause that was already lost. Logically, you should have just walked away."

"It felt wrong because it was a risk you didn't need to take," Hanni countered softly. "Most people run from that kind of mess." She folded the paper neatly, her movements precise. "They call that preserving their future."

You looked up at her, remembering the internal click, the sudden compulsion to act. You saw the bracelet on your wrist—the worn leather band your grandfather had given you. You weren't preserving a future you weren't sure you wanted.

"It's the only way I know how to move," you confessed, touching the bracelet. "My grandfather... he always said luck runs out. He was a champion golfer, a legend, but he lost everything in one bad business deal, right at the peak of his career."

Hanni tilted her head slightly, giving you her full, silent attention.

"He didn't regret losing the money; he regretted playing safe when he should have gambled on himself," you explained, the words coming easily now in the quiet space. "He took the cautious investment when his gut screamed to back his own vision. His final advice to me, always, was 'Carpe Diem.' Seize the day. Do the thing that frightens you most. Don't waste the chance by staying in the comfort zone."

Hanni listened, completely still. She was not hearing simple motivation; she was hearing a life motto, a genuine philosophy born from loss and regret—a story of its own.

"So when Jessica stood there," you continued, the memory still sharp, "and she was expecting me to back down, expecting me to protect my perfect life, it was easier to shove her away. The risk of losing my reputation was actually less frightening than the risk of wasting a chance to do the right thing—to act on the one thing my grandfather told me never to ignore."

A slow understanding dawned in Hanni's eyes. "It wasn't a choice between Jessica and me," she murmured. "It was a choice between the easy path and your philosophy."

"Exactly," you confirmed. "The only reason I have the confidence to walk into a stadium is because of the chance I might fail. If there's no risk, there's no challenge."

Hanni smiled, a real, genuine smile this time that reached her eyes. She picked up the marker and walked back to the whiteboard, drawing a single, confident star next to the scribbled word STRATEGY. She seemed to be seeing you for the first time—not as the jock, but as a risk-taker with deep, philosophical motivations.

"Then we won't waste the risk you took," Hanni said, turning back to you, her voice low with determination. "Now that we know the cost of the risk, we need to make sure we seize the right opportunity. The direct approach failed. We need to stop selling a club and start selling the philosophy of the risk itself. We need to tell a story so good, they can't help but join."

Hanni stepped away from the whiteboard, where the single star now shone above the word STRATEGY, illuminating your shared philosophy.

"If the core idea is 'Carpe Diem'—doing the frightening thing and seizing the chance—then our event has to be about taking risks and embracing non-conformity," Hanni stated, her voice full of focused energy. "We can't just host a book reading; we need a spectacle that demonstrates courage."

She walked back to the table, picking up a pen.

"We will host an event called 'The Unconventional Showcase: Stories That Dare.'"

You leaned forward, intrigued. "A showcase? Not a film festival?"

"It's bigger than film," Hanni explained. "We use all the mediums that the school currently dismisses—music, visual art, original writing. We make the content the risk itself. We stop being a passive club and become a defiant art movement for one night."

Hanni began ticking off ideas on her fingers. "We need Minji to write something raw. Haerin needs to use sounds that are usually considered noise. Danielle needs to prove that pop culture is profound. Our goal is to show the audience that the biggest challenge isn't saving the club; it's taking the personal risk to attend in the first place."

You smiled, the fatigue forgotten. This wasn't selling; this was storytelling with purpose. "It connects my philosophy to our action. We're asking them to take a leap."

"Exactly," Hanni confirmed. "But for this to work, we can't be in this dusty room. We need an untouchable venue, like the auditorium. We need lighting, sound—we need it to look professional, or the risk won't feel worth it. We need to present a legitimate challenge to the status quo."

"So, the new goal isn't members," you summarized. "It's securing the tools and the stage to make our philosophy visible."

"Precisely," Hanni agreed. "We are done with the whispers in the hallway. We're going for the main stage."

The very next day, armed with the new, philosophical pitch and the momentum of your commitment, you and Hanni presented your request to the Principal's office.

You handled the logistics first, speaking about scheduling and minimal disruption, while Hanni launched into the academic justification for "The Unconventional Showcase: Stories That Dare." She used language about "interdisciplinary application," "risk-taking philosophy," and "narrative bravery," connecting the club's event to core educational values.

The Principal listened, something you rarely saw him do for clubs outside of athletics or debate. You could tell Hanni's sincerity and strategic framing had landed.

"Ms. Hanni, Mr. Y/N," the Principal said, adjusting his glasses. "I appreciate the renewed... vigor. Your proposal is articulate, and I admire your commitment to the club, Y/N. You've certainly made a very public statement." He paused, tapping a pen on his desk.

"However," he continued, the word dropping with the weight of finality, "the answer remains no, at least regarding the main venue. The auditorium is simply packed for the next three weeks. We have the Senior Honors Assembly, the District Science Fair setup, the Spring Band Concert rehearsal block, and the Parents' Night Orientation."

He pulled a massive, color-coded calendar toward him. "The schedule is non-negotiable. There is literally no night free, and certainly no weekend where we could grant you access to the main sound and lighting systems you need. Frankly, even if I wanted to save your club, the physical resources are entirely booked."

Hanni's shoulders slumped instantly. You saw the defeat in her eyes—the realization that it wasn't social prejudice or content deficiency stopping them now, but bureaucratic, immovable reality.

You looked at the calendar, a sudden, familiar competitive urgency rising. "Is there any other space, sir? Any room with a projector and power, maybe not the auditorium, but something that could hold fifty or sixty people?"

The Principal sighed, running a hand over his forehead. "You're persistent. The only space available, and I truly mean the only space, is the old, condemned A/V Storage Room in the sub-basement. It hasn't been used since the school modernized the library five years ago. It's dusty, it's dark, and the power grid down there is sketchy at best. You'd be starting from scratch."

He shrugged. "I won't stop you from using that space if you want to try, but I can't guarantee you working electricity, let alone a sound system. It's a risk, Y/N. A big one."

Hanni's eyes met yours. The challenge was massive, filthy, and entirely without guarantee. It was the ultimate test of their "Carpe Diem" philosophy

...She broke down fully, her body shaking violently with deep, racking sobs. The guilt she had been silently carrying since the confrontation finally overwhelmed her.

You walked toward her without hesitation. You saw only a person in absolute torment. You reached out and gently pulled her hands away from her face.

"Hey," you said softly, your voice a low anchor in the storm. "Look at me."

Hanni couldn't speak; she could only meet your gaze, her eyes the raw, devastated color of true heartbreak.

"My social life was fine," you insisted, your thumb gently wiping away a tear on her cheek. "But it wasn't real, Hanni. It was an act. I always unconsciously put on a fake mask just to face people. But here? In this messy room, with you? I found the comfort of facing the person that is okay to see me under the mask. In reality, I was never built for the fame and all of that. All I want is to fulfill my grandpa's wish, and that is to always seize the day. This failure, this club, this risk—this is the life I choose. It was worth it."

You simply pulled her into a quiet, firm hug, cradling her head against your chest.

Hanni went rigid for a second—the shock of the unexpected, sincere physical touch. Then, with a desperate, wounded cry, she collapsed completely into the embrace, her arms tightening around your waist with a fierce, primal cling. She wasn't holding you for comfort; she was holding onto the only remaining piece of security she had in a world that had just rejected her entire identity. She felt the steady warmth of your body, the solid presence of someone who genuinely saw and accepted the mess she was.

The hug—that quiet, desperate bond formed in the ashes of public failure—was abruptly shattered. The Literature Club door slid open, revealing Danielle and Todd, both slightly out of breath. They froze in the doorway, catching sight of Hanni’s tear-streaked face and the intimacy of your shared space.

"Oh—did we...." Todd started, his voice trailing off awkwardly, the jock bravado completely gone.

"Are we ruining something?" Danielle finished, her usual bright demeanor faltering as she took in the scene. They had said it almost in sync.

You looked at them, confused and slightly annoyed by the interruption, but mostly surprised by their togetherness. "Since when did you two start talking?"

They dismissed the speculation faster than they had formulated it.

"Not important!" Todd insisted, waving his hands. "We were talking about narratives, okay? Movie narratives!"

Danielle, however, had already spotted Hanni's state. She rushed past Todd, ignoring the whiteboard, and enveloped Hanni in a warm, protective hug—the kind of straightforward, supportive comfort that bypassed intellectual defense.

"Hanni, what happened?" Danielle asked, concerned, gently smoothing Hanni's hair back.

Hanni pulled away, wiping her eyes quickly. "The Principal rejected the event. No auditorium, no sound system. He gave us the condemned A/V Storage Room in the sub-basement instead."

"Long story short, the principal rejected that," you confirmed, pointing dismissively toward the STRATEGY star on the whiteboard.

"Anyways, Todd, what brought you two here?" you said, trying to redirect the conversation away from your tearful embrace with Hanni.

Todd shrugged casually, though his eyes kept flicking to Hanni's still-reddened face. "Well, we figured where to find you two. And would you look at that, still busy as ever, eh?" He nudged your shoulder, a clumsy attempt to restore normalcy. "Why did we need you? Well, me and Dani were planning to eat out with the other girls, but they left. So, we figured if you two would love to go out to the Grill and drink some beer. The others are probably already at the arcade by now, so it’s just us."

Hanni looked from the discarded flyers to the hopeful, if awkward, faces of Danielle and Todd. She seemed about to refuse, but Danielle stepped in, offering a warm, genuine plea.

"Please, Hanni? We can talk about the showcase, too. But we need to wash the taste of that Principal out of our mouths," Danielle said, her voice soft but persuasive.

Hanni hesitated, then gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Fine. But no more shouting about social narratives tonight."

You knew this was the perfect reset. You pulled out your wallet. "The Grill it is. My treat. Consider it a down payment on a successful project."

Thirty minutes later, the four of you were seated in a secluded, private booth at "The Grill," a loud, dimly lit pub popular with college students. The noise provided a merciful shield, and the cold beer in front of everyone—except Hanni, who opted for a sharp cider—was a physical release from the day's stress.

The tension slowly began to unwind. Todd, surprisingly, did most of the talking initially, not about basketball, but about movies, spurred on by Danielle. He admitted that the only reason he had ever taken an interest in Danielle was because he overheard her analyzing the predictable three-act structure of action films in the hallway.

"See, Y/N?" Todd said, sipping his beer. "Dani was saying that even though the action is good, the hero's journey is totally static. It never risks anything. It’s boring, narratively."

"It's about the emotional cost of the choice," Danielle explained, resting her chin on her hand, looking intently at Todd. "If the hero always wins, the story is meaningless."

Hanni, who had been listening silently, finally jumped in, animated. "Exactly! Which is why tragedy is often the most profound narrative structure—because the failure proves the depth of the character's belief! It's the ultimate risk!"

They were talking about literature, but through the lens of pop culture and risk—the precise methodology Hanni needed for the showcase. You watched, amazed, as your closest friend and the Lit Club's media critic found genuine common ground.

As the night wore on and the food arrived, the conversation inevitably drifted back to the elephant in the room: the confrontation and the club's fate.

"I still don't get why you did that, man," Todd said quietly to you, his eyes serious. "Jessica could make your life hell for the rest of the year."

You didn't look at Hanni. You looked at the condensation dripping down your glass. "It's because I was tired of putting on the mask, Todd. I told Hanni earlier, I'm done with the act. And I'm done watching people who are genuinely brilliant get treated like they're invisible."

Todd absorbed that, looking thoughtful. He then turned his attention to Hanni, whose guard was finally lowered by the cider and the genuine discussion.

"Hanni," Todd said gently. "You don't need to feel guilty about Y/N. He's an idiot, but he's a grown idiot. If he wants to seize the day and make a stupid choice, that's on him. Just focus on making this event so good that it justifies the damn trouble."

Hanni took a deep breath, the lingering shame from the Principal’s office and the hallway finally dissipating under the weight of shared honesty. She looked at you, then at Danielle, then at Todd—the unlikely quartet united by the night.

"I will," she vowed, her voice steady now. "I know exactly how to use that condemned room now. We stop playing defense and we start telling the true story of risk."

You reached under the table and took Hanni's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The atmosphere of the Grill had successfully allowed everyone to open up and release the pent-up tension, confirming that even the "weirdos" and the "jock" could find common ground under the right circumstances.

Todd and Dani's eyes met across the table, and a silent, collaborative urgency seemed to pass between them—they needed to get out, and they needed more supplies.

"Hey Y/N, mind if me and Dani go order more beef?" Todd asked, gesturing toward the main bar area with exaggerated casualness.

"Wha?! Look, you ordered this and you still haven't touched it," you countered, gesturing to the still-full plate of pub fries.

"Well... Hanni said she wanted it," Todd improvised smoothly, his eyes flashing with mischief. He had quickly figured out your current weakness: any request wrapped in the guise of Hanni's comfort or needs was one you couldn't easily disregard.

You sighed, nodding grudgingly. "Alright, just don't order too much."

Todd and Danielle didn't waste a second. They pushed out of the booth, exchanging a final, knowing glance before disappearing into the pub crowd. What was left was the profound, comforting silence of two people who had just stripped away all their defenses.

Hanni watched them go, her expression unreadable. She picked up her cider glass, tracing the rim with a careful finger.

"They're... different," she murmured, breaking the silence. "Todd is not what I expected. He's surprisingly insightful when he stops performing."

"He's just less complicated when he's talking about narratives," you said, leaning back, the tension in your shoulders easing. "He's human."

A deeper silence settled, more intimate than any you had shared before. Hanni kept tracing the rim of the glass, avoiding your eyes.

"You know," Hanni began, her voice barely audible over the low pub murmur. She was focused entirely on the glass. "When I was crying in the club room earlier, and you... when you said you wore a mask—that you only found comfort in showing the real you here..."

She paused, taking a slow, shallow breath.

"I felt that way, too. But I never let anyone close enough to know what my mask was hiding. It's not fame; it’s just this endless, exhausting need to be intellectually superior. It’s safer up here, away from people who might actually hurt you." She paused again, gathering every ounce of courage she possessed. "And when you... when you pulled me in for the hug, and you said it was worth it..."

Hanni finally looked up, her eyes wide, searching yours with an intensity that pierced the noise. Her confession was delivered in a rush, low and desperate, almost a whisper meant only for you.

"That hug... that was the first time I realized it wasn't just the club I was fighting to save. I think I might be starting to... I might actually be starting to like you, Y/N."

You looked at her, but she was already looking at you, cheeks a little red, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. Her heart was clearly thumping so loud that it felt like it overthrew the bass rhythm thrumming outside the private booth.

You were speechless at first, the confession having sucker-punched all your well-practiced composure. But with enough courage, you finally managed to gather enough words. "I-I-I...." you gulped, the air catching in your throat.

You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a near whisper, determined to match her emotional honesty. "Hanni I-I-I...."

Before you could finish the single, crucial word that would change everything, the booth door was violently swung open. The sudden noise was shockingly loud, startling both of you.

It was Todd and Danielle. Todd stood there, looking flustered and holding up your credit card, which you had pulled out earlier for the delivery but forgotten.

"Oh, so uhmm, I forgot your card, hehe..." Todd stammered, his eyes darting between your intensely close faces and Hanni's flushed cheeks. "Oh, did I interrupt something again?"

"THE END"

HUMSS-1

they’re barely five minutes into homeroom when the noise starts.

first it’s the rustling of bags being unzipped. the scratch of chairs. the sharp snap of someone dropping their binder on the floor. then it’s overlapping voices—too many, too early. ideas flying across the room like crumpled paper tossed into the air without aim.

the room is warm already. too warm for this kind of energy.

miss claire hasn’t even settled in. her clipboard’s still pressed to her chest, attendance sheet unread. the sun hasn’t moved far from the window yet, but the shadows on the floor are already long, golden, creeping toward the desks in soft stripes. someone forgot to switch off the projector. it’s humming faintly. no one bothers to fix it.

trish, the class president, sighs loudly enough for everyone to hear.

then claps her hands once. sharp. clean.

“okay. focus. parade decisions. now.”

her voice cuts through the buzz, but only just. someone in the back mutters something about The Fault in Our Stars. another suggests Dracula, purely for the aesthetic. someone else makes a case for Greek myths reimagined, which sparks a five-minute tangent about whether Lore Olympus counts as literature.

it’s chaotic. it’s warm. it’s humid. no one’s taking it seriously.

hanni is seated near the window, her chair angled slightly to catch the breeze. her water bottle is sweating onto her desk. her pen is uncapped, tip already bleeding faintly onto her palm. she’s not talking. just listening.

eyes on her notes. head down. still.

not out of disinterest, but because she knows how this works.

they’ll throw names into the air. half-bake ideas. get overwhelmed. then settle on the most reliable, safe option—usually something classic, easy to justify, and just challenging enough to feel smart.

and as expected, somewhere between “what if we do a Greek goddess” and “what if we just go as Taylor Swift eras,” someone says,

“wait. what about Pride and Prejudice?”

it doesn’t land with applause. not yet.

just a beat of silence. a collective pause. the sound of mental gears turning. recognition.

then,

“actually…” “that’s not bad.” “very academic. teachers’ll love it.” “plus it’s so humss coded.”

hanni doesn’t look up, but she can feel it.

the shift in attention. the glances.

it doesn’t take long.

“and hanni can be elizabeth bennet.”

someone says it casually. like it’s obvious. like it was always going to be her.

the reactions are instant.

“yes.” “oh my god, that’s perfect.” “she literally is elizabeth.” “bookish, intimidating, elegant—check, check, check.”

hanni blinks once, pen still in her hand. then looks up.

“me?”

she doesn’t say no.

she doesn’t even pretend to be surprised.

just leans back slightly in her chair and rests her fingers lightly on her notebook. she doesn’t blush. doesn’t deflect. doesn’t fake humility. instead, she tilts her head, the barest quirk of her mouth tugging up at the corners.

“only if you let me pick the dress.”

someone salutes. someone else starts googling regency outfits. the decision is locked in, written on the board, then circled twice in red.

no one brings up other ideas after that.

the room hums again. the noise returns. they start arguing about whether they can sneak a mini dance scene into the walk.

but hanni stays quiet.

STEM-2

stem classrooms are always loud, but this morning is particularly unbearable.

two groups are shouting across the room about a math handout that was definitely due yesterday. someone in the back is kicking a chair repeatedly, trying to fix a loose screw. the window near your desk refuses to lock, so the curtain keeps flapping in your face every time the wind picks up.

you’re seated near the corner, arms folded on your desk, chin resting in the crook of your elbow. you’re not asleep. just still. just preserving energy. trying not to exist too hard.

your thermos is almost empty.

your flannel is in your bag.

and you have no idea what’s about to happen to you.

“yo,” someone calls out suddenly. “what are we doing for the english thing?”

you don’t look up, but your ears catch the change in tone. the sudden shift from noise to brainstorming.

“let’s just pick Noli or El Fili. again.”

“ugh, no. we’ll look boring.”

“then The Little Prince?”

“that’s GAS’ entry.”

“Animal Farm?”

“too political.”

“wait. wait wait wait. what if…”

the silence before it drops is strangely loaded.

and then,

“She’s Dating the Gangster.”

laughter.

louder this time.

you groan into your sleeve.

“no, no—listen! it’s technically literary. it had a book. it got published. it has a movie adaptation too!”

“plus. wait for it,”

“we make y/n be kenji.”

you freeze.

someone slaps their desk like they’ve just solved global warming.

“YES. it’s perfect. she already wears flannel!”

“and she never smiles.”

“and she has that quiet, moody energy.”

“like if kenji read science textbooks instead of being toxic.”

your eyes lift. slowly. tiredly.

“are you serious right now.”

“dead serious,” one of your classmates says, eyes wide. “just imagine it. y/n in full kenji mode. flannel. skateboard. maybe some fake nosebleed for drama.”

“i’m not doing nosebleed.”

“you don’t even have to talk. just brood.”

“come on,” someone adds. “we’ll make all the props. it’s funny. it’s fresh. everyone else is doing pretentious stuff.”

you shake your head once, unsure if it’s a no or just disbelief. but the room is already moving forward without your permission.

someone calls dibs on printing a giant wattpad logo. another person opens capcut and starts editing a pretend teaser video. someone writes your name down on the class list—doesn’t even ask for a signature.

and you say nothing.

because it’s easier that way. because maybe it is funny. because no one ever picks you for things like this. because you kind of want to see if you can pull it off without looking stupid.

it’s hotter than it should be.

even at seven thirty in the morning, the air feels thick—like it’s holding its breath. the kind of heat that clings, that sinks into your sleeves and settles on the back of your neck. every fan in the building is already turned to the highest setting, but the breeze barely circulates. paper flutters. sweat collects near temples and shirt collars. everyone’s trying not to move too much.

your flannel is folded neatly in your bag. the sleeves ironed twice. the tag itched a little when you tried it on earlier, but you’ll survive. you haven’t put it on yet. not while it’s this humid. not while you're still clinging to the idea that this is all temporary.

your skateboard—still not yours—is tucked beside your desk like a secret. you keep checking to make sure it hasn’t rolled away.

your class is buzzing.

someone’s fixing a heart-shaped backdrop with double-sided tape. someone else is painting a cardboard phone. your group leader is walking in circles, rehearsing your short intro lines aloud, muttering, “we present to you... the angst, the chaos, the flannel-clad heartbreak of She’s Dating the Gangster...”

you’re trying to focus on anything except the fact that soon, you’ll be standing in front of the entire student body. in costume. pretending to be a guy who cries over love letters.

you glance at the lineup sheet posted outside the gym.

there it is. three rows down.

STEM-2 — “She’s Dating the Gangster” representative: Y/N L/N

your throat feels dry.

you look away.

meanwhile, in a classroom two floors up, hanni is fixing the bow at the back of her dress.

it’s a soft powder blue—simple, high-waisted, borrowed from a cousin who collects vintage pieces. it cinches just enough to feel like a costume but not so tight that she can’t breathe. her bonnet is tucked under her arm. she hasn’t put it on yet. the pins are too sharp, and her hair took an hour to get right.

someone’s applying light blush to her cheek.

“you look like you stepped out of a period film,” says the girl holding the brush. “your skin’s literally glowing.”

hanni hums in response, polite. distracted.

she’s been flipping through the mini book she’s bringing with her—Pride and Prejudice, worn cover, ribbon bookmark. it’s more for effect than reading. she knows the quotes by heart already.

“you nervous?” someone asks.

“not really,” she answers. and it’s true. she’s done stage work before. debates. hosting. this kind of attention doesn’t scare her.

but something feels… unsettled.

her eyes flick to the small typed list someone stuck to the wall. each entry, each class. she reads through them like she has a reason to.

she stops at,

STEM-2 — “She’s Dating the Gangster” representative: Y/N

again.

there it is again.

and it sticks.

again.

kenji. you.

she doesn’t know why she keeps noticing your name.

maybe it’s because the contrast makes her laugh. elizabeth bennet and a wattpad skater boy. absurd. maybe that’s why she keeps thinking about it. or maybe it’s because she remembers how still you were during the quiz bee. how you didn’t hesitate. how your name was the last one called when the winners were announced despite winning first place.

hanni presses her palm flat against her skirt.

pull it together.

by nine, everyone is herded into the gym.

it’s a mess of cardboard swords, fake roses, neon-colored wigs, and paper wings held together with paper clips. the fans barely reach the corners. the air smells like glue, perfume, and nerves. it’s loud, sticky, restless.

you’re near the far end of the lineup. your skateboard keeps slipping. someone tries to adjust your name tag and it rips a little.

you’re not talking. just watching the stage from a distance. there’s a hum in your chest. not quite anxiety. just… waiting. bracing.

and then your eyes land on her.

it’s not immediate.

you’re scanning the crowd. blinking through the glare of lights. your classmate says something about fixing your sleeves and you glance up—

and she’s there.

bonnet in one hand. book in the other. dress pale blue against the noise of everyone else’s chaos.

hanni.

your mind doesn’t register the name first. it just registers the shape of her. the stillness of her posture. the way she carries herself like she’s always known how to hold space.

and she’s already looking at you.

not just a glance.

a real, intentional, sustained look.

like she’d been waiting to see you too.

and for a second—just a second—everything else melts.

the gym. the heat. the noise. the cardboard props.

it fades.

you look away first.

but only because your face is getting warm.

you didn’t expect her to move toward you.

not right away.

you thought maybe there’d be a glance—like the ones passed across rooms, like the one she already gave you earlier. fleeting. casual. safe.

but she walks.

past her classmates, past someone adjusting a sash, past the cluster of students asking to borrow blush or pins or cardboard swords. she walks straight to where you’re standing—off to the side of the gym, half in shadow, your skateboard resting against your ankle, your flannel now slightly crooked from all the rushing and heat.

you feel her before you see her.

the air changes. someone’s perfume—soft, floral, definitely not from anyone in your section. you glance up, expecting someone just walking by.

but it’s her.

hanni.

close. closer than you thought she’d ever stand near you.

her dress moves when she walks. powder blue, swaying gently around her knees. her hands are light at her sides, holding nothing, not fidgeting. just still. her eyes meet yours and don’t move away.

“your collar’s bent,” she says quietly. “may i?”

you nod. or maybe you don’t. maybe your body just agrees before your brain catches up.

and then her hands are on you.

gentle. quick. like she’s done this before. she lifts the fabric carefully, presses the fold flat with her fingers, adjusts it like it matters. her touch is warm.

you don’t breathe.

it’s not a dramatic thing. not overly romantic. no slow music. no blushing gasp.

but it’s intimate in a way that throws you off completely.

like she already knew you’d let her.

when she steps back, you feel the absence.

your collar is straight now.

your heartbeat isn’t.

“thanks,” you manage.

she smiles, just barely.

then—without being asked—she reaches out and brushes a tiny speck of glitter from your shoulder. probably from one of the props. still. she takes her time.

“you wear that flannel often?” she asks.

you blink. “sometimes.”

“it suits you.”

and there it is.

simple. not flirtatious. not heavy with anything obvious.

but you feel it sit in your chest.

it suits you.

the gym is still loud. the emcee is testing the mic again. someone is arguing over the playlist. the fans are whirring like they’re about to give out.

but all you hear is that.

it suits you.

"LET'S GO SEXY LOVE!" your classmate shouts. "GO SEXY! GO SEXY! GO SEXY SEXY LOVE!"

for a few seconds, neither of you moves.

the space between you doesn’t feel awkward—it feels deliberate. quiet. like the gym has faded around the edges and left only this little pocket of stillness for you to exist in.

you’re not used to being looked at like this. not with curiosity. not with ease.

you glance at her, unsure if you should say something.

she’s already watching you.

not with intensity. not with a smirk. just... watching. like she’s observing a detail she missed before. like maybe, for the first time, she’s not just seeing a costume—but you inside it.

“you were amazing in the quiz bee, by the way,” she says, out of nowhere.

you blink. “what?”

“the inter-strand one. a few weeks ago. you and your teammate won, right?”

you shift slightly, half-surprised she remembers. “yeah. general knowledge. kind of random.”

“you made it look easy.”

“i was watching,” she adds, softer now. “i wasn’t allowed to join. conflict of interest.”

“student council?”

she nods.

“figured.”

her smile tilts a little higher. “i don’t forget the people who win.”

you want to say something clever. maybe joke about how badly you guessed the last question. or ask if she remembers what you got right. but nothing comes out.

you just nod once, swallowing down the sudden lump in your throat.

hanni’s gaze flicks down to your skateboard resting beside your foot.

“is that real?”

you glance down. “barely. it’s borrowed.”

“do you know how to use it?”

“no.”

“good,” she says, then lifts one shoulder. “because if you tripped in front of everyone today, that would’ve been embarrassing.”

you laugh—small, startled, and real.

“thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“anytime.”

she’s not teasing you exactly. it’s lighter than that. like the kind of comment she’d only make if she already liked you enough to get away with it.

you glance over your shoulder as your classmate waves you over. they’re trying to get all the props in place. someone’s asking who has the speaker. someone else is shouting your name.

but your eyes return to her one last time.

“you look nice,” you say, quietly. awkwardly. like you mean it but still haven’t figured out how to say it right.

she raises an eyebrow, smiled.

then,

“thank you.” “you don’t look bad yourself, kenji.”

and just like that—she turns and walks back toward her section, leaving you there with your heartbeat in your ears and the ghost of her fingertips on your collar.

the gym had only grown louder since the start of the lineup, but the sound felt strangely far from where you were standing. somewhere on the left, a teacher was calling for groupings again, voice straining over the broken mic.

the balloon arch near the photo backdrop had begun to lean slightly to one side, and a group dressed as greek gods was loudly arguing over who should hold the thunderbolt. students shuffled past you in costume—some with swords, others with painted faces—but you stayed where you were, near the edge of the taped floor, gripping the banner pole your class handed you like it was the only solid thing in the room.

the pole was heavier than it looked. you kept adjusting your grip, switching your weight from one foot to the other. sweat had begun to pool lightly along the back of your neck beneath the flannel collar, and though the fans in the gym were on full blast, the air felt thick, like it had absorbed too much noise to move freely.

you weren’t supposed to be here alone, technically. your section had signed up for a pair, but no one else volunteered to dress up. it was a joke, really. a wattpad story. you weren’t even supposed to be kenji—you hadn’t read the book, barely watched the movie, hadn’t cared. but your classmates did. they thought it would be funny. you in a flannel. you with a skateboard. you alone, standing beside cardboard hearts and holding a story that wasn’t yours.

someone in front of the stage began calling out combinations.

“romeo and juliet, get ready. pride and prejudice, you’re after.”

the second name caught your attention, but only briefly. there were likely multiple classes doing pride and prejudice. still, you glanced over your shoulder instinctively, eyes searching for powder blue. and there she was—across the room, near her section’s cluster, standing with the posture of someone who knew exactly how she wanted to be seen.

hanni. ribbon tied perfectly at her collar. book pressed to her side. not talking. just waiting.

the same way you were.

you looked away before she could catch your stare. your grip tightened around the pole again, and you were about to step toward the coordinator to ask where exactly you should be when you heard them,

“solo representatives—please group with other solo reps for the pair photos. start finding your matches now.”

your class didn’t assign an athena. there wouldn’t be a perfect match. you assumed maybe someone else from another wattpad story would be shoved toward you. or maybe the coordinator would just group two unmatched characters for convenience. you’d half prepared yourself to stand beside someone in a generic school uniform holding a plastic rose.

but then—

a shift.

not loud. not announced. just the sense that someone was approaching.

you felt her presence before you actually saw her. light footsteps against the rubberized floor, the rustle of fabric that wasn’t synthetic or shiny like the other costumes—softer. heavier. you turned your head slightly, unsure if you imagined it.

and she was there.

right beside you.

not hesitant. not looking around like she’d wandered into the wrong group. she had walked the full length of the gym, across dozens of other pairings and shouting teachers and confused classmates—direct, certain, unaffected. her book was still tucked under her arm, fingers curled around the edges like it was an accessory she didn’t need but refused to let go of. her gaze didn’t flick around the room or search for instructions. she was only looking at you.

she stopped at your side like she’d always intended to.

you didn’t say anything. you couldn’t—not at first. the closeness of her presence made you acutely aware of everything else. how stiff your collar suddenly felt, how much taller she was than you remembered (it was because of the heels), how your flannel probably smelled like sweat and not soft florals. she didn’t flinch. she didn’t shift away. she simply angled her body to match your direction, her elbow hovering just inches from yours.

“i’m pairing with you,” she said.

no questions. no pause. she didn’t wait for a reaction.

you turned your head slightly, enough to meet her eyes. she didn’t smile, but her lips were curved just faintly upward—like she already knew what you’d say, or what you wouldn’t.

“you sure about that?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. it came out quieter than intended.

she tilted her head, and the edge of her bonnet moved with the motion. “well,” she said lightly, “you don’t exactly have an athena.”

you breathed out through your nose, a tiny huff of amusement. “and you don’t have a darcy.”

hanni glanced sideways at the paper heart on your banner, then up at your face again. “elizabeth bennet and kenji delos reyes,” she murmured. “i think wattpad would approve.”

you didn’t answer, but you didn’t move away either.

someone from the english department—clipboard in hand, too many sheets and not enough hands—called out across the floor. “kenji and elizabeth? you’re next.”

hanni stepped forward before you could.

it wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t possessive. she didn’t grab your arm or tug you forward. she simply walked like the space beside you belonged to her. like she had already taken it without needing to ask.

you followed.

because of course you did.

the photo backdrop was closer to the front of the gym, lined with metallic fringe and a hand-painted banner that read “english month character parade.” it looked like it had been assembled at the last minute. the arch leaned. the letters weren’t perfectly aligned. it didn’t matter. teachers stood just out of frame, giving instructions, pointing to their clipboards like wedding photographers managing an extended family.

“just a simple pose,” someone said. “side by side is fine.”

you stepped into position, lowering the banner. your arms brushed. her ribbon was still tied neatly at her collar. she didn’t shift away.

then, under her breath, she asked, “do you usually smile in pictures?”

you shook your head once. “not unless i have to.”

“good,” she replied. “i think i like you better this way.”

you didn’t have time to think about that before the photographer called out, “ready!”

she turned slightly, just enough that her shoulder grazed yours. you could feel her presence now—close enough to count the stitches on the cuff of her sleeve, to see the way her lashes curled gently above her cheekbones.

“three...”

she looked at you.

“two...”

you were already looking back.

“one...”

the flash went off.

but the moment didn’t end.

her heart is beating a little too fast.

not in a dizzying, breathless way—but in a steady, slow thud, the kind that spreads heat through her chest and down her arms until she forgets what to do with her hands. her fingers twitch around the book. her nails press into the spine. she shouldn’t be affected. she’s done this before. posed for dozens of pictures, stood beside boys and girls and whoever was assigned to match her. she knows how to work a crowd, how to smile for the camera, how to disappear behind her own poise.

but not with you.

you didn’t say anything funny. you didn’t flirt. you didn’t even ask if you were supposed to stand together. you just let it happen. let her happen.

and that—that’s what undoes her.

you hadn’t planned on standing here with her, and yet you didn’t resist it either. there was no panic, no nervous glance at your class, no awkward fidgeting. just the steady calm of someone who saw her walk up and stayed exactly where they were. like it was normal. like it was okay. like she didn’t have to prove anything to earn your attention.

she blinks once, lips pressed together as the photographer gives them a dismissive nod. the photo’s done. they’re free to go.

but still, she doesn’t move.

and you don’t either.

a voice calls out again, louder this time. “next pair!”

hanni finally steps back—not far, just enough to allow air between you. her ribbon brushes against her arm as she turns, and her fingers slip once along the hem of her dress, smoothing out a wrinkle that wasn’t there before. her hand lifts, absently adjusting the bonnet at the edge of her hairline, but her eyes flick toward you again, just for a second, as if to check that you’re still real. still steady.

you are.

you haven’t looked away since she stepped beside you.

and for the first time today, she feels something warm settle low in her chest. not nerves. not fluttering. not even excitement.

just this quiet, startling realization: she wants to know what it would feel like to stand beside you again. somewhere without a crowd. somewhere without a camera.

somewhere where it’s just the two of you, and she doesn’t have to make up an excuse for it.

it starts with a repost.

someone from the student council—probably kazuha from gas 12—uploads the full album from the event onto the facebook group. raw photos, no captions. just the logo watermark on the bottom right corner and a whole string of unfiltered moments frozen in time. there’s a tagged folder for the english month parade. another for debate team. a few blurry shots from the booth exhibits. hanni doesn’t mean to click. she’s at the back of the journalism room, idly sipping from a warm coffee while her teammates crowd around a laptop arguing over next week’s layout. but when her fingers swipe down her feed and land on the familiar backdrop, she pauses.

her photo is in the second row.

not the group shot. not the one where she’s neatly posed with her class. not even the candid where she’s adjusting her bonnet. it’s that one. the one where she’s beside you. where you’re both turned just slightly inward. not quite facing the camera. not quite ignoring it. your shoulders are angled together. your expressions relaxed. the corners of both your mouths have the ghost of a smile—so faint it might be a trick of the lighting. but it isn’t. she knows it isn’t. she remembers that exact moment. the way the air shifted. the way you looked at her. like you weren’t posing. like you were really there.

she taps it. the image expands.

you look calm. understated. the plaid of your flannel is rumpled, your hand resting loosely on the edge of your skateboard prop. you’re not smiling for the camera. not performing. just standing there like the space beside you belonged to her before anyone ever claimed it. and she—elizabeth bennet in borrowed ribbon and stage makeup—is looking right at you. like she’s about to say something. or maybe just finished saying something you’re about to remember forever.

she stares at it longer than she means to.

then quietly, without letting her expression change, she saves it.

no one notices. the screen goes black a second later. she slips her phone back into her skirt pocket and pretends like she hasn’t just made a decision she won’t be able to undo.

her crush sharpens after that.

not loud. not sudden. just heavier. like a new layer of static she’s aware of now, humming faintly in the background of her every thought.

you’re not someone she sees every day. your schedules don’t match. your strands rarely cross paths. but it doesn’t matter. she knows you exist now—knows what you sound like when you laugh under your breath, knows how you tilt your head slightly when someone’s explaining something you already understand. she notices more. she listens more. and when your name comes up, even in passing, even as a punchline, it catches in her chest like a small, clumsy spark.

it happens a week later, in a late afternoon layout meeting.

someone from the photography team—yunjin, probably—is scrolling through edits when she pauses, squints at a zoomed-in shot, and says, “wait. isn’t this kenji girl kind of… hot?”

half the club bursts into laughter.

“oh my god,” one of the juniors says, “wait, she’s from stem, right?”

“i heard she actually skateboards. like legit.”

“wait, what if we add her to the campus cutie corner next month? like a joke feature. ‘miss wattpad.’”

hanni doesn’t look up from her notes. she twirls her pen once between her fingers, pretending not to hear. her jaw tightens slightly, but she keeps her face neutral.

“would she even agree to that?” someone else asks.

“doubt it,” yunjin replies. “she looks like she’d tell us to go away with one eyebrow raise.”

“a heartthrob who doesn’t care,” one of them says, laughing. “kind of iconic.”

hanni clicks her pen once. then again.

“you guys are annoying,” she says flatly, not glancing at anyone. “it was just a costume.”

yunjin laughs. “what, jealous she stole your thunder?”

she scoffs. “please.”

they laugh again, but they drop it.

no one notices the way she grips the edge of the table just a little tighter. no one sees the way her eyes flick toward the half-glimpsed photo still minimized on the laptop screen. no one hears the way her heart trips when she remembers how you stood beside her without asking, how you didn’t flinch, how the photo caught the exact second she realized she might be in trouble.

she breathes out slowly.

tucks the memory deeper.

and when she gets home that night, lying on her stomach with the lights off and her phone close to her pillow, she opens her gallery again.

finds the photo.

stares at it like it might give her an answer she’s not brave enough to ask for.

the smile is still there. faint. real.

and she doesn’t want to stop looking.

the first interaction happens on a thursday.

there’s a planning meeting in one of the ground floor classrooms for an upcoming school-wide exhibit, something tied to both strands—stem for the science installations, humss for the write-ups. it’s the kind of thing student council gets looped into for logistics, and journalism’s pulled in too for documentation. hanni only attends because she was asked to take minutes. her folder’s already prepped, pen clipped to the cover, badge slightly crooked from being pinned on too fast that morning. she’s expecting a dull hour. committee leaders talking over each other. nothing that concerns her directly.

but when she steps into the room and sees you sitting near the back, earphones slung loosely around your neck, hoodie tied to your waist, ankles hooked under your chair—

something in her trips.

you don’t see her at first.

your head’s bent slightly toward your seatmate as you explain something with a quiet certainty. a concept maybe. your hand moves midair like you’re drawing the solution out, not needing the chalkboard. when you finally glance up, the lighting cuts across your face unevenly, casting part of it in shadow. your eyes land on her.

a second.

just one.

but it holds.

you blink. nod slightly.

she nods back.

her usual seat—up front, by the whiteboard—is taken by the committee heads. so she slips into the third row, two columns over from you, and tells herself it doesn’t mean anything.

she tries to take notes. really. she writes the headers. lists the schedules. jots down the distribution of labor. but in the middle of writing “poster printout deadline,” she hears your voice again—clearer now, cutting into the low hum of chatter.

“i can help with wiring the exhibits,” you’re saying. “just give me a map. i’ll make it neat.”

the way you say it is plain, unbothered. but there’s something confident in it too. not loud. not cocky. just sure. sure in the way hanni finds herself liking far too easily.

you’re assigned to tech and visuals. hanni, by chance—or maybe divine punishment—is assigned as liaison for both documentation and coordination.

which means she has to talk to you.

she doesn’t do it immediately. she waits until the others are packing up, until the whiteboard has been wiped clean and the room starts emptying. you’re still seated, bent over your phone, checking a photo of the venue layout. she walks over like it’s normal. like it’s just business.

“you’re taking care of the display wiring?” she asks, voice even.

you glance up. the corner of your mouth lifts just slightly. “yeah. unless someone else wants to get electrocuted.”

she snorts. quietly. against her will.

“i’ll make sure no one touches the panels before they’re labeled,” she says, pen tapping gently against her clipboard.

you nod. “cool. saves me the murder charge.”

the silence between you is brief. not awkward. not rushed. just… still.

her hand stays on the edge of your desk a beat longer than necessary.

and when she walks away, she’s smiling.

she doesn’t realize it until she’s halfway to the journalism room.

it’s nothing.

or at least, it should be.

you’re just sitting outside your strand’s hallway, legs stretched out, back against the wall, a pen tucked behind your ear as you scroll through your tablet. the light is bright overhead—harsh in the way late mornings always are—but you don’t squint. your expression stays soft, a little distant. the kind of look someone wears when they’re trying to focus but their mind is somewhere just left of center.

hanni sees you before you see her.

she doesn’t mean to. she’s on her way back from the supplies room, a box of printed programs balanced carefully in her arms, the edge of her lanyard digging into her collarbone. she tells herself she’ll keep walking. that it’s just another glimpse. nothing new.

but she slows.

not noticeably. not in a way anyone else would clock. just enough that she takes in the way your thumb circles slowly against the glass. the way your eyebrows twitch as you read. the way the heel of your shoe taps once against the tile, like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

you look… ordinary.

not the kind of ordinary that’s forgettable, but the kind that sits in the chest. quiet. rooted. real.

and for a second—just a second—hanni wonders what it would be like to sit next to you. not talk. just… be.

you don’t look up.

she walks past.

her arms ache from the weight of the box, and she’s half-aware of someone calling her name from the end of the hall, but her mind stays back there with you, where the sun hit just right and your sleeve had slipped a little too far past your wrist.

it keeps happening.

the next time is near the entrance, a rainy tuesday where everyone’s crammed under the overhang trying to avoid getting soaked. you’re standing near the edge, hands in your pockets, hair damp from the drizzle, and you’re talking to someone from your class—but not like you’re trying to be heard. more like you’re thinking out loud, tone low, half-asleep. she can’t hear the words, but she doesn’t need to. she watches the shape of your mouth as you speak. she catches the stillness in your eyes when you pause to listen.

she looks away quickly when your head starts to turn.

then later, at a club booth cleanup, she hears your name mentioned offhandedly by a volunteer. something about how you work quietly. how you finish your part then leave without waiting for credit. someone shrugs. “a little weird, but smart.” “stem kids always are.” “kind of cool though.” “cool how?”

there’s a laugh.

“like—cool without trying.”

hanni doesn’t say anything.

her fingers stay curled around the edge of the attendance clipboard, eyes fixed on the schedule pinned to the corkboard beside her. but inside, something clenches. tight. light. awful.

because she knows exactly what they mean.

and it’s starting to get worse.

she finds herself tracking your presence even when she doesn’t mean to. her eyes flick automatically toward the stem building during break. her ears pick up the sound of your laugh during dismissal, even if it’s buried under a dozen others. she notices the way your hair sits differently on days you rush to school. the way you press the heel of your palm against your temple when you’re tired.

and it’s not like she wants to do anything with this knowledge.

not yet.

she just… doesn’t know how to stop collecting it.

it happens on a monday, which surprises her. she’d always imagined it might be a thursday—quieter, slower, gentler. but the school is louder today. messier. it rained the night before and the air still smells like wet cement and faded umbrellas. her hair’s damp near the roots, pressed down from rushing out that morning. her blazer is crooked. she’s on her way to the annex building when she turns the corner and nearly bumps into you.

you’re standing outside the library, your hand already on the glass door, head lowered like you hadn’t expected anyone to cross your path.

and for a second—just one—everything stalls.

you look up.

eyes meet.

and she sees it, clear as day. you recognize her. not just in that polite, nodding way you offer to people you vaguely remember from shared events. it’s sharper than that. steadier. like you were already expecting her to notice you.

maybe you were.

her heart kicks once, loud enough she almost feels it in her ears. and before she can stop herself, before she can let the moment pass like all the others—

“hey,” she says.

your hand pauses against the glass.

“oh,” you reply, blinking, voice low. “hey.”

there’s a beat. not awkward. not quite. just heavy.

hanni shifts her folder from one arm to the other, fingers curling tighter around the edge. “do you have a copy of the new schedule? for the exhibit write-ups?”

you raise your brows. “the one from last friday?”

she nods.

you nod back, reaching into your bag without needing to ask anything else. it’s already printed. folded neatly. no creases. you hold it out, and when she reaches for it, her fingers brush yours.

she almost pulls back.

but doesn’t.

your hand lingers for half a second longer than it needs to. and she doesn’t move.

“thanks,” she says, quieter now.

you nod again. then, just as you’re turning to go, she hears herself speak.

“i liked what you wrote,” she says.

you stop.

your head tilts slightly, curious.

“in the last exhibit,” she adds. “your panel. the one about friction. it was… different.”

you blink slowly, like you hadn’t expected that. then your mouth curves—just a little. that same almost-smile. quiet. contained.

“you read that?”

“i read everything,” she says.

she doesn’t mean for it to sound like a confession. but it lands like one anyway.

you hold her gaze for a moment longer, and this time, she doesn’t look away.

not when you shift your weight. not when your expression softens. not even when you say, quietly, like you’re letting her in on something. “you always notice more than people think, don’t you?”

and for the first time since all of this began—since the photo, the nods, the near-misses—

she smiles, fully.

“maybe,” she says. “depends who i’m looking at.”

you laugh under your breath.

and for once, you don’t walk away.

after that, it becomes a quiet pattern.

you start talking more. not every day. not loudly. not in front of too many people. but enough. enough that your presence becomes familiar. enough that your voice becomes something she can pick out in a crowd. enough that her world starts arranging itself around the times she might cross paths with you again.

it’s small things at first. a few words exchanged during logistics meetings. a quiet nod in the corridor before club hours. a comment scribbled on the margin of a shared draft—your handwriting neat, compact. “this sentence has weight. i’d keep it.” she circles it in red. doesn’t erase it. never even considers erasing it.

then it’s bigger things. you and hanni get paired to edit the full science write-up package for the exhibit. it’s a two-person task that keeps you both in the student council room late one afternoon, seated across from each other, laptops open, air buzzing with old electric fans and soft conversations from the next room.

she notices the way you read. slow. thorough. how you squint a little when the text is too dense, but never skim. how you lean back in your chair sometimes, stare at the ceiling, and whisper the sentence under your breath like it has to sound right out loud before it makes sense in print. it makes her want to watch you work longer than she should.

you ask if she wants to split the last section. she says no. she wants to see how you’d write it first.

when you leave the room that day, she watches the space you leave behind. your water bottle on the edge of the table. she breathes out slowly and presses her palm against her chest like it might settle the quiet ache there.

you start waiting for her too.

not in obvious ways. you just… linger more. hang back when you see her still packing her bag. ask if she’s eaten. mention where you’re headed like maybe she’ll want to walk with you a while. once, when the weather turned and the sky cracked open during last period, you waited by the lobby even though your building had already been dismissed, just to share your umbrella as she rushed out with nothing but a folder over her head.

she thanked you then. said, a little breathless, “i thought you left.”

you shrugged. “wasn’t in a rush.”

her heart was.

she didn’t say it.

neither of you say much about what’s happening. not yet. but the shape of it is there. in how she looks for your face in every crowd. in how you always glance toward her when you laugh, like you want her to see it. in how your conversations linger longer at the ends of meetings. in the way her name sounds different when you say it—gentler. like you’re still getting used to having the right to say it out loud.

and maybe you are.

but for now, that’s enough.

and hanni… doesn’t want it to stop.

the middle is the longest part.

and it’s the one hanni doesn’t want to end.

she doesn’t admit that out loud, of course. not even to herself. but something about this stage—this unnamed closeness, this slow circling of each other in familiar hallways—feels like a secret she doesn’t want to give up. you’re not hers. not yet. not officially. but in the quiet language you’ve built together—timing, tone, the way your eyes meet across the length of a classroom—there’s a closeness that feels like belonging.

like something that doesn’t need a name to be real.

the journalism club starts teasing her.

it starts small. one of the layout editors comments, “stem’s y/n has a nice voice, huh?” while reviewing the audio snippets from a panel interview. hanni doesn’t look up. just nods, steady. “yeah.”

“kind of unexpected,” someone else adds. “i thought she was one of those ‘too serious to talk’ types, but she’s funny.”

hanni wants to say i know. she doesn’t.

she pretends not to hear when someone jokingly calls you her favorite stem girl. laughs too quickly when a friend mentions your name during merienda break. and when someone asks who she thinks has the best smile in the interstrand group photo, she answers, “i don’t rank smiles,” even though she’s memorized the exact moment you looked away from the camera and turned back toward her.

it’s not just the photo, though.

it’s the mornings when you pass each other at the vending machine, and you offer her the last iced choco without even needing to be asked. it’s the group work moments where she’s not even partnered with you, but you quietly shift your chair closer anyway. it’s the way you always say goodbye a little softer to her than to anyone else.

it’s how you never seem in a rush to leave if she’s still there.

one afternoon, the exhibit wrap-up committee decides to eat at a small food court nearby. the others crowd the tables quickly, buzzing from leftover adrenaline, shoving trays and teasing each other. hanni’s scanning the line for seats when she hears your voice.

“here,” you say. “saved one.”

you don’t even look up from your food.

you just pull your tray to the side, make room, as if it was already obvious she’d sit beside you.

she does.

and neither of you say much.

she thanks you once. you hand her a packet of ketchup without her asking. someone across the table jokes about how the two of you always end up beside each other. you smile. hanni stirs her drink with her straw and doesn’t answer.

because she can’t figure out if she’s imagining this—whatever this is—or if you’re both just too quiet to name it.

and maybe that’s the part that scares her.

not the possibility that she’s alone in this. but the possibility that you feel it too—

and you’re both too afraid to reach for it.

it’s past five when she finds you again.

the hallway’s mostly empty. the light outside is soft and low, that kind of gold that makes everything look warmer than it really is. she’s carrying leftover flyers from a guidance office meeting, arms aching slightly from holding the stack too long, when she rounds the corner near the annex and spots you sitting on the steps.

not slouched. not curled up. just sitting. your bag propped beside you, your arms resting loosely over your knees, head tilted back like you’ve been there a while. not waiting. not thinking. just… there.

you glance over when you hear her shoes against the floor.

she slows a little but doesn’t stop. she doesn’t have to. you’re already standing by the time she passes, brushing off your hands as if it gives you something to do.

“want help with that?” you ask.

hanni lifts the stack higher against her chest, eyes flicking toward you for a second too long. “it’s not that heavy.”

you hum. but reach out anyway, sliding half the flyers from her arms with practiced ease. like you’ve done this before. like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

she doesn’t stop you.

you walk beside her, footsteps soft, neither of you rushing.

there’s no conversation. no small talk. just the sound of your shoes and hers against the tile, the occasional creak of a locker hinge, the distant murmur of someone laughing two floors up.

and it’s… easy.

hanni doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath until you speak again, voice barely above the quiet.

“this place gets weird when it’s quiet.”

she glances at you. “yeah?”

“yeah. not in a bad way. just different.” your eyes stay ahead. “feels like everyone’s gone and the walls are taking a break.”

she smiles. not fully. just enough.

when you reach the student council room, she opens the door for you. you step in without waiting and place the flyers down exactly where she would’ve put them. she’s never told you where that is.

you look around after. not nosy, just curious. your eyes flick over the half-clean table, the corkboard, the dent in the bulletin tray that’s been there since july.

“do you hang out here a lot?” you ask.

she shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “not really. just when there’s work.”

“hm,” you murmur. “feels like the kind of room that has a personality.”

she raises a brow. “a what?”

“you know,” you say, like it should be obvious. “some rooms are just… rooms. but this one feels like it remembers things.”

hanni doesn’t know what to say to that. so she doesn’t say anything. just watches you step closer to the corkboard and peer at the latest schedule pinned up.

you don’t ask for anything else. you don’t overstay. you just look around one last time, then turn to her and say, “see you.”

and she nods. “yeah.”

the door closes softly behind you. she listens to the sound of your steps fading down the hall.

and even when it’s quiet again, the room still feels full.

it starts with a small habit.

she begins noticing where you tend to sit. the bench near the annex stairwell during free periods. the side table by the third floor window that catches the afternoon light. she doesn’t mean to look for you. it just happens. her eyes skim the crowd, the corridors, the corners—and when you’re there, something in her shoulders unknots a little.

you’re easy to be near.

you don’t take up space the way some people do. you don’t fill a room to be seen. but there’s something solid about you. something that settles the air around you. and when you speak—when you lean slightly forward in your chair, elbows on knees, voice low and thoughtful—it always feels like you mean it.

one day, she finds you reading under the stairs.

not even hiding. just… tucked away. back against the wall, legs stretched out, fingers curled around the edge of a thin paperback with the library stamp still on it. she pauses at the top of the steps and watches you for a moment before you notice her.

you lift your head. blink. “oh—hey.”

she steps down. doesn’t ask what you’re reading. doesn’t sit beside you. just lingers long enough to say, “is this your usual spot now?”

you smile. nod once. “sun doesn’t hit here. and the wind’s decent.”

she laughs under her breath. “sounds like you’ve done the math.”

“i have,” you say easily.

and then go back to your book.

a few days later, you pass her in the hallway and press a folded piece of scratch paper into her hand. she looks at it once you’re gone. it’s a rough sketch of the third floor—angles and arrows—marking the quietest spots to work depending on time of day. next to one arrow, in your handwriting, best air circulation, limited foot traffic, 3:30 to 4:45.

she keeps it.

it lives in the back pocket of her folder for the next week.

and maybe it’s around then—somewhere between borrowed pens and shared glances—that hanni starts thinking about the flower market.

it’s not romantic. not exactly. at least not in the way she tells herself. it’s just something she remembers hearing about from her older cousin. how the flowers spill out into the street like the scent is too much for the stalls to hold. how some shops let you pick the paper and ribbon if you ask nicely. how it’s loud and busy but oddly peaceful.

you’d like that, she thinks.

she doesn’t know why she thinks that.

but the thought sticks.

she starts looking up the best time to go. checks the jeepney route once on her way home. wonders if it would be too random to ask you. if you’d find it weird. if you’d laugh.

she tells herself she’s just curious. she doesn’t even know what she wants to get.

but sometimes, she catches herself wondering what kind of flowers you’d pick for someone. if you’d be careful. or quick. if you’d be the type to ask the vendor for help, or figure it out by instinct.

the thought makes her stomach twist.

and she still doesn’t ask.

not yet.

not while the moment feels too delicate to name.

deadlines blur. meetings spill into each other. everything feels rushed, but she’s used to that. what she’s not used to is how often she catches herself pausing mid-task just to wonder where you are.

not because she’s waiting for you. she tells herself that. it’s just… habit now. maybe curiosity. maybe comfort. maybe both.

on thursday, she spots you in the science wing stairwell. you’re eating siomai from a wax paper wrapper with one hand, notes in the other, earbuds in. completely still. like the world is loud everywhere except wherever you’ve chosen to sit.

she doesn’t approach. she doesn’t even slow down. she just watches you from the railing above, heart soft and unhurried, like it’s something she’s memorizing.

later, she sees the wrapper in the trash bin near the vending machine. five steps away from where she’ll run into you again.

“long day?” you ask.

“always,” she smiles.

you don’t offer small talk after that. just a quiet nod, a shift of your bag strap, and a slow walk beside her down the path outside the admin building.

you don’t talk. she doesn’t mind.

the silence between you has stopped being awkward. it’s turned into something full. something thoughtful.

and she thinks—if i asked you, would you come with me?

not because of flowers. not because of errands. not because she needs anything.

just because she wants to.

just because it might be nice to walk somewhere with you that isn’t school. somewhere crowded, and noisy, and real. to see you out of uniform. to buy things that don’t have a purpose. to choose something pretty, hand it over, and not explain why.

that night, as she lies in bed with the fan humming low and her notes forgotten at her side, she types a message. then deletes it.

types it again.

hey, are you free saturday?

delete.

do you wanna come with me somewhere? nothing serious. i just… want to go to a place.

still too weird.

she erases it. sighs.

then tries again.

you free on saturday? wanna go to dangwa? yk, the flower place. thought it might be fun!

she stares at it for a full minute.

then presses send.

her chest is already warm with regret. what if you think it’s strange? what if you say no?

but you don’t.

you reply four minutes later.

yeah sure. :)

and that’s it.

no questions. no explanation. just your name on her screen and a quiet yes that doesn’t ask her to pretend it means nothing.

hanni rolls onto her side.

smiles into her pillow.

and doesn’t overthink it for once.

saturday smells like concrete dust and stale bread.

the kind of morning that’s already warm by eight, where the clouds pretend they might rain but never do. hanni wakes up early, earlier than she needs to, and spends a full half hour just staring at her closet. she doesn’t know what you’ll wear. doesn’t know if this counts as casual or casual-but-a-little-more. in the end, she settles on a baby tee and her nicest pair of jeans. not new, but the ones that sit just right on her hips. the ones she wears when she hopes someone might notice.

you meet her outside the gate.

you’re already there when she arrives—leaning against the pole near the waiting shed, sipping from a cold bottled drink with one hand, your other hand tucked into your jacket pocket. not dressed up. not trying to be cool. just you.

but the sight still catches her off guard.

she steps closer, waves once.

you look up, smile. “hey.”

“hey,” she echoes.

the silence after that is light, a little clumsy.

you both start walking toward the jeepney station.

hanni tries to stay calm.

she doesn’t know where you’re going.

she knows the name—dangwa—but not the stops. not the route. she’d looked it up the night before, kind of, but the internet wasn’t helpful. and the one time she passed it before, she was in a car, half-asleep, in the backseat with the windows up.

so when she sees a jeep marked Ilaya–Divisoria, she blurts out, “that one?”

you pause. “ilaya? wait… wouldn’t recto be better since it’s closer?”

she freezes.

you’re not judging. you’re confused.

and that’s worse.

“i… i wasn’t sure,” she says, too quickly. “i just remembered seeing that stop somewhere. i thought maybe—”

you squint at her. not unkindly. just… curious. “hanni, do you know how to get there?”

silence.

she looks at the sidewalk. mutters, “not really.”

and then—you laugh.

not loudly. not mockingly. just a quiet, breathy sound, like this is the softest kind of surprise.

then, just as the wrong jeep pulls to a slow, groaning stop in front of you both, you reach over and take her hand.

not for long. not tightly.

just enough.

your palm is warm.

“come on,” you say. “i’ll show you the other station. it’s just across.”

you lead her across the street, weaving past vendors and puddles that haven’t dried from yesterday’s half-rain. your fingers brush hers once more before you let go. she doesn’t even notice you’ve dropped her hand until yours are in your pockets again.

and that’s when she exhales.

something inside her unclenches.

because for a second—just one—she thought she ruined it.

but you’re still here.

walking just ahead.

waiting for her to catch up.

the jeepney is already half full by the time you reach the correct terminal.

you climb in first, ducking your head, hand steadying the low ceiling. you slide into the far side of the bench without needing to be told, tapping the plastic seat beside you twice—once with your knuckles, once with your palm—as if inviting her without saying anything. hanni sits next to you quietly, knees almost touching, the heavy clang of coins and shifting gears filling the air.

you reach for your wallet.

pull a few coins out.

“two, san lazaro,” you call to the driver.

your voice is calm. like you do this all the time.

hanni watches your hand stretch forward, fingers brushing the palm of the passenger ahead before the fare is passed down. she almost fumbles with her own coins, but you stop her with a small shake of your head.

“i already paid.”

“you didn’t have to—”

you shrug. “you’re the one who got us almost on an ilaya route. consider this your bail fee.”

she flushes, looks away.

but she’s smiling.

the jeepney lurches forward. she grips the metal bar above her lightly, feeling the way her shoulder presses into yours with each stop-and-go. you don’t shift away. you lean back, comfortable, one arm slung behind you along the edge of the seat. your fingers almost graze her hair when the jeep hits a bump.

hanni doesn’t breathe for a second.

then she looks out the window, forces her heartbeat to steady. the sun through the tinted tarp makes everything outside look a little red, a little older, like the city itself is stuck in time.

she sneaks a glance at you.

you’re watching the road with that same quiet expression—alert, but relaxed. like you’re paying attention without needing to control anything. like this whole moment, this ride, this day, doesn’t have to be perfect.

you make it feel easy.

you reach the stop near tayuman in under twenty minutes. no traffic. just the usual honking, the call of vendors, the soft hiss of rubber soles against sidewalk as people begin to hop off. you step down first again, then turn back, offering your hand.

this time, she takes it without hesitation.

it’s not even for balance. she just wants to.

neither of you let go right away.

but when you do, the warmth stays with her.

you don’t use GPS. don’t check your phone. you just start walking, like you’ve done this path before. like your feet already know the way. and when she glances at you, you explain, “i go this way when we visit my cousins. shortcut.”

“so you’ve been before?”

“not really inside. just passed by. but i know where it is.”

she nods.

you don’t walk fast. you let her match your pace. once, when she stumbles a little over uneven pavement, you steady her lightly by the elbow, the contact brief but careful. and every now and then, she catches you looking—not staring, just checking. making sure she’s still okay. still beside you.

the city shifts around you. sidewalks narrow. the air thickens with scent—diesel, mango peels, crushed flowers, faint perfume. horns blare. banners flap above storefronts. hanni tugs at the strap of her bag, wipes sweat from her nape with a tissue from her pocket. beside her, you offer your bottle wordlessly. she takes a sip without protest.

when you finally turn the corner and see the first flower stalls—bright, overflowing, loud with color and faint music—she hears you say, softly, “we’re here.”

and just like that, she forgets every moment she almost backed out.

you knew the way.

you brought her here anyway.

the first thing hanni notices is the smell.

not one scent—many. sweet, earthy, sharp, clean, musky. something like jasmine clings to the air near the entrance, but as she follows you deeper into the street of flowers, the smells shift and wrap around her like ribbons. petals underfoot. plastic buckets full of water. bundles of twine and brown paper curling at the edges.

you turn slightly to look at her. “you okay?”

she nods, eyes flicking from stall to stall.

there are so many colors.

so many shapes.

some flowers she recognizes—roses, sunflowers, tulips in soft pinks and peaches. others she doesn’t know the names of. some look wild, like they were pulled from the side of a mountain. others look almost too perfect, like someone painted them with watercolor and placed them gently into foam.

and the people—there’s noise, but it’s gentle noise. low haggling. laughter. scissors snipping. the flap of newspapers being folded into cones.

it’s hanni who says it.

“let’s buy each other flowers.”

she doesn’t mean to sound excited, but it slips out before she can make it sound cooler. you blink, halfway through adjusting the strap of your bag.

“like, what we think the other person would like,” she adds, trying to sound casual. “just for fun.”

you tilt your head slightly. “really?”

“yeah.”

you smile.

“okay.”

you split up.

not far, but far enough to pretend you’re not watching each other from the corners of your eyes. hanni wanders to the left, into a stall lined with peonies and fat bundles of eucalyptus, trying to act like she isn’t panicking. she picks out a few stems quickly—dainty and soft-colored, the kind she thinks you might like, tied in a bunch with twine. no ribbon. no frills. just something simple. something sincere.

when she turns around, you’re already walking back toward her. and you’re holding a bouquet.

not just a handful.

a real one. wrapped carefully in kraft paper, corners folded neat, a ribbon tied around the base.

you hand it to her without saying anything.

hanni takes it slowly.

she looks down at the colors—warm shades of orange, yellow, a quiet thread of blue near the center.

“you picked this?” she asks, her voice quiet.

“of course,” you murmur. “wanted to get it right.”

her throat tightens.

she holds it closer.

and then—because her chest is doing that thing again, that flutter that climbs up into her mouth and dares her to ruin everything—she says it. light. teasing.

“you know… if this is your way of confessing to me…”

she means it as a joke.

just a little one. just enough to push the silence away.

but you go still.

and instead of laughing, you look at her.

not scared. not startled.

just real.

and when you speak, your voice is soft. not shaky. not too quiet. just soft—like you’re saying something honest you’d been meaning to say for a while.

“it is.”

hanni freezes.

her fingers tighten around the paper wrapping.

you keep looking at her—gently, patiently, like you’ll wait for her to process it.

“i didn’t plan it like that,” you say, “but when i saw the bouquet, i knew it was something i wanted to give you. not as a joke. not just for fun. just because it’s you.”

she doesn’t know what to say.

so she doesn’t.

you shift the bunch she gave you into your other hand, rubbing your thumb gently along the stems.

“i really like you, hanni.”

she’s still holding the bouquet, but she doesn’t look at it anymore. she’s looking at you. at the way your mouth softened after you said it, how your fingers absentmindedly trace the paper wrap of the bunch she gave you. your voice still echoes in her ears. i really like you, hanni. not a joke. not a question. not something tossed out with the usual charm of someone who always knows what to say.

you said it like it was something you had decided a long time ago. and now you were simply handing it to her, like a truth you’ve been waiting to give.

her hands tighten around the bouquet in her arms, crinkling the brown paper. her throat feels tight. the scent of sunflowers and marigold and whatever the pale blue ones are—all of it lingers near her nose, grounding her. and yet, it’s not enough to stop the way her pulse rises, slow and strong, like it’s climbing from her chest to her face.

you’re not nervous. or if you are, you hide it well. you just stand there, watching her like you’re okay with whatever she decides to do next. like you’re not expecting her to say anything back unless she means it.

she should laugh. she wants to. make it into a joke again, like she always does when things get too warm, too real. but it doesn’t come. because this doesn’t feel like something she wants to hide behind humor.

her voice comes out quieter than she means. “you’re not supposed to say it like that.” her eyes flicker down to the bouquet again. “i was only joking.”

you tilt your head slightly, and she can tell you're not mocking her. “but i wasn’t.”

the words slip between you like something gentle, not meant to be argued with. she looks up again. your expression is the same as earlier—soft, calm, honest. not pushing. just… waiting.

“you’re so calm about it,” she says. it almost sounds like a complaint. “i didn’t think you’d like me back.”

“why not?” you ask it like you genuinely want to know.

and hanni almost laughs again, not because it’s funny, but because how do you not see it? because she’s spent the past month watching you be exactly the kind of person she never thought she’d be brave enough to like this way.

you—who knows the way to every shortcut across the city without checking your phone, who doesn’t talk unless you mean it, who won the quiz bee and didn’t even act like it was a big deal. you who treated her kindly without trying to impress her. like you didn’t need to. like she was already worth it.

she swallows. “because i’ve liked you longer. and it didn’t feel fair.”

you blink, slowly. your hands still. you don’t smile. you just take it in like it’s something delicate. you nod, then say, “that’s okay.” and you say it the way you said everything else—simply. gently. like it’s not a flaw. like it’s not something that changes anything.

hanni’s heart feels like it’s being pressed between both palms, held open and exposed and completely, devastatingly full. she doesn’t know how long you’ve been standing like this—two girls holding flowers in the middle of a market that smells like wet stems and midmorning sun.

the sounds around you haven’t changed. sellers haggling, buckets scraping, paper rustling. but to her, it’s all turned to blur. the only thing she can feel clearly is the weight of the bouquet in her arms, the weight of your eyes on her, and the weight of what you just gave her without asking for anything in return.

then—like her body suddenly remembers it exists—her stomach growls.

loudly.

you blink once. she wants to disappear.

“i—sorry,” she mumbles, half-shielding her face with the flowers. “i didn’t eat breakfast. i didn’t think it’d go this well.”

you let out a soft laugh, and the sound makes her want to smile and cry all at once. “jollibee?” you say. “we can walk to sm san lazaro.”

“isn’t that kind of far?”

you adjust your grip on the bouquet you’re still holding. “not really. besides, it’s the only thing i can afford after buying your flowers.”

her mouth twitches. she lowers the bouquet, peeks at you from over the petals. “that was your entire lunch budget?”

you nod, then look down for a second. and when you glance back up, you say it like it means everything, “but pretty girls deserve pretty flowers.”

this time, she doesn’t hide.

she just stares at you, the softest look blooming behind her eyes. like she’s letting herself believe that maybe—just maybe—she gets to keep this.

she steps forward, not saying anything, but close enough now that the edges of your sleeves brush. and when you turn to lead the way, she follows.

because she’s hungry.

but mostly, because you chose her.

the walk to san lazaro isn’t short, but hanni doesn’t mind.

you lead without rushing, your steps steady, one hand still carefully cradling the bouquet she gave you. you don’t talk much at first. but it isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable. like both of you are still floating in the quiet after something important. like the words already spoken are still echoing between your ribs.

she steals glances at you every few steps. not because she’s waiting for you to say more, but because she likes the way you walk. calm. thoughtful. like you’re already thinking about how to make her laugh again. and maybe it’s silly, but she feels oddly safe next to you. like even the cracks in the sidewalk won’t trip her with you beside her.

the sun hangs low now, casting the sky in that soft gold that makes even the dust in the air look pretty. shadows stretch long across the pavement. you walk close—not quite brushing arms, but enough that the warmth of you reaches her skin with every sway.

you glance at her once. “you okay?”

she nods. “are you?”

you smile a little. “i think i’ve been okay since you said you liked me back.”

she doesn’t know how to respond to that.

so she doesn’t.

just smiles to herself and focuses on the sound of your shoes scraping lightly against the edge of the curb, the way you step off to avoid a puddle without letting go of the flowers, the way your free hand occasionally bumps into hers.

you point out a shortcut through a quieter street with less people. she follows without thinking. and when a motorbike speeds too close to the edge, you instinctively reach out, hand lightly on her back, guiding her to the other side. your fingers leave heat behind even when they fall away.

she thinks you don’t notice.

but you do.

she sees it in your eyes when you glance at her again, slightly shy, like even you weren’t ready for how much that moment mattered.

by the time SM comes into view, the sky has shifted into that washed-out orange-gray, clouds stretching thin above the rooftops. the sidewalks are busier here. more foot traffic. more noise. but you never stop checking if she’s still beside you.

jollibee is lit up bright, warm and busy. the smell of oil and gravy and spaghetti sauce drifts into the open air, familiar and oddly comforting. inside, there’s a line—but not a long one. you nudge her gently forward when it’s your turn to order.

“what do you want?”

she blinks. “wait—i thought we were splitting?”

“i got it,” you say, already pulling your wallet from your back pocket. “it’s only fair. you’re the one who almost fainted from hunger.”

“i did not—”

“near-fainted,” you correct with a smirk.

she huffs, crossing her arms, but the smile pulls at her lips anyway. “fine. then i want chickenjoy. with palabok. and a peach mango pie.”

“wow.”

“you said it’s your treat.”

you don’t argue. just order it all, along with a two-piece burger steak for yourself. she notices how you double-check the price before handing over the bills, your thumb holding back one crumpled corner so it fits in the tray properly.

you choose a corner table by the window, far from the door, where the light is low and the aircon hums just loud enough to make things feel private. she sits across from you, setting her bouquet carefully on the seat beside her. you do the same.

the tray lands between you, and for a moment neither of you says anything. just unwrapping utensils. unfolding napkins. she picks at the edge of her plastic spoon.

then you say, softly, “this is really nice.”

she looks up.

“being here,” you add, like you don’t want her to misunderstand. “with you.”

her stomach flips again—but not from hunger this time.

she toys with the edge of the pie box. “you’re going to make me cry in jollibee.”

you raise your eyebrows. “do i get a reward if i succeed?”

“depends.”

“on?”

she meets your gaze across the table. the lights catch in your lashes, your hair slightly messed from the wind earlier. your cheeks are still a little red. or maybe that’s just the glow of the overhead bulb.

“whether you want this to be our first date,” she says.

you pause.

then you reach for your fork. stab a piece of burger steak. chew slowly, eyes still on hers.

when you swallow, you smile.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it is.”

you watch her eat like you’ve never seen someone enjoy palabok so seriously in your life. she twirls it neatly around her fork, mouth full, nodding like she’s evaluating the taste with a kind of reverence.

you’re halfway through your burger steak, sitting a little back into your seat now, more relaxed than earlier. something about this corner of the jollibee feels suspended—like the world outside has gone dimmer, quieter, and you both stepped into something warmer by accident.

she takes another bite and then looks at you, her expression unreadable.

“you bought me flowers. then confessed. and now you’re feeding me jollibee?”

you blink, a little caught off guard, your cup still halfway to your lips. “yeah?” you offer, uncertain if she’s about to tease or accuse.

she doesn’t answer right away. just stares. her eyes glint like she’s decided something. then—completely serious—

“...i’m going to marry you.”

you choke. hard. you have to set your drink down so you don’t spill it all over the tray.

she’s already hiding her face behind the bouquet, the wrappers of her chickenjoy cracking softly as she leans over the table like she’s hoping the petals will swallow her whole.

“you can’t just say things like that,” you cough, still trying to recover.

her voice is muffled behind the flowers. “you confessed first.”

“yeah, but—”

“and bought flowers.”

“yes—”

“and you’re feeding me.”

“because you were hungry!” you don’t mean to sound defensive, but it comes out anyway.

her laugh spills out from behind the bouquet like a small ripple. it’s not loud, but it’s real. warm. relaxed in a way she doesn’t get to be very often.

she lowers the flowers slowly and meets your eyes across the tray.

“okay, fine,” she says. “maybe not marry. but definitely... like.” her gaze softens. “a lot.”

you say nothing for a second.

then you reach over slowly, push the large fries closer to her side of the tray.

“i was going to eat that,” you say. “but i’ll let you have it.”

she looks down at the fries. then at you. “is this... your second confession?”

“third,” you say. “the bouquet was the first.”

her smile curves small and secret at the edges. and before the quiet gets too heavy again, she speaks—voice a little lower this time, words gentler.

“you know what’s funny?” she says, eyes on her fork as she stabs the edge of her palabok. “i didn’t even plan the flower market thing that far. i just… wanted to be near you. and i thought flowers would be a good excuse.”

you look at her, confused. she shrugs, cheeks tinting a little pink.

“it’s stupid,” she mumbles. “but i thought, if i brought you somewhere soft and pretty, maybe you’d let me stay a little longer.”

you go quiet.

not because you don’t know what to say—but because that—what she just said—is maybe the most honest thing anyone’s told you all week.

you slide your drink across the table slowly. “want a sip?”

she looks at it. then up at you. “only if it means you’ll let me kiss you later.”

you choke again.

this time she doesn’t hide. she just grins at you over the rim of her paper cup like she’s proud of herself. and maybe a little in love.

you don’t say anything right away. you’re still coughing.

but your smile never fades.

she doesn’t press. just nudges her peach mango pie toward the middle of the tray, like an offering. you pretend not to notice. and she pretends not to notice that you’re pretending not to notice. the silence settles in again, but it’s different now—warmer. fuller. like something shared instead of something empty.

you both eat slower after that. not in a drawn-out, awkward way—just naturally. there’s no rush anymore. the nervousness has melted into something quieter. your shoulders don’t feel as tense. her laughter comes easier. even the way you drink from your paper cup softens, like the ice inside isn’t the only thing melting.

she finishes the last of her chicken and rests her cheek lightly against her fist, watching you nibble on the cold end of your burger steak. the flowers sit untouched beside you both, but not forgotten. their scent still clings to the air between you, mixed with the steam from your trays and the faint smell of gravy from the next table over.

“you look happy,” she says eventually, just above a whisper.

you glance up. the corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile.

𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐌 ── ❝ Crystals? As a gesture?... ❞

“Pfft, of course!” Hanni replied matter-of-factly, “just like how you gave me coins for that gum-ball machine we passed earlier… but who's keeping track of all that stuff anyways?”

“You, apparently...,” you said as a gentle laugh escaped your lips at her quirky reply, “but touché, Hanni Pham... what should I do with these?”

“Hmmm,” she hummed, cupping your right palm in her own as the colorful stones glittered beneath the mall’s sunroof, “you can put them under your pillow at night!... o-or maybe even stash them in your purse so you can think about me wherever you go!”

“As if I'd need a crystal’s assistant with that,” you teased, ruffling her hair slightly with your free hand. “These are cool, though,” you went on, heart warming at both the feeling of your hand in hers and at the unique gift, “very sweet of you...”

“Eh, I tryyyy,” she replied smugly, right before blowing a tiny pink bubble with the gum she chewed, only to spit the leftover candy into a napkin and ask, “wanna close your eyes and guess what flavor you taste on me?...”

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐇 ── ❝ I like your sweater… ❞

“Oh, this old thing?” Danielle asked with her warm Australian accent, taking the colorful sweater’s hem in her fingers to examine it's loose threads, “My nana knit this for me like... forever ago...”

“Well it's cool to see she was a step ahead of fashion trends back then,” you smiled, letting your hand brush over the soft yarn of her sleeve... That's when a certain question arose in your head:

“Random, but by chance, are you any good with using chopsticks?” You asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, for sure! I’m basically a pro at it,” she boasted, flipping her curly locks in a cartoonish manner.

“Sweet! I have two coupons for two different places. One for a craft store, and another for a sushi bar… only thing is that they both expire tomorrow,” You went on, hoping that she'd catch your drift without you having to state any specifics...

“Oh? Well it'd be a total bummer to let them go to waste,” she shrugged, hooking her arm in yours before tugging you along with her, “we better get going quick before they run out of sashimi… or yellow yarn…”

𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍 ── ❝ Can I come in please...? ❞

You heard a gentle voice call from behind your bedroom door, face buried into the largest pillow you could find given the sob-fest you had earlier…

“The door’s unlocked,” you sniffled, turning over on your bed to face her as she peaked from behind the door, her bright smile not even fading at the sight of you.

“I brought some heartwarming treats and DVD’s!” She began, voice just as pleasant as it always was. Haerin made her way to sit beside you on the bed, opening one of your favorite candy bars and handing it to you.

“How’d y’know I was upset?” You asked before taking a bite of the candy, chuckling a bit at the way she watched you so intently while doing so.

“I didn’t,” she went on plainly, “… I already wanted to surprise you today and just got lucky that it ended up being at a time where you needed it most…”

“Awww,” you pouted, dropping the candy bar to pull her into a hug, “you’re literally the best friend I could ask for, Haerin… thank you for coming to see me…”

“Of course,” she whispered, mind lingering on the word friend for a moment, even though she was certain you meant something a little more than that…

“So,” she began again, breaking from the contact and reaching for the TV remote, “Wanna rewatch Mean Girls or Clueless first?”

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐈𝐍 ── ❝ Can I touch your hair? ❞

You asked the question for one reason: You were bored out of your mind from waiting at the bus stop, and playing with Hyein’s hair seemed like a fun way to pass the time…

“Oh, sure!” She chirped, immediately straightening her posture on the park bench as you scooted closer to where she sat, taking her wavy locks into your grasp.

Hyein’s round eyes wandered to the sparkly pink Juicy Couture purse you wore over your shoulder, compelling her to ask, “What’s in the bag?”

“Oh- just some barrette’s and hair clips I got from Claire’s yesterday,” you replied, pausing to click open your purse and show her the different kinds, “Thought you might be interested in some extra bling, so…”

“You know me far too well then, ____,” she smiled, scanning each package with her eyes before suggesting that you decide which hair-clip style she would wear, and vice versa.

You let out a simple “Okay” at her offer, reaching for the pack of silver shooting stars for her hair while she held the pack of butterfly clips beside your face, a satisfied look spreading across her features.

“These are gonna look gorgeous on you,” Hyein smiled, right before opening the pack of butterflies clips and popping a few different colored ones in her palm, “This is too fun already, hehe… I can decorate your hair first, right?…”

ʚ 𝐀𝒰𝐓ᕼ𝕆𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝕆T𝐸: I decided to explore the wlw genre for a change, and I have no one other than @jwanniie to thank for inspiring me to experiment on my platform in such a way through her works... I've always wanted to write for my fav GG's just like how I write for my fav BG's, but simply never found the courage to until now ~ Hopefully you guys enjoyed what I came up with! ɞ

❖ 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ( 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 💌 ) @squoxle @nikisvanillaccola @wonbinisbabygurl @ashgonedash @yourmomscuntis2tighy @addictedtohobi @ot7sevenlvr -> if GG content isn’t your thing, pls lmk and I’ll refrain from tagging you in such posts moving forward :3

Startled, you looked up, your heart skipping a beat as you met her gaze. There she stood, the popular girl everyone knew, her presence commanding the small space. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her face, and her eyes, bright and inquisitive, were fixed on you. 

You had always admired Hanni from afar, her warmth and kindness setting her apart from the rest, but in this unexpected encounter, you couldn’t help but brace yourself for the worst. The echoes of cruel laughter from your peers lingered in your mind, and despite knowing that Hanni wasn’t like the others, a part of you feared that she might still find a way to mock you, just as so many others had done before.

Yet, as you stood there, words caught in your throat, you realized that the girl before you seemed genuinely interested, her expression free of malice. There was no hint of the cruelty you had grown accustomed to; only the simple, honest curiosity of someone who recognized you and wished to connect.

You watch her through the veil of your lashes, barely daring to breathe as you hum in response to her question. The gentle sound of your confirmation seems to light up Hanni’s face, and you find yourself captivated by the way her smile widens, a warmth blooming in her eyes that seems to chase away the lingering shadows of the early morning.

“That’s so cool,” she murmurs, her voice soft and almost reverent as she takes in the cozy atmosphere of the café. The sincerity in her words takes you by surprise, and before you can stop it, a faint blush rises to your cheeks, your heart fluttering in a way that’s both unfamiliar and strangely comforting.

Gathering the courage to speak, you mumble, “What can I get you?” The words are barely above a whisper, your anxiety weaving them into a quiet melody that seems to float between you. Yet, despite your hushed tone, Hanni hears you, her gaze shifting to the menu hanging above you as she ponders her choice.

Her cheeks puff out slightly as she thinks, a gesture so endearing that it momentarily distracts you from your own nerves. You can’t help but notice the way her fingers fidget with the straps of her backpack, a subtle sign of her own anxiety. Somehow, seeing this small vulnerability in her makes you feel a little more at ease, as if you’re not the only one grappling with uncertainty in this unexpected moment.

“I’d like a lemon poppy seed muffin,” Hanni finally decides, her voice breaking the quiet. You quickly enter her order into the register, your fingers moving almost automatically as you try to steady your racing thoughts. Just as you’re about to hand her the receipt, she speaks again, her next question catching you off guard.

“What cold drink would be good with the muffin? There are so many options here that I wouldn’t know where to even start,” she admits with a light laugh, her eyes meeting yours once more.

The question hangs in the air, and for a moment, you’re at a loss for words. But then, you realize she’s genuinely seeking your opinion, and the thought fills you with a quiet sense of responsibility, as though this small decision is more important than it seems.

You take a moment to consider her question, the weight of her expectant gaze making your heart flutter. After a brief pause, you finally gather the courage to speak, your voice soft but sincere. “Well, I personally am a fan of the blue lemonades we have here. It’d pair well with the muffin.”

The morning light seems to dance in Hanni’s gentle eyes as she listens, her smile widening with a warmth that feels like the sun’s first embrace. She nods, her decision made with an easy grace that makes your chest tighten in the best possible way. “Well, then please add a blue lemonade to my order,” she says, her tone filled with a sweetness that lingers in the air like the scent of freshly baked pastries.

You nod, feeling a sense of quiet satisfaction as you prepare her drink, the task becoming almost meditative under the soft glow of her attention. The way she watches you, so trusting and kind, makes you want to do everything just right, to ensure that her experience is as lovely as she is.

When you finally hand her the cool, vibrant blue lemonade, the smile that spreads across her face as she takes the first sip is nothing short of enchanting. There’s a delightful hum that escapes her lips, a sound of pure contentment that resonates in the small space between you, and it’s all you can do to keep your composure.

Even as you clock out and begin your walk toward school, the memory of that moment clings to you like a cherished melody. You can still see her, bathed in the soft morning light, savoring the drink you had carefully prepared. The image of her satisfied smile and the gentle hum of approval replay over and over in your mind, a loop of warmth and wonder.

As you walk, you can’t help but marvel at how someone could possess such an infectious gentleness, a quality that seemed to radiate from her in waves, touching everything around her with its light. It leaves you pondering the possibilities of what it would be like to know her better, to be in the presence of someone who carries such precious warmth within them.

Throughout the day, you caught fleeting glimpses of Hanni as she navigated the bustling corridors of the school, her presence commanding attention without effort. She moved with a graceful ease, surrounded by the usual throngs of admirers and friends, her laughter a melodic thread that wove through the cacophony of voices. It was nothing out of the ordinary—just Hanni being the bright, beloved figure she always was.

But then there was that moment. A moment that took you by surprise, slipping into your day like a whispered secret. Seeking refuge from the noise and chaos of school life, you had retreated to your usual hiding spot behind the school building. It was a place technically off-limits, a secluded nook that offered a rare pocket of silence, where you could steal a few precious moments to yourself. Despite the risk to your perfect record, the solace it provided was worth it, and so you continued to visit, cloaked in the comfort of your solitary sanctuary.

Unbeknownst to you, Hanni had spotted you slipping away and, driven by a quiet curiosity, decided to follow. You were completely unaware of her presence until you looked up to find her standing there, her figure framed by the soft light filtering through the trees. She smiled down at you with that same kind, gentle glint in her eyes, the warmth of her expression melting away the edges of your solitude.

Caught off guard, you felt your heart race as you struggled to find something—anything—to say. Your hiding spot, once a bubble of safety and comfort, suddenly felt exposed under her gaze. Yet, there was no judgment in her eyes, only a serene interest that made you feel oddly understood, as if she, too, sought moments of quiet in a world that never seemed to slow down.

As she approached, your thoughts wavered, torn between wanting her to stay and wishing to retreat back into the silence that had been your companion. But before you could resolve the conflict in your heart, the moment was interrupted. Hanni’s name rang out from across the courtyard, one of her friends calling her back to the lively world she inhabited.

For a brief second, Hanni hesitated, her gaze lingering on you. Then, with a timid wave and another one of those radiant smiles that seemed to light up the air around her, she turned and rejoined her friends, leaving you alone once more. But even as she walked away, the flutter in your chest remained, a gentle echo of the unexpected encounter that left you wondering what might have been had she stayed just a little longer.

You had initially assumed that Hanni’s sudden interest in you, sparked by that brief encounter at the coffee shop, would fade into a distant memory by the next day. It seemed impossible that someone like her would remember you, let alone seek you out again. So when the gentle chime of the bell above the door signaled the arrival of a new customer, you had no reason to expect anything out of the ordinary.

But as you turned your attention from the old, well-worn coffee machine to the door, your breath caught in your throat. There she was, Hanni Pham, her presence as radiant as the morning light spilling through the windows. Her bright eyes locked onto yours, and her smile—so warm, so familiar—seemed to light up the entire room. In that instant, you froze, your mind struggling to process the reality of her standing there, just as it had the day before.

For a moment, you could only stare, wide-eyed and motionless, as she patiently waited for you to finish preparing the coffee for the customer before her. Her unwavering gaze held a kindness that made your heart skip a beat, and by the time you moved back behind the cash register, your hands were trembling, betraying the nervous excitement bubbling within you.

“Hi again,” she greeted you with a polite bow, her voice carrying a surprising cheerfulness that contrasted sharply with your own weary state. There was no trace of the exhaustion you felt from the early morning hours, only an infectious energy that made it impossible not to smile in return.

Despite your nerves, a timid smile found its way to your lips as you mirrored her bow, your heart fluttering at the sight of the school’s most popular girl standing before you once more. Hanni’s presence seemed to fill the space around her with a brightness that made everything else fade into the background, and as you met her gaze again, the familiar sensation of your pulse quickening reminded you just how deeply her unexpected attention affected you. 

“Hello,” you managed to reply, though your voice was softer than you intended, a reflection of the sudden shyness that had taken hold of you. There was a slight tremor in your words, a delicate vulnerability that felt impossible to hide. “Welcome back. What can I get for you today?”

Hanni’s smile remained unwavering, a warm, gentle curve that seemed to carry the morning’s light within it. You couldn’t help but notice how the early sunrays, filtering through the shop’s windows, wrapped around her figure like an ethereal halo, casting her in a soft, almost angelic glow. It was as if the world conspired to make her appear even more enchanting, and you found yourself momentarily lost in the quiet radiance she brought with her.

“Yesterday’s muffin was delicious,” she began, her voice as sweet as the treats you served. “But my favorite was the blue lemonade you suggested. So I came back to order it again.” Her words were simple, yet the sincerity in her tone made your heart flutter. As she stepped closer to the counter, resting her elbows on the surface and cupping her cheeks with a childlike charm, you felt a warmth spread through your chest.

The proximity between you suddenly felt too close and yet not close enough, creating a dry lump in your throat that you struggled to swallow. Her presence was almost overwhelming, an intoxicating mix of kindness and curiosity that left you feeling exposed. You nodded timidly, your fingers moving to enter her order into the cash register, though your mind was a flurry of emotions that threatened to unravel your calm facade.

The price of her order tumbled out of your mouth in a hurried, tangled mess, your voice betraying the nervousness that had taken root within you. Desperate to escape the intensity of her gaze, you quickly turned your back to her, focusing all your attention on preparing her drink. The simple task became a lifeline, something to anchor you as you navigated the storm of feelings that her presence had stirred up.

Even as you busied yourself with the routine motions of mixing the drink, you couldn’t shake the awareness of Hanni standing just a few feet away. Her energy filled the space between you, a subtle yet undeniable force that pulled at the edges of your composure. You wondered if she could sense the effect she had on you, if she noticed the way your hands trembled slightly as you worked. And as you prepared her blue lemonade, you couldn’t help but feel that this small, shared moment was something more—something significant that neither of you fully understood yet.

Eventually, you mustered the courage to turn and face her, offering a shy smile as you gently placed her order onto the counter. Hanni hadn’t moved from her spot, still resting her elbows on the counter, her face delicately cradled in her hands. There was a peculiar sense of intrigue in her gaze, a quiet curiosity that sent your heart into a sudden, uneven rhythm. The way she watched you, as if you were the most fascinating thing in the room, made it nearly impossible to meet her eyes.

With a polite bow, you expressed your gratitude for her purchase, though your voice felt small under the weight of her attention. But Hanni didn’t move, her fingers tightening slightly around the paper bag that held her breakfast, a subtle sign of nervousness that mirrored your own. You tried to focus on anything else, but the magnetic pull of her presence was inescapable.

As the silence stretched between you, curiosity finally got the better of you, and you hesitantly looked up, wondering if there was something more she wanted. But the sight that greeted you left you breathless—a soft gasp escaping your lips as your eyes fell on the small daisy held delicately in her free hand. The sight of it was unexpected, and yet it felt like a small, precious gift, laden with unspoken meaning.

Hanni’s cheeks were tinged with a delightful shade of crimson, her flustered expression revealing a vulnerability that only endeared her to you more. There was something so sincere, so utterly charming about the way she stood there, clearly uncertain but still daring enough to offer this simple token.

Before you could find the words to respond, Hanni quickly placed the daisy on the counter, her movements rushed and clumsy, as if she were caught in a whirlwind of emotions. And just as swiftly as she’d offered the flower, she turned and hurried out of the store, her departure leaving you standing there in a daze, the tiny daisy resting between you as the only evidence of the moment you’d just shared.

As you stared at the delicate flower, a smile slowly spread across your face, the warmth of the encounter lingering long after Hanni had gone. There was a quiet magic in that brief exchange, something that left your heart fluttering with possibilities you hadn’t dared to imagine before.

The delicate petals of the daisy, left thoughtfully on the counter, held your gaze as you turned it over in your fingers. It seemed to have been plucked from someone's garden, its simplicity making the gesture all the more touching. A warmth spread through your chest, swelling your heart with a mix of surprise and quiet joy. You couldn't help but giggle softly, the sound escaping as you replayed the moment in your mind—the timid way Hanni had offered the flower, her usual composure replaced by an endearing awkwardness.

It felt almost surreal to think of Hanni Pham, the girl admired by so many, standing before you in such a flustered state. At school, she was always the picture of confidence, effortlessly navigating the throngs of students who adored her. Yet here she was, reduced to nervousness by something as simple as a daisy. The contrast was striking, and it made the encounter feel all the more intimate, like you had glimpsed a side of her that few others ever saw.

As your shift came to an end, you reluctantly changed into your school uniform, your thoughts still lingering on the unexpected exchange. Carefully, you slipped the daisy into the front pocket of your shirt, feeling its gentle weight against your heart. The thought of seeing Hanni again at school filled you with a mix of anticipation and hope. Perhaps she would notice the flower in your pocket, and understand just how much you appreciated her sweet, unspoken message.

But as the day wore on and you wandered the familiar hallways, your eyes scanning the crowds, a sense of disappointment began to creep in. No matter where you looked, Hanni was nowhere to be found. The absence of her bright smile and warm presence left you feeling strangely empty, as if a small but significant part of your day was missing. And as the hours passed, you couldn't help but wonder if the moment you'd shared had meant as much to her as it had to you, or if it had simply been a fleeting gesture, lost in the flow of time.

Two days had slipped by since Hanni Pham last stepped into the cozy coffee shop where you worked, and though she had only visited twice before, her absence was keenly felt. A quiet sense of disappointment settled over you, mingled with confusion at the sudden shift between you. What had changed? Had you somehow messed up her lemonade in your nervousness the last time she was there? The thought nagged at you, as did the unsettling possibility that her visits had been part of some cruel joke—a way for her and her friends to laugh at your awkwardness.

Yet, despite these doubts, the daisy she left behind held your skepticism at bay. It was a simple, delicate thing, but it had spoken volumes—a gesture that seemed too genuine to be part of any prank. The memory of that moment, her flustered expression and the way she had hurried out of the shop, kept replaying in your mind, offering a glimmer of hope amidst your uncertainty. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her visits than met the eye.

Since then, you had crossed paths with Hanni a few times, though each encounter was more awkward than the last. Every time your eyes met across the school grounds, a flush would creep up her cheeks, and she would quickly avert her gaze before hurrying off, leaving you standing there with a mix of bewilderment and curiosity. It was as if the daisy had created an invisible thread between you, a connection that neither of you fully understood yet couldn’t ignore. And as the days passed, you couldn’t help but wonder what had really changed, and whether that fragile thread would ever be strengthened—or if it would simply unravel, leaving you with nothing but the memory of a fleeting smile and a flower wilting in your pocket.

You found yourself staring through the large windows of the coffee shop, eyes narrowed at the relentless downpour outside. The rain fell in heavy sheets, turning the world beyond the glass into a blur of gray and silver. The day had begun with a slight humidity hanging in the air, a remnant of the previous night's showers. You'd assumed that as the hours passed, the weather would warm, and the clouds would part. Yet here you were, watching as the rain refused to let up, silently cursing yourself for not bringing an umbrella—just in case.

Frustration simmered within you as you glanced toward your sleepy boss, who was slowly shuffling through receipts at the counter. Hope flickered briefly as you approached him, thinking perhaps he might have a spare umbrella stashed away somewhere—something to shield you from the impending drenching on your walk to school. But when he looked up at you with a pitiful expression, his lips forming a small, regretful frown, your heart sank. The unspoken words hung between you: there was no umbrella, no shelter from the storm.

The realization settled over you like a damp fog, and your shoulders slumped in resignation. You would be forced to face the harsh rain, its cold fingers reaching for you the moment you stepped outside. The thought of trudging through the downpour, schoolbag clutched protectively to your chest, sent a wave of irritation coursing through you. Yet, beneath that frustration, a quiet resolve began to form. You could handle a little rain, even if it meant arriving at school soaked to the bone. The day, after all, had to go on, and so would you—even if it meant battling the elements on your own.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for the discomfort awaiting you—a day where your clothes would cling to you like a second skin, soaked through with rainwater. The thought of spending hours in a wet uniform, cold and miserable, while enduring the stares of your classmates made your stomach twist with dread. There was no escaping it now, though, and no one to blame but yourself for not being wise enough to carry an umbrella, despite the unpredictable weather.

As you stepped out onto the slick sidewalk, the rain assaulted you immediately, each droplet stinging like a million tiny needles against your skin. You broke into a brisk jog, your feet splashing through puddles as you hurried toward the school. The dark clouds above loomed ominously, their wrath evident in the relentless downpour that showed no signs of relenting.

Clutching your backpack tightly to your chest, you bowed your head low in a futile attempt to shield your belongings from the soaking rain. The chill of the wet fabric seeped through your uniform, clinging to your body uncomfortably, making every movement a reminder of your unfortunate situation. With each step, the wetness seeped deeper, the cold tightening its grip on you as you pushed forward, determined to reach the relative shelter of the school as quickly as possible.

A torrent of curses swirled in your mind as you hurried through the relentless downpour, your drenched hair constantly slipping into your eyes, obstructing your vision. Each time you swiped it away, the rain would only force it back, a ceaseless battle that left you increasingly frustrated. Your breath came in ragged, exhausted pants, and with each step, a wave of pure misery washed over you as you realized just how much further you still had to go before reaching the safety of your school. The thought alone was enough to make your heart sink even deeper into despair.

Then, as if the universe had decided to offer you a sliver of mercy, you heard a voice—a familiar one—shout your name from behind. Startled, you nearly stumbled, your momentum causing you to skid to a halt as you spun around, searching for the source of the call. You didn't know who it could be, but you certainly hadn't expected to see Hanni Pham, completely dry under the shelter of a bright blue umbrella, sprinting toward you with surprising speed.

Her cheeks were flushed, though you quickly rationalized that it must have been from her running. You stood there, drenched and slightly bewildered, as she closed the distance between you, your heart racing—not just from the physical exertion but from the unexpected sight of her. Hesitantly, you waited, unsure of what to expect, as she caught up to you, her presence like a beacon of unexpected warmth in the cold, miserable rain.

Hanni reached out clumsily, her hand gripping your shoulder as she stumbled, nearly colliding with you in her haste to stop. She barely managed to avoid knocking you over, her breath coming in short, labored gasps as she tried to regain her balance. The umbrella she held hovered above the two of you, offering a small but much-needed refuge from the relentless rain. You couldn’t help but release a relieved sigh, though you had to hunch down slightly to fit under the cover, given her shorter stature. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, you tried your best to ignore the maddening flutter of your heart caused by her unexpected kindness.

While you were grateful for her sudden appearance, a mild irritation simmered beneath the surface. It had been two days since Hanni had seemingly vanished from your life after being so unexpectedly kind toward you. And now, here she was, as if nothing had happened. To you, it didn’t matter that, according to the unspoken rules of your high school’s social hierarchy, someone as beloved and popular as Hanni Pham wasn’t supposed to be seen interacting with someone like you, someone considered so low on that very same ladder. You were well aware of the invisible barriers meant to keep your worlds apart, but in that moment, none of it mattered.

What did matter was the fact that Hanni had, of her own volition, turned your plain and awkward interactions into something else when she plucked a daisy and left it for you at the coffee shop, her cheeks ablaze with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t fair for her to initiate such a change and then leave you hanging, avoiding you as if nothing had happened. As Hanni finally straightened her posture, catching her breath and seemingly ready to speak, she was met with your carefully guarded but unmistakably annoyed expression. You regarded her with a mix of curiosity and frustration, waiting for the explanation you felt you deserved.

Despite the chilly edge in your gaze, Hanni made an effort to appear nonchalant. Her laughter, though light, betrayed a tremor of nervousness as she twirled the ends of her slightly damp hair around her finger. Even in your state of irritation, you found yourself inexplicably charmed by the sight of her. Her eyes, despite the oppressive gray clouds and relentless rain, sparkled with a warmth reminiscent of the gentle morning sun that would occasionally filter through the coffee shop's windows, casting a soft, inviting glow.

You maintain your composure, raising a single eyebrow at her as she fumbles to address the situation. “Uh, it’s a good thing I spotted you and had my umbrella,” she murmured, her voice nearly swallowed by the cacophony of rain. The casualness in her tone only served to heighten your irritation. It was clear she wanted to gloss over the fact that she had vanished for two days without a word, and you were determined not to let her do so. 

With a hint of measured annoyance, you replied, “It’s good to see you again, Hanni.”

Her reaction was immediate—an almost imperceptible wince at the subtle bite in your voice. For the first time since her transfer to your school, you saw her frown, and the sight of it struck you with a pang of guilt. The weight of knowing you were the cause of that rare expression was almost suffocating. Yet, despite the tug of empathy in your chest, you knew you had to stand firm. You weren’t someone to be manipulated or dismissed, and you refused to be treated as a mere pawn in whatever game she might have been playing.

"I noticed you kept the flower I gave you in your front pocket all day," she began softly, her gaze fixed on the wet pavement as if seeking comfort in its familiarity. "It looked really nice." Her words were barely above a whisper, and you responded with a half-hearted hum, trying to ignore the rapid fluttering of your heart. Hanni let out a quiet, defeated sigh as she finally summoned the courage to meet your unyielding gaze. "Look, I panicked, okay?"

Her sudden confession caught you off guard, your eyes widening in surprise as your lips parted slightly. A deep crimson blush crept up her cheeks, but despite the embarrassment, she held her gaze steady, even as her hands trembled while keeping the umbrella positioned over both of you, shielding you from the relentless downpour. "You’ll probably think I’m some crazy stalker, but here goes: I’ve had this silly little crush on you for the past year, and it all started one Saturday while you were working. I just stood there, watching you do your thing. You have this kind and soft smile that really caught my attention. And I promise, I wasn’t following you or anything, but after that, I just kept seeing you everywhere. You’re so quiet, and I really wanted to get closer to you. 

"One day, I decided I’d try sitting with you at lunch, but you kept disappearing somewhere, and I could never find you. So, I kind of gave up for a while. Then, the other day, I forgot to eat breakfast and ended up stopping by your shop, not even knowing you worked there in the mornings. And, well, the next day, I stupidly gave you that flower out of nowhere, and then I just got really embarrassed. I couldn’t look at you after that because I was so sure you thought I was some weirdo or something. And maybe I was because I kept watching you from afar, hiding, and I noticed you were looking for me in all the places I usually hung out. But I still couldn’t bring myself to come out. Until today."

Hanni inhaled deeply as she concluded her startling confession, her chest rising and falling with the weight of words she had kept bottled up for so long. It dawned on you that she hadn’t taken a single breath as she rambled on, pouring out her heart without pause. You stood there, stunned, as her words echoed in your mind, causing a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts to spiral within you. 

You struggled to make sense of it all, your mind racing back through the year’s memories, searching for any sign that might have hinted at her feelings. But try as you might, you couldn’t recall a single instance where Hanni had paid you any mind. All this time, you had believed you were invisible to her, just another face in the crowd, irrelevant in the bright, popular world she inhabited. The realization that you had been wrong, that she had noticed you all along, was a revelation you never expected—certainly not now, and certainly not like this.

Of course, you had always found Hanni intriguing. There was something about her that drew your gaze whenever she was near, a quiet magnetism that you could never fully explain. But you had kept your distance, never daring to imagine that your paths would ever truly cross. It was safer that way, you thought—to admire her from afar, to keep her at the edges of your thoughts, a fleeting presence that you could easily dismiss. That was, until she walked into the coffee shop where you worked for the first time, shattering the careful distance you had maintained.

You couldn't help but feel a wave of fondness wash over you as you observed Hanni, her wide eyes filled with anticipation, brows furrowed in a mix of worry and hope. The frown that lingered on her lips tugged at your heartstrings, and despite the frustration you’d felt moments ago, your resolve began to crumble. Slowly, a warm smile spread across your face, softening the tension that had hung between you.

“You’re so silly, you know that?” you teased, letting out a light giggle as you playfully poked her cheek. The irritation you’d held onto melted away, replaced by the warmth of the moment.

Hanni let out a sigh of relief, her own giggle bubbling up to join yours. The sound was contagious, and you found yourself laughing along with her, the earlier awkwardness dissolving into the gentle rhythm of your shared laughter.

“Let’s walk to school together, yeah?” you asked, your voice tender and inviting. You could hardly contain the surge of affection that welled up inside you when Hanni’s entire face lit up in response. Her eyes sparkled with a happiness that was impossible to miss, and she nodded vigorously, her excitement palpable.

Without another word, the two of you turned to walk side by side, the rain now a mere backdrop to the warmth that blossomed between you. For the first time, you found yourselves heading to school together, a quiet sense of joy settling into the space you shared.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ My permanent taglist is open! (Click on the link to join! All you have to do is answer a few questions to help me stay organized!)

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS!