Your gaze kept drifting two tables to the left, entirely distracted by the familiar slope of shoulders and the easy way he threw his head back in laughter.

Keonho was laughing at something Seonghyeon had said, his head tilted back just enough that the afternoon light caught the curve of his jaw in a way that made your chest tighten. He had always been beautiful—that wasn't news. What was news was the way your stomach flipped now, like you were fourteen again and just realising that your childhood best friend had grown up.

"—and he actually brought flowers to her mum on the first date, can you believe—Hey. Hey."

You blinked, forcibly dragging your attention back to Yuna. She was snapping her fingers in front of your face, her recently-painted nails clicking inches from your nose.

"Hello? Earth to—" She followed your eyeline, and her whole face transformed into something deeply irritating. Her eyes went wide, her lips curled, and she looked like a cat that had just located the family canary. "Oh my god."

"No."

"You were looking at him."

"I was just zoning out—"

"When are you going to finally ask him out?" The question landed like a slap and you immediately choked on your rice, coughing so hard Yuna had to thump you on the back while trying not to laugh.

"I'm not—we're not—that's not—" You grabbed your water and chugged it, mostly to buy time, mostly to hide the heat that crawled up your neck. "We've literally known each other since we were five. His parents and my parents have a group chat, our mums send each other recipes, Yuna. They have inside jokes about gardening. It would be like asking out my brother."

"Ah yes," she said flatly, stirring her iced coffee with her straw in slow, deliberate circles. "Your brother, who you've been making heart eyes at since middle school. Very sibling energy."

"I don't make heart eyes."

"You make heart eyes more often than you glare at Mr. Park, and that's saying something." She counted on her fingers, ticking each point off with theatrical precision. "Ten times in Maths this morning. Thirteen in gym. Nine in—"

You shoved her and she shoved you back, grinning, and for a moment you thought the interrogation was over. But Yuna was a terrier with a bone; she never let go. It was one of the things you loved about her. It was also, currently, one of the things you wanted to strangle her for.

"You know what you need?" She leaned forward, a strange glint in her eye. "A love potion."

"A what."

"Love potion, just a little bit of magic. Stir it into his drink and boom: he's yours."

You stared at her while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional glow. Yuna just kept looking at you with that particular gleam in her eye that meant she was already halfway to convincing herself this was a good idea. "That's literally witchcraft, and also morally reprehensible, and also not real."

"Obviously it's not real real. But like—" She waved her hands vaguely, stirring the air as if she was conjuring something. "Manifestation. Intent. You know how those online shops sell those little spell kits? My cousin bought one once. Rose quartz, a candle, some oil. She said it worked."

"Your cousin also said she saw a ghost in her bathroom and it turned out to be a shower cap."

"Okay, but the point is—"

"There is no point. There's no such thing as love potions, and even if there were—" You glanced back at Keonho, who was now trying to steal a piece of seaweed from Martin's tray while being swatted away, his laughter bright and unguarded. "I wouldn't want it like that."

Yuna's gaze softened at your words, just slightly. "I know, babe. I'm just saying—it'd be nice if the universe gave you a little push, you know? A sign. Something."

The universe. Right. The universe had given you twelve years of proximity to Keonho and absolutely zero romantic tension. If the universe had a plan, it was apparently to make you an expert on the way his nose crinkled when he sneezed, he always saved the best part of his meals for last, even the exact shade of brown his eyes turned in winter versus summer.

You knew the shape of his handwriting from years of passed notes in class. You knew his mother’s phone number by heart because it was one digit off from your mother’s. You knew he hated mushrooms with a passion that bordered on loathing, that he cried at sad movies but tried to hide it, that he still slept with the same pillow he'd had since middle school even though it was flat as a pancake.

Expertise without application. Completely pointless knowledge.

"I'll get you one," Yuna announced, already pulling out her phone. "A present from me: a little love spell kit. It'll be fun."

"You will do no such thing."

"Too late, decision made." She typed furiously, thumbs moving like she was composing a diplomatic treaty. "Adding to reminders: buy magical supplies for Y/n's tragic crush."

"I'm not tragic—"

"Tragic, pining, same thing." She glanced up, winked. "Love you."

You had hoped that she’d forget about that present, maybe even deep down hoped that she was just joking around and wasn’t seriously considering forcing you into witchcraft, but three weeks later a package arrived at your door. It had no return address, just plain brown wrapping, like she was running a dark web operation instead of an Etsy addiction. Your name was written in her unmistakable handwriting: all rounded letters and too many hearts dotted with little stars.

You brought it to your room, locked the door, and sat on the edge of your bed with the package in your lap. Your heart hammered for reasons you refused to examine. You opened it slowly, revealing an old-looking, intentionally aged book with rough-cut pages that were obviously handmade and a cover soft under your fingers. The title was embossed in gold lettering that caught your bedroom light, flickering as you tilted it:

Practical Magic for the Modern Heart 

A post-it note fluttered out, landing on your pillow.

For manifestation purposes only !! obviously it's not REAL real but think of it as *intention* love u !! —Y

You laughed, shaking your head before tossing the book onto your nightstand where it landed with a soft thump. Then, because you were alone and no one could see, you picked it up again. You noticed someone had written notes in the margins: loopy cursive, faded ink, decades old maybe. You ran your finger over the words, wondering who had held this book before you, what they had wanted so badly they had turned to these pages.

"Works best on a Tuesday."

"Add honey if target is stubborn."

"Do NOT skip the rosemary. Trust me on this."

"It worked. It actually worked. I still can't believe it."

That last one made you pause. Your thumb rested on the words, faded blue ink slightly smeared like the writer had been crying, or even laughing, when they wrote it. It was ridiculous, a joke, clearly meant for teenagers playing pretend, the kind of thing you bought for sleepovers and forgot about by morning. You turned to the table of contents anyway.

Chapter 1: On Intention and the Heart's True Desire

Chapter 2: Simple Charms for Daily Life

Chapter 3: Draught of True Affection (The "Love Potion")

Your finger paused over the words, and you found that the potion resided on page 47.

You flipped over to discover the recipe was simple: a cup of milk, a spoonful of strawberry syrup, a pinch of cinnamon. Heat until warm but not boiling, stir three times clockwise while speaking the target's name aloud. Pour over ice if desired. Below the ingredients, in smaller text:

"Whosoever drinks this draught shall fall in love with the first soul their eyes rest upon. Duration varies based on depth of feeling—three weeks if affection is shallow, up to ten months if roots run deep. Cannot override free will. Side effects may include heightened affection, honesty, and longing."

There was more text at the bottom of the page—smaller still, almost like a footnote—but you were already flipping ahead, scanning other recipes, other charms. The footnote blazed past, unread, unnoticed.

Eventually you closed the book and shifted to stare at the ceiling, letting out a sigh in defeat.

The thing was, you would never actually do it. Obviously. It wasn't real, you weren't a child, you didn't even believe in magic. You believed in hard work and timing and the cruel science of unrequited feelings. You believed that if something hadn't happened in twelve years, it probably wasn't going to happen at all. But late that night, with the book on your chest and your room dark around you, you let yourself imagine for just a second if it worked.

If Keonho would look at you and see you, really see you, the way you had been seeing him for years. If all this time, all this wanting, could finally land somewhere real.

And then—what if it wore off?

The thought landed like a stone in your stomach because that was the thing, wasn't it? Even in fantasy, you couldn't win. If it worked, it wouldn't be real, and if it didn't work, nothing would change. Either way, you were exactly where you had started: on the outside, looking in. The safe friend who was always there in the background.

You set the book on your nightstand, rolled over, and closed your eyes. "It's not real," you whispered to the darkness. The lie tasted sweet going down.

The book stayed on your nightstand for three days. You told yourself you had forgotten about it and it was just another thing taking up space, like the half-finished novels and the hair ties you kept meaning to organise beside the polaroid of you and Yuna at the beach last summer. But every night, when you turned off your lamp, your eyes found it in the dark.

The gold lettering caught even the barest light from your window: streetlamp glow, moonlight, the distant flicker from the headlights of a car passing by. ‘Practical Magic for the Modern Heart’. The words seemed to float there, suspended in shadow.

On Thursday, you picked it up again just to look and laugh at it one more time. You were in bed, wearing the oversized t-shirt you had stolen from your dad years ago, your hair still damp from your shower. You opened to the recipe again and read the ingredients slowly, like they might reveal something new if you stared at them longer.

Milk. Strawberry syrup. Cinnamon.

That was it, that was the whole spell. Grocery store ingredients—things you already had in your kitchen. You could have made it right then, if you had wanted to. It was 11:47 PM, your parents were asleep, and you knew exactly where your mum kept the cinnamon. You flipped to a different page instead.

Chapter 4: Charm for Courage Before Difficult Conversations

Light a white candle at dawn. Write what you fear on a piece of paper, then fold it three times toward you. Burn it in a fireproof dish while saying—

You skipped ahead.

Chapter 7: Simple Protective Ward for Bedroom

Hang a small mirror facing the door. Place dried rosemary in each corner. Speak your name aloud three times before sleeping—

You skipped again.

Chapter 12: On Recognising What Already Belongs to You

Often the heart's truest desire is not something we need to seek, but something we need to see. Look at what is already in front of you. Look at what has always been in front of you. The magic was never in the finding—

You closed the book. Your heart was doing something strange: a flutter, a stutter, something you didn't want to examine.

Look at what has always been in front of you.

Keonho had always been in front of you. For twelve years, he had been there: at your birthday parties, at your dinner table, in the passenger seat of your mum's car on the way to school when your families had carpooled. He had been the constant, the background, the given.

The thing you had stopped noticing because it was always there. Except you had noticed—you had always noticed—that was the problem.

You shoved the book under your pillow like it might bite you. It didn't. It just sat there, soft and patient, waiting for you to be ready.

—

Friday passed in a blur. You saw Keonho at lunch, wearing a grey sweater you had seen a hundred times, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You noticed the way his wrist moved when he reached for his water bottle, you noticed the veins in his forearm, you noticed that you were noticing, and you wanted to crawl under the table and die.

"You're quiet today," he said suddenly.

You looked up to find him watching you with that slight tilt to his head that meant he was actually paying attention, actually curious.

"Just tired."

"Me too." He stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Seonghyeon kept me up late playing that new game. You know the one—"

And just like that, he was off, telling you about levels and bosses and strategies you forgot immediately because you were too busy watching the way his mouth moved when he talked. You were pathetic—you knew you were pathetic—but knowing didn't stop it.

After school, you walked home alone. You took the long way, past the park where you used to play with Keonho as kids and your mums would sit on the bench to gossip while you raced each other to the top of the slide.

You sat on the swings, pushing yourself gently back and forth, watching the sky turn orange.

Twelve years. Twelve years of friendship, and somewhere along the way, you had crossed a line without meaning to or even noticing until it was too late to go back.

When had it happened? Had there been a specific moment? A specific day when you had looked at him and thought oh instead of oh, it's just Keonho?

You tried to remember. Maybe it had been freshman year, when your grandmother had died and he had shown up at your door with the terrible cookies he had tried to bake himself—still warm, slightly burnt on the bottom—and had sat with you for hours without saying a word. Maybe it had been junior year, when you had got into that stupid fight with Yuna and he had taken your side without even asking what had happened, just said "well, if you're upset, there must be a reason." Maybe it had been earlier, maybe it had always been.

You swung higher, letting the motion blur the edges of your thoughts.

Saturday morning, your mother woke you at 8 AM.

"Your father and I are going to the Ahns' for lunch," she said, already dressed, already holding her purse. "We'll be back by four. There's leftovers in the fridge."

You mumbled something that might have been "okay" and pulled the covers over your head, hearing the front door close and their footsteps fade down the street. You eventually got up at 9:30 and made coffee that burned your tongue on the first sip.

The book was still there, as it had been the past few days. You told yourself you weren't thinking about it. You were just having a normal Saturday alone in your house, with nothing particular on your mind.

You showered, ate leftovers, scrolled through your phone without really seeing anything. At 11 AM, you were back in your room with the book open in your hands again. The recipe stared back at you, innocent as anything. Just words on paper; just a list of ingredients; justa joke from your best friend who loved you and wanted you to be happy.

Milk. Strawberry syrup. Cinnamon.

You had all of those things, you could have made it right then. Not to use—just to see if it worked and what happened when you followed the instructions. It wasn't like you would actually give it to anyone. It wasn't like you actually believed—

You were already walking to the kitchen. You grabbed the ingredients from their respective shelves and set everything on the counter. The book was open beside you, propped against the salt shaker.

Heat until warm but not boiling.

You poured the milk into a small pot, turned the stove on medium, and watched the surface begin to shimmer.

Add strawberry syrup.

You measured with your heart instead of a spoon. Two tablespoons? Three? It didn't matter. It wasn't real

Add a pinch of cinnamon.

The smell was immediate: warm, sweet, familiar. It smelled like autumn, like the fair, like the time you and Keonho had split a churro and he had got powdered sugar on his nose and you had laughed so hard you had cried.

Stir three times clockwise while speaking the target's name aloud.

Your hand closed around the spoon.

One. Two. Three.

"Keonho."

His name hung in the steam. The milk swirled, caught the light, looked for a moment like something more than milk. Then it settled, ordinary again, just a pot of warm pink liquid on your stove.

You turned off the heat and let it sit to cool for a few minutes. Then you poured it into a spare milk carton: one you had saved from last week, washed out and waiting. It looked exactly like the regular milk cartons in your fridge.  You slid it onto the shelf next to the real milk, closed the fridge door and stood there for a long moment, heart pounding, hands shaking.

You told yourself that it wasn’t real, that it was just milk and that you’d pour it out later… matter of fact, you’ll pour it out right now—

The doorbell rang and you froze. You glanced at the clock to see it was almost noon. Your parents wouldn't be back for hours.

The doorbell rang again.

You wiped your hands on your jeans, took a breath, and walked to the front door. When you opened it, Keonho was standing there in the afternoon light, slightly out of breath like he had walked fast, his hair messy and his smile easy. "Oh," you said. "Hey."

"Hey." He shifted on his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets. "So this is gonna sound random, but our dads are deep in conversation and your mum realised she forgot the toolbox your dad was supposed to bring for the table my dad is fixing? And neither of them wanted to pause the story about—" He made a vague gesture. "Honestly, I stopped listening, but they sent me to grab it."

You laughed at his explanation. "Come in," you said, stepping aside. "It's in the garage."

He toed off his shoes automatically—twelve years of friendship meant his body knew the routine better than his brain did. You led him through the house, past the living room, past the kitchen, to the garage door.

"The toolbox is... somewhere." You scanned the cluttered shelves. "My dad's organisation system is chaos."

"Some things never change." Keonho moved past you, scanning the garage with the familiarity of someone who had been here a hundred times. "I think I see it. Back corner?"

You followed his gaze. "Yeah, that looks right."

He weaved through the clutter, grabbed the heavy metal box, hefted it in his arms. "Got it."

You walked back through the house together. At the kitchen, he paused for a moment. "Something smells good."

You froze for half a second, inhaling to find the cinnamon still lingering in the air.

"Oh, I was just—" You scrambled for an explanation. "Baking. Earlier. Well, not baking, just—cinnamon. For the smell."

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "You just... made your house smell like cinnamon for fun."

"Yes."

"Okay." He was smiling now, that easy smile that did something complicated to your chest. "That's very you, actually."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're the type of person who would make her house smell good just because she can." He shifted the toolbox in his arms. "It's nice."

Your face warmed and you looked away. "Do you want something to drink?" The words came out before you had thought about them. "Before you head back? You walked here, right?"

"Yeah, it's not too far." But he didn't say no. He was still standing there, not in a hurry, comfortable in your space like he had always been.

"Coffee?" You offered. "I just made a pot yesterday. It's still fresh."

"Coffee sounds great."

You turned to the kitchen, moving automatically through the familiar routine. You grabbed his favourite blur mug from the cabinet that he always used when he was here, not that you had noticed, not that you had kept track.  "Still one sugar, right?"

"Yeah." There was something in his voice. When you glanced back, he was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "You remember."

"Twelve years," you said lightly. "Hard to forget."

You went into autopilot and opened the fridge for the milk. Your hand reached in, grabbing the first carton without truly looking at it. You poured a splash into his coffee, stirred, and handed it over. He took it, sipped, and nodded approvingly. "Good coffee," he said. "Your coffee's always better than mine."

"It's the same beans."

"It's not the beans." He sipped again, then looked at you over the rim of the mug, eyes warm. "It's the maker."

You laughed, attempting to suppress the blush that was dusting your cheeks.

He finished his coffee while you leaned against the counter, talking about nothing: his mum's new obsession with gardening, your failed attempt to keep a succulent alive, Seonghyeon's terrible singing voice and Yuna's latest theory about the maths teacher's secret life. Finally, he set the mug in the sink. "I should get this back before they send a search party." He lifted the toolbox. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Anytime."

At the door, he paused and looked back at you. "Hey," he said. "I'm glad you were home."

Then he was gone, walking down your front path with the toolbox in his arms, and you were leaning against the door, telling yourself not to read into things.

You went back to the kitchen, opened the fridge to put away the milk, and stopped. The carton in your hand—the one you had just used—was wrong. It was the spare carton, the one you had poured the potion into that was supposed to be at the back, behind the real milk, waiting for you to pour it out. But it wasn't at the back. Your stupid self had forgotten to push it back. You stared at it in your hand. Your mind replayed the previous moments events: the coffee, his coffee, the milk you had poured into it.

No.

You checked the fridge. The real milk carton was there, pushed to the back, untouched.

No, no, no.

You set the potion carton on the counter, stepped back, and stared at it like it might explain itself. Your mind raced back through the last twenty minutes. You had opened the fridge, grabbed the first carton and hadn't looked at all. 

Keonho drank the potion.

The realisation hit you as you pressed your hands to your face, breathed, and tried to think. It was fine, it wasn't real—love potions weren't real. Nothing was going to happen. He was going to go home and nothing would change and you would pour this stupid milk down the sink and never speak of this again.

Right?

You poured the rest of the potion down the drain, watched the pink liquid swirl away, washed the carton and threw it in the recycling. Then you went to your room, shoved the book under your mattress, and tried very hard to forget the way he had looked at you when he said I'm glad you were home.

Monday morning arrived excruciatingly slowly, with you spending the previous day on a mental spiral questioning your dignity.

You got ready on autopilot—uniform, bag, lunch, phone—and headed for the door without paying much attention to anything but the recurring scene of Keonho drinking the potion.

"You're leaving early!" Your mother called after you.

"I know!" You didn't know why you were leaving early, you just couldn't stay in that house one more minute.

The air was cool and damp, smelled like rain. You walked fast, hoping the movement would shake the restlessness from your bones. You were halfway down your street when you saw Keonho was standing at the corner waiting.

You stopped walking immediately.

He was in his uniform, bag slung over one shoulder, hands in his pockets. His hair was slightly damp—likely showered right before he had left his house—and when he saw you, his face brightened. "Hey," he called, walking toward you.

You stood frozen. "What are you doing here?"

He reached you, fell into step beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Walking to school."

"You live the other way."

"I know." He shrugged, easy, like he hadn't just reversed his entire morning route. "Woke up early and thought I'd see if you wanted company."

You stared at him. You hadn't walked to school together since you were ten. That was the year everything had shifted: him starting practice earlier, you sleeping in later, and the morning walks had stopped without either of you noticing. 

"Company," you repeated.

"Yeah." He glanced at you, quick, then looked ahead. "Unless you don't want it. I can—"

"No, I—" You cleared your throat. "No, it's fine. Company is fine."

He smiled and you began walking, your footsteps falling into rhythm without either of you trying. "You're quiet," he said after a minute.

"So are you."

"Touché." He kicked a pebble, watched it skip across the sidewalk. "Did you have a good weekend?"

The question landed like a stone in your stomach as your mind instantly replayed the very moment you messed up. "Fine," you managed. "You?"

"Fine." Another pause. "Saturday was nice, though. Just hanging out, felt like old times."

"Yeah," you said after a moment. "It was nice."

He looked at you then and his eyes were warm in the grey light, searching for something you weren't sure you wanted him to find. "You seem tired," he said.

"Didn't sleep well."

"Me neither."

You wanted to ask why, you wanted to know if he had lain awake thinking about Saturday the way you had, but you were too afraid of the answer. So you walked in silence instead.

The rest of the walk passed in small talk. Nothing important. Nothing that mattered. But your shoulder kept brushing his, and neither of you moved away, and by the time you reached the school gates, your heart was doing something complicated in your chest.

The hallway was chaos when you arrived. Students shoved past, lockers slammed, someone was yelling about a test they had forgotten to study for; normal Monday chaos. You headed for your locker, already spinning the combination, when you realised Keonho was still beside you. He was leaning against the locker next to yours, arms crossed, watching the crowd with an expression you couldn't read. "You have first period with Yuna, right?" He asked.

"Yeah, history."

"Lucky." He tilted his head, considering. "I have maths with Mr. Park. The man has a personal vendetta against me."

You laughed despite yourself. "He just hates everyone equally."

"Small comfort when you're failing his pop quizzes." He was smiling, easy and comfortable, and he made no move to leave. You swapped your books, hyperaware of his presence beside you: the way his sleeve brushed yours when he shifted, and how he was looking at you when you glanced up.

"You okay?" He asked.

"Fine. Just tired."

"Right, you said that." He paused. "Hey, do you want to—"

"Hey!"

You both turned to see Yuna striding toward you, bag bouncing against her hip, her expression shifting from cheerful to sharply curious as she took in the scene. You, Keonho, leaning against lockers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her eyes narrowed, just slightly. "Good morning," she said, drawing the words out. Her gaze flicked between you and Keonho. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," you said quickly. "Keonho just walked me to school."

"Walked you to school." Yuna's eyebrows rose. "From your house? That's two streets in the opposite direction from his..."

"I was up early," Keonho said, easy as anything. "Thought I'd get some steps in."

Yuna hummed, unconvinced, before turning to look at you.

You shook your head—just slightly, barely a movement at all, but Yuna caught it, and something in her expression shifted. "Well," she said brightly, looping her arm through yours, "we should probably head to class, don't want to be late for history, right?" She tugged you gently away from the lockers. "See you later, Keonho."

He nodded, pushed off the locker. "See you."

You let Yuna drag you down the hallway, your heart pounding, your skin still warm where his shoulder had brushed yours. As soon as you were around the corner, Yuna stopped walking. "What," she said flatly, "was that?"

"Nothing."

"That was not nothing. That was Keonho waiting for you at your locker after walking you to school from the opposite direction." She counted on her fingers. "That's three things. Three things that are not nothing."

"It's not—" You lowered your voice as a group of students passed. "It's not what you think."

"Then what is it?"

You opened your mouth for a moment before instantaneously closing it, thinking it best not be said in a crowd of students. "I'll tell you at lunch," you said instead.

Yuna studied you for a long moment, then she nodded once and started walking again. "Lunch," she agreed. "You're not getting out of this."

You then spent the entire morning distracted, your notes a mess of half-finished sentences and doodles you didn't remember making. The clock crawled, the teacher's voice faded in and out.

When the bell finally rang, you were out of your seat before anyone else. Yuna was already at your usual table when you arrived, and nearly jumped out of her seat at your appearance. "Okay," she said. "Spill."

You looked around as you lowered yourself onto the chair. The cafeteria was noisy, crowded, full of people; no one was paying attention to you. "I made it."

Yuna blinked. "Made what?"

"The potion from the book." The words came out fast, jumbled. "The love potion. I made it on Saturday just to see if it worked, just as a joke. I wasn't going to actually use it. I was going to pour it out—"

"You made the potion?"

"But then Keonho showed up. His parents sent him to get my dad's toolbox, and I offered him coffee, and I—" You pressed your hands to your face. "I grabbed the wrong milk. I wasn't thinking. I just grabbed the first carton and poured it into his coffee and he drank it, Yuna."

Silence followed as you lowered your hands. Yuna was staring at you. Her expression was unreadable—a rarity for her, she was usually an open book. "You're telling me," she said slowly, "that you accidentally fed Keonho a love potion."

"Yes."

"And now he's walking you to school from the opposite direction and waiting at your locker like a lost puppy."

"Yes."

"And you think—" She paused, processed. "You think it's working."

"I don't know what I think." Your voice cracked. "I don't know if it's real. I don't know if it's the potion or if it's just—" You gestured vaguely. "Him being him. I don't know anything."

Yuna was quiet for a long moment, then she leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Okay," she said. "First of all, breathe. You're going to pass out."

You breathed a sigh. "Second of all—" She lowered her voice, matched your volume. "The book. Did you read the whole thing? All the instructions?"

"I read the recipe. That's it."

"There's more? Like, warnings? Side effects? Duration?"

"Duration is three weeks to ten months. Depending on—" You stopped. "Depending on depth of feeling."

Yuna's eyes narrowed. "Depending on depth of feeling?"

"That's what it said."

"So if he already—" She stopped herself. Shook her head. "Okay. Okay. So worst case scenario, this lasts three weeks and then wears off. Best case scenario—"

"I don't want to think about best case scenario."

"Why not?"

"Because if it's the potion, it's not real. Any of it. The walking to school, the way he looks at me, all of it—it's fake. It's magic. It's not him choosing me, it's him being controlled." Your voice shook. "And if it's not the potion—if he actually—" You couldn't finish the sentence.

Yuna reached across the table, took your hand. "Hey," she said softly. "Look at me."

You glanced up at her. "Whatever is happening," she said, "you didn't mean for this to happen. It was an accident. You're not a bad person for making a stupid joke that went wrong."

"But if he—"

"Let's not borrow trouble, okay?" She squeezed your hand. "We don't know anything yet. Maybe he's just being friendly and nothing's changed and you're spiralling over nothing."

You wanted to believe her. "But the walk—" you started.

"Could be coincidence; could be he really was up early; could be a hundred things that aren't the potion." She leaned back, released your hand. "You need to watch and pay attention, see if there's a pattern before you freak out."

You nodded, because nodding was easier than talking at the moment and you felt like the guilt was going to consume you whole.

Yuna squeezed your arm. "It's going to be okay, we'll figure it out."

You wanted to believe her, you really did, but deep down there was a part of you telling yourself that you had created a much bigger problem for yourself.

By the time the final bell rang at the end of the day, you were exhausted. You packed your bag slowly, letting the crowd thin out. Yuna had tutoring, so you were alone. Which was fine—good, even. You needed the walk home to clear your head, to breathe, to remind yourself that you weren't losing your mind.

You headed for the gates. The afternoon air was cool, still grey, still threatening rain that never seemed to arrive. Students streamed past you in both directions, voices overlapping, laughter and complaints and the general noise of a school day ending.

You were barely through the gate when you heard your name being called from behind. You turned to see Keonho jogging toward you, bag bouncing against his back, slightly out of breath. His hair was messy—windblown, or maybe he had run his hands through it one too many times—and when he reached you, he was smiling gently. "Hey," he said, a little breathless. "You left fast."

"I—" You blinked. "Class ended."

"Yeah, but—" He shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets. "I was going to see if you wanted to walk home together. Since we're both heading the same way."

You paused, looking up at him. "Practice?" You asked.

"Cancelled, coach is still sick." He fell into step beside you as you started walking, like it was already decided that he’d be by your side. "Lucky start to the week, I guess."

The streets were quieter now, most students already gone leaving just you and Keonho walking down the paths. "How was the rest of your day?" He asked.

"Fine, boring, you know how Mondays are."

"Yeah." He nodded. "Maths was brutal. Mr. Park gave us a surprise quiz. I think I failed."

"You never fail."

"There's a first time for everything." He glanced at you, quick. "You'd help me study, right? If I need it?"

"Since when do you need help studying?"

"Since Mr. Park decided to test on chapters we haven't covered yet." He groaned, but there was humour in it. "The man is sadistic."

You laughed at how he was so earnest about it, so genuinely frustrated, and somehow that made it funny. "There's my favourite sound," he said softly. 

You stopped laughing immediately, eyes widening at his words. He had said it quietly, almost to himself, like he hadn't meant to say it out loud, and hen you looked at him you discovered his ears were pink. "What?" You managed.

"Nothing." He was looking straight ahead, jaw tight. "Forget I said that."

You walked in silence for a minute, your heart pounding. Your shoulder brushed his but neither of you moved away. "Hey," he said eventually. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

He was quiet for a moment, like he was choosing his words carefully. "Do you ever think about—" He stopped before starting again. "When we were kids, we used to do everything together. Walk to school, hang out after, all of it, and then somewhere along the way, we just... stopped."

You didn't know what to say. It was true—you knew it was true—but hearing him say it out loud felt different. "I think about it sometimes," he continued. "Like, when did we stop? Was there a specific day? A specific moment? Or did it just happen so slowly we didn't notice?"

"I don't know," you admitted.

"Me neither." He kicked a pebble, watched it skip. "But I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Since Saturday, actually."

Your stomach dropped. "Saturday?"

"Yeah." He glanced at you, then away. "Just hanging out at your house and talking. It felt like old times. Like before everything got... I don't know, complicated."

"Things don't have to be complicated," you heard yourself say.

He looked at you, his warm eyes searching your own whilst his lips curved into a soft smile. "Maybe they don't," he said quietly. You held his gaze for a seconds before looking away because it was too much. He was too much.

When you reached your house, you stopped at the end of the driveway, his movements mirroring your own. "Thanks for walking me home," you said.

"Thanks for letting me." He still had his hands in his pockets, still slightly dishevelled, still looking at you like you were something worth looking at. "Same time tomorrow?"

Your heart stuttered. "Tomorrow?"

"Morning walk." He shrugged, easy. "If you want. I could meet you at your corner, just like this morning."

You should have said no, should have created distance, should have protected yourself from whatever this was, whatever it might become. "Okay," you said. "Tomorrow."

He smiled that slow, genuine smile that started in his eyes and spread outward. "See you then."

He turned and walked away. You watched him until he disappeared around the corner. Inside, you leaned against the front door and pressed your hand to your chest. Your heart was pounding, your skin was warm, your mind was a mess of contradictions and you didn't have an answer.

"You're early," you said, emerging from your front door to see him standing at the same corner with the same strange look in his eyes.

"You're late." But he was smiling when he said it, falling into step beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Rough night?"

You hadn't slept well again. The guilt was a living thing now, coiled in your chest, waking you at 3 AM with its cold little fingers. "Fine," you lied.

He looked at you for just a second too long before nodding and dropping it, allowing you to believe that was the end of it. "Hey," he said, casual, like it was nothing. "You should have lunch with us today."

You stumbled suddenly, your foot catching on a crack in the pavement. He reached out, steadying you with a hand on your elbow that sent a jolt through your entire body. "Whoa. You okay?"

"Yeah, I—" You righted yourself, face warm. "What did you say?"

"Lunch." He shrugged, easy. "With me and the others. Seonghyeon's been asking where you've been anyway, says you used to hang out with us more."

Used to. Before you had started pulling away because the crush had become too loud to ignore. "I usually eat with Yuna," you said weakly.

"She can come too. The more the merrier." He glanced at you, hopeful. "Unless you don't want to. That's cool too. I just thought—" He shrugged again. "Never mind."

"No, I—" The words came out before you could stop them. "I'll come today, I'll have lunch with you."

He brightened at your words, smile widening. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Cool," he said, turning his gaze away from your own and nodding to himself almost pridefully. "Cool. I'll save you a seat."

You walked the rest of the way in a daze. When you reached school, he walked you all the way to your locker, leaning against the one next to yours as students rushed past in the crowded hallway.

"I should probably—" He gestured vaguely toward the other hallway. "Seonghyeon will kill me if I'm late again, but I'll see you at lunch, yeah?"

"Yeah. Lunch."

He pushed off the locker, took two steps, then turned back. "Y/n." He waited until you looked at him. "I'm glad you're coming. I've missed you eating lunch with us."

Then he was gone, disappearing into the stream of students. You stared after him until someone bumped into you and muttered an apology.

"You have got to be kidding me." You turned to see Yuna standing three feet away, arms crossed, expression caught between amusement and concern. She was watching the hallway where Keonho had disappeared.

"How much of that did you see?"

"All of it." She walked over, fell into step beside you as you finally started moving toward class. "The walk in, the locker lean like we’re in some American movie, the I'm glad you're coming." She air-quoted dramatically. "What was that?"

"He invited me to lunch with his friends."

"He what?"

"I said yes."

Yuna stopped walking. "You said yes?"

"What was I supposed to say? No?" You kept walking, forcing her to catch up. "He looked at me like—like it mattered, like me saying yes actually mattered to him."

"Because of the potion."

"Probably." The word tasted bitter. "But I couldn't just—" You shook your head. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."

Yuna was quiet for a moment. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll be there at lunch as moral support."

"You don't have to—"

"I'll be there." She squeezed your arm. "Someone needs to make sure you don't pass out from nerves."

You laughed despite yourself. "Thanks."

"Always."

Lunch was chaos, as usual. You spotted them immediately: your usual table was fuller now, Seonghyeon and Martin and a few others you recognised from class. Keonho was sitting at the end, the seat beside him conspicuously empty.

He saw you before you reached them and waved you over. "Here," he said, gesturing to the seat. "Saved it for you."

You sat beside him and Yuna slid into the seat across from you, next to Martin, who greeted her with a surprised but pleased smile. 

"You came!" Seonghyeon grinned at you. "Keonho's been talking about it all morning. 'Do you think she'll actually show? What if she changes her mind? What if—'"

"Seonghyeon." Keonho's voice was flat, but his ears were pink. "Shut up."

"What? I'm just saying—"

"Don't."

Seonghyeon held up his hands, still grinning, but dropped it. You looked down at your tray, face warm at the exchange. The conversation flowed around you: something about a teacher, a test, a party next weekend. You half-listened, mostly focusing on your food. You were so focused on not looking at Keonho that you almost missed the movement beside you, You glanced over and noticed Keonho was transferring rice from his tray onto yours, spoonful by spoonful. "What are you—" you started.

"You like the rice more than the kimchi," he said simply. "I've seen you. You always eat the rice first, pick at the kimchi, and leave half of it. And you're stressed today—you've barely touched anything." He nudged the now-larger pile of rice toward you. "Eat."

You stared at him. He shrugged, picked up his own chopsticks, and started eating like he hadn't just done something that completely rearranged your internal organs.

You looked down at your tray covered with extra rice, and if your face wasn’t already burning it was now raging. You glanced up and met Yuna's eyes across the table. She was watching you both with an expression that was carefully neutral, but her eyebrows were slowly climbing toward her hairline. You looked away quickly, focusing on your rice and trying to pretend that what Keonho was doing was entirely normal

After lunch, Yuna grabbed your arm the second you were out of earshot. "Did you see that?" She hissed. "Did you see that?"

"Of course I saw it."

"He gave you his rice, his rice, because he noticed you like rice more than kimchi." She was practically vibrating. "That's not normal, that's not even a little normal!"

"I know."

"That's the kind of thing you do when you've been watching someone. When you pay attention to what they like and don't like and—" She stopped, took a breath. "The potion doesn't create information, it doesn't give him memories of you liking rice. That's him. That's him noticing things about you long before Saturday."

You hadn't thought or even considered any of that. "I don't know what to do," you admitted after a moment

Yuna squeezed your arm. "Neither do I. But maybe—" She hesitated. "Maybe it's not as fake as you think."

You couldn't focus the rest of the day. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him putting rice on your plate and heard him telling you to eat like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When the final bell rang, you packed your bag on autopilot and rushed out, pushing past the barrage of students to find Keonho leaning against the gate, bag at his feet, scrolling through his phone. When he saw you, he straightened, shoved his phone in his pocket, and smiled. "Hey."

"Hey." You reached him, fell into step beside him automatically. "No practice?"

"Cancelled." He grinned. "Coach is still sick, lucky me."

"Lucky you?"

"Lucky me." He glanced at you, warm. "Get to walk you home again."

You didn't know what to say to that so you simply kept your mouth closed. The walk started in comfortable silence. You passed the park, the convenience store, the house with the garden that was always overgrown. "I failed my chemistry quiz." You finally spoke after a moment, the silence feeling too heavy to continue.

He glanced at you. "What?"

"Chemistry; Mrs. Kim's class. We had a quiz on Friday and I got it back today and I—" You waved your hands, frustrated. "I just don't get it. The equations, the formulas, all of it. It's like everyone else understands something I'm not seeing. I study and I study and it just—" Your hands were waving more now, illustrating your frustration. "Doesn't stick. It's like trying to hold water. I read the same page five times and nothing—"

A hand closed around your wrist that felt far too gentle and warm. You stopped walking, stopped talking, stopped breathing. Keonho had stopped too. His hand was wrapped around your wrist, thumb resting against the inside where your pulse was suddenly, embarrassingly loud. He was looking at you—not at your waving hands, not at the street ahead, but at you. "You're going to take off," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Your hands. They were going to take off without the rest of you." A small smile. "You wave your hands around when you're stressed, I've noticed." He was still holding your wrist as neither of you had moved, his words repeating in your mind like a broken record. "I can help," he said.

"Help?"

"With chemistry. I'm decent at it. Not amazing, but decent." He shrugged with one shoulder, the other arm still extended, hand still around your wrist. "I could tutor you after school if you want."

"You—" You swallowed. "You have practice. When your coach comes back—"

"Not on Thursdays." He cut you off gently. "Coach reserves Thursdays for recovery or something. I don't really know, I just know I don't have practice. So we could—" He paused. "Walk home together on Thursdays to my house. My parents won't be home and I can help you study."

"That's—" Your voice came out strange and you cleared your throat. "That's a lot. You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." His thumb moved just slightly against your wrist, a whisper of contact. "I want to."

The world narrowed to that point of contact: his skin on yours, the warmth of it, the way he was looking at you like you were the only person on the street. "Okay," you heard yourself say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Thursdays… Chemistry." You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He smiled and released your wrist, the ghost of his hand remaining there for the rest of the walk home. At your driveway, he stopped. "We’ll walk to my house from school on Thursday," he said.

"Okay," you answered.

He hesitated, like he wanted to say something else, then he shook his head, smiled, and turned away. "See you tomorrow morning," he called over his shoulder.

"See you."

Thursday arrived quickly because time didn't care that you weren't ready. You were at your locker after school, pretending to organise your bag, when you heard his voice.

"You ready?" Keonho was leaning against the locker next to yours when you turned to look at him, bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly messy. He had changed out of his uniform into that same grey sweater he always seemed to have at hand.

"You changed," you said, then immediately wanted to disappear.

He glanced down at himself, then back at you. "Yeah. Well—" He shrugged. "They’re just... comfortable clothes. Is that weird?"

"No. No, it's—" You closed your locker, probably harder than necessary. "It's fine, I’m ready."

He pushed off the locker, fell into step beside you. "You okay? You seem nervous."

"I'm not—" You were, you were so nervous your mind was running at a thousand miles per second. "I'm fine."

"Right." He held the door open for you, and you stepped outside into the late afternoon light. "Don't worry about chemistry. I'm a good teacher."

"You've never taught anyone anything."

"I taught Seonghyeon how to tie his shoes in fourth grade."

"That's not—" You laughed despite yourself. "That's not the same."

"It's teaching, it counts." He was smiling, pleased to have made you laugh. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure you're smarter than Seonghyeon. You'll pick it up faster."

The route to his house was the same as yours, just required you to take a turn two streets earlier. You had walked it a thousand times over the years: birthday parties, dinner invites, the time your mums had decided you should make cookies together and you had somehow ended up with flour in your hair and he had laughed so hard he had cried. But it had been a while since you had been inside his home just for him. "You said your parents aren't home?" You asked, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah, my mum has this thing—some book club thing? And my dad's working late." He glanced at you. "Don't worry, I'm allowed to have people over. It's not weird."

"I know it's not weird."

"It's just studying."

"Yeah. Studying."

He gave you a look but didn't push and after a few more moments you reached his house. It was a small two-storey, paint slightly faded, garden overgrown in that way that meant his mum kept meaning to deal with it. You had been here so many times you could probably navigate it blindfolded. He unlocked the door, held it open for you. "Welcome," he said as you stepped inside.

You ended up in the living room instead of his room. He had offered—"my room's a mess, but we can go up there if you want"—and you had both paused, the words hanging in the air a beat too long before you had said "living room's fine" and he had nodded maybe too quickly.

You sat on one end of the couch, textbooks spread on the coffee table. He sat on the other end, close enough that you could have reached out and touched him if you had wanted. "Okay," he said, pulling your failed quiz toward him. "Show me what you don't understand."

"Everything."

"Specifics help."

You gestured at the page. "This. All of this. I look at it and my brain just—" You made a static noise. "Nothing, it’s blank."

He nodded like this made sense. "Okay. We'll start with the basics then and build up."

He then spent the next hour slowly and patiently explaining, breaking things down until they were small enough to hold, and somehow—miraculously—it started to make some sense.  "Like that?" He asked after a while.

You looked at the problem you had just solved on your own with utter surprise. "I think—" You blinked. "I think I get it."

"Told you." He was smiling, warm and pleased. "You're smart, you just needed it explained differently."

You looked up at him to see he was closer than you had realised. At some point during the explanation, he had shifted closer, leaning over the coffee table to point at your notebook. Now he was near enough that you could see the small mole on his cheek, the one you had noticed a thousand times but never been this close to. "Thanks," you said quietly.

"Don't thank me, you did the work."

"But you—" You gestured vaguely. "You're helping a lot. I've been stuck on this for weeks."

He shrugged, easy. "I like helping you." You looked away, face warm at him words "Can I ask you something?" He questioned.

"Sure."

He was quiet for a moment. "Have I done something wrong lately?"

Your head snapped up. "What? No. Why would you think that?"

"I don't know." He wasn't looking at you now, focused on his mug. "You just seem... different around me, like you're waiting or bracing for something." He glanced up, quick. "If I've been weird, I'm sorry. I just—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind."

"No, tell me."

He hesitated. "I've been thinking about us a lot lately, about how we used to be." He traced the rim of his mug with his thumb. "And I don't know, I guess I just... missed you. Before any of this, before this week, I missed you and I didn't even realise it until you were right there again."

The words settled somewhere deep inside you. "Keonho—"

"I know that sounds stupid. You've been here the whole time and we see each other every day." He laughed, self-deprecating. "But it's different now: walking to school, sitting together. Just—" He gestured between you. "This. It feels like before when we were kids and everything was simple."

"It doesn't have to be different now," you heard yourself say.

He looked at you and paused for a moment. "Maybe it doesn't," he said quietly.

The silence stretched and held until you snapped out of your staring, breaking eye contact. "I should—" You glanced at your bag. "I should probably go before it gets dark."

He nodded, but there was something in his expression: disappointment, maybe, or just reluctance. "Yeah, of course." He stood, walked you to the door. "Same time next week?"

"If you're sure you want to—"

"I want to." He answered firmly. "I told you, I like helping you."

At the door, you paused. "Thanks," you said again. "For today and all of it."

He smiled warmly. "Anytime."

You walked home alone, your heart pounding, your mind replaying every word.

Thursday came again. You had spent the entire week alternating between dreading it and counting down to it. Seven days of morning walks and lunchtime seats and afternoon conversations that felt normal and charged all at once.  Seven days of not knowing what any of it meant.

"You're quiet," he observed as you walked beside him down the familiar path.

"I’m thinking."

"About?"

You glanced at him. He was watching the pavement ahead, but there was a small smile at the corner of his mouth. "Chemistry," you lied.

"Uh-huh." He didn't believe you but he also didn't push—he never pushed. He just waited patiently until you were ready.

You weren't entirely sure you would ever be ready.

His house was empty again when you arrived. He led you to the living room, and you settled on the couch with your textbooks spread across the coffee table. He sat on the other end, a respectable distance away for about five minutes.

Then he was shifting, leaning closer to look at your notes. Then closer still to point at something. Then his knee suddenly touched yours, and he didn’t move it away—though you didn't move yours either. "Okay," he said, his voice low beside you, "so if you look at this equation, the first thing you want to do is isolate the variable—"

You weren't listening to him at all. You were listening to your heartbeat, loud in your ears. You were feeling the warmth of his knee against yours. You were hyperaware of every millimetre of space between you, of the way his arm brushed yours when he gestured, of the fact that he was so close and neither of you was pulling back. "—and then you can solve for x. See?"

You blinked and looked at the page. "Yeah, I see."

He glanced at you and amusement flickered through his expression. "You're distracted," he said.

"I'm not."

"Your face says otherwise." He was still close. "What are you thinking about?"

You. Always you. For years, always you.

"Nothing," you lied.

He held your gaze for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached up. His hand moved toward your face, toward your hair. Your whole body went still as his fingers brushed carefully against your cheek, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "There," he murmured. "It was in your face."

You couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He was still close. His hand had dropped, but his knee was still against yours, his shoulder almost touching, his face inches away. He was looking at you with an expression you couldn't name: soft, wondering, as though he was seeing something for the first time. "You have really pretty eyes," he said quietly.

Your heart stopped. "Keonho—"

"Sorry." He pulled back slightly, but not far. "Was that weird? That was weird. I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's—" You swallowed. "It's fine."

He searched your face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The moment stretched. The air between you felt thick, charged, like something was about to happen. You could see every detail of his face: the small mole on his cheekbone, the slight part of his lips, the way his pupils had widened just slightly.

He was going to kiss you. You knew it with absolute certainty. He was going to lean forward and kiss you and you were going to let him and everything was going to change—

He took a breath and leaned back just slightly. "We should—" He gestured at the textbooks. "Chemistry. You came here for chemistry."

You nodded, not trusting your voice, snapping your eyes back onto the paper. He shifted away by just a few inches, granting enough space to breathe, and picked up his pencil like nothing had happened. But something had happened—something definitely had happened.

You didn't retain any chemistry after that. You sat there for another hour, going through the motions, letting him explain things you didn't hear. Your skin tingled where he had touched you and your mind replayed the moment on loop! his hand, your hair, his voice saying your eyes are pretty.

When you finally left, he walked you to the door. "Same time next week?" He asked.

It was becoming a ritual, a question you both knew the answer to. "Yeah," you said. "Same time."

He smiled. "Good. I'll—" He paused, something flickering across his face. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"See you." You walked home in a daze and crawled into bed with the knowledge that there was no chance of you getting any sleep.

The guilt was eating you alive, and you had nearly crossed an irreversible line that would only do more damage than good. You needed to tell him—you knew that like you knew the palm of your hand.

You lay awake staring at the ceiling, rehearsing confessions in your head. Keonho, I need to tell you something. Keonho, there's something you should know. Keonho, remember that coffee I made you?

None of them sounded right or like they would be enough. By the time your alarm went off, you were exhausted and no closer to knowing what to say. But you got dressed and walked to your corner anyway, and when you saw him waiting there, smile already forming as you approached, you smiled back anyway.

The week after the almost-kiss was strange. Not bad—just strange. Keonho was still there every morning, still saving your seat at lunch, still walking you home. But there was something different in the way he looked at you now: softer and more deliberate, as if he was seeing you differently and wanted you to know it.

You still hadn't told him about the potion. Every day you told yourself that you’d do it. Every day you opened your mouth and nothing came out; the words wouldn't form, the courage wouldn't come. So you let it slide. One more day, one more walk, one more lunch.

Friday arrived and you were sitting at the usual table, Keonho beside you, Yuna across from you, the others scattered around. You were half-listening to Martin complain about their group project when someone appeared.

"Hey, excuse me?" You looked up and saw a guy standing at the end of the table. You recognised him—he was in your grade, different class. Tall, nice smile, holding a notebook. "Are you Y/n?" He asked, looking at you.

You blinked. "Yeah?"

"I'm Jaehyun. We have history together? Third period?" He held up the notebook. "I missed class on Tuesday and heard you take really good notes. Would you mind if I borrowed them to copy? I can return them Monday."

Beside you, you felt Keonho go still though you paid him little mind.

"Oh—sure. Yeah, of course." You reached for your bag. "I have them here somewhere—"

"You don't have to do it now." Jaehyun smiled again, easy. "I just wanted to ask. Maybe we could meet up after school sometime next week? Grab coffee while I copy them? My treat, as thanks."

The invitation hung in the air, though before you could answer there was movement beside you. Keonho shifted, just a small adjustment, leaning forward slightly and angling his body toward you, his knee pressed against yours under the table. "She's busy after school," he said.

His voice was casual, but there was something underneath it you had never heard before. Jaehyun's gaze flickered to Keonho, then back to you. "Oh. I didn't realise—"

"Thursdays," Keonho continued smoothly. "We have study sessions on Thursdays. But she's usually free other days." He glanced at you, a small smile. "Right? You could do Monday instead."

You stared at him. Monday. He knew your schedule and knew you were free Monday. He had just offered up your availability while simultaneously staking a claim on Thursdays.

"Monday works," you heard yourself say.

Jaehyun nodded, seemingly unfazed. "Monday it is. I'll find you at the gate?" He smiled, waved, disappeared into the crowd.

Silence swallowed the table whole. You turned to look at Keonho, but he wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the spot where Jaehyun had disappeared, his expression carefully neutral. But his jaw was tight and his knee was still pressed against yours. 

Across the table, Yuna's eyebrows had climbed into her hairline. She caught your eye, mouthed what the fuck, and you shook your head slightly, entirely confused. The conversation resumed around you, filling the silence, but Keonho stayed quiet for the rest of lunch. You didn't know what to do with that either.

After school, he was waiting at the gate but something was different. He was quieter than usual on the walk home: answered your questions with one word, didn't initiate anything. You were halfway home when you couldn't take it anymore. "Are you mad at me?"

He glanced at you, surprised. "What? No."

"Then why are you—" You gestured vaguely. "This. Quiet, distant. You've been like this since lunch."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he stopped walking and you mirrored his movements. He was looking at the pavement, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight. "I didn't like that," he said quietly.

"What?"

"That guy. Jaehyun." He finally looked at you. "I didn't like him talking to you like that."

"Like what?"

"Like—" He made a frustrated sound. "Like he was interested. Like he was asking you out. Like you were someone he could just—" He stopped and shook his head. "I didn't like it."

Your heart was pounding at his words. 

"I know it's not my place." The words came faster now, tumbling out. "I know we're just friends. I know I don't have any right to—" He stopped again, ran a hand through his hair. "But I didn't like it. I didn't like him looking at you. I didn't like him asking you for coffee. I didn't like any of it."

You couldn't breathe. He was looking at you now and his eyes were dark, intense, vulnerable in a way you had never seen. "I don't know what's happening to me lately," he admitted. "I don't know why I feel like this, but when he showed up and talked to you like that—" He swallowed. "All I could think was mine. Like you were mine and he was trying to take you away."

The word hung in the air.

Mine.

You should have said something. You should have told him. This was the moment—right here, right now—when you should have confessed everything. But you couldn't, the words wouldn't come. Instead, you reached out and touched his arm lightly. "I'm not going anywhere," you said quietly.

He looked at your hand on his arm. Then back at your face. "You're not?"

"No."

Something in his expression softened.  "Okay," he said. "Okay."

You stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. The street was quiet, the afternoon light was golden. Everything felt suspended, held, waiting. Then he smiled, small and relieved. "We should keep walking," he said. "Before it gets dark."

"Yeah." You walked the rest of the way home in silence.

Thursday eventually came again, and you had been counting down the days telling yourself that you would finally stop lying to him. But your feet kept moving and your mouth stayed shut and the words stayed locked somewhere you couldn't reach.

"You're staring," he said.

You blinked. You were in his living room and he was on the couch beside you, closer than strictly necessary, textbooks spread across the coffee table. "Sorry. Zoned out."

"Uh-huh." He was smiling. He knew you were lying though he didn't call you on it. "Homework. We were doing homework."

"Right. Homework."

He picked up his pencil, started explaining something, and you tried to listen—you really did. But he was so close—knee almost touching yours, shoulder warm against your arm—and your mind kept drifting to other things. "—and then you just solve for y. See?"

You nodded despite not paying attention to anything he just said, and he sighed, setting down his pencil. "You're not listening again."

"I am—"

"You're not." He sounded more amused than annoyed. "What's going on with you lately? You've been spacey for weeks."

"Just tired," you answered. 

He studied you for a moment before nodding and accepting it, picking up his pencil to continue. "Okay. Let's try one more time." You actually focused this time, forcing your brain to absorb the equations he was explaining, and somehow it worked.  "See?" He was grinning at your correctly solved problems. "I told you you were smart."

"You're a good teacher."

"I'm an okay teacher, you're a good student." He stretched, rolling his shoulders. "I'm gonna get water, you want some?"

"Sure."

He stood, moved toward the kitchen, and returned within a matter of seconds, settling back beside you and placing two water bottles on the table in front of you. Then, because the universe had a sick sense of humour, you reached for your water bottle at the exact moment his hand touched his right beside yours.

Your hands just barely brushed, fingertips against fingertips, a whisper of contact. For a long moment, neither of you breathed. His fingers were still touching yours, but he hadn't pulled back. He was looking at your hands, at the point where they met, his expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he turned his hand and laced his fingers through yours. Your heart stopped as he held your hand. His palm was warm against yours, his fingers gentle but sure. He was still looking at your joined hands, with an expression that said he couldn't quite believe they were there. You couldn't either. "Keonho—" you started.

"Don't." His voice was quiet. Soft. "Don't say anything. Just—" He squeezed, just slightly. "Just let me have this."

You didn't move. You didn't speak. You just sat there, on his couch, in his empty house, holding his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Minutes passed and you lost track of time entirely. The textbooks sat forgotten on the coffee table, the afternoon light faded outside the window, and still you sat there, hands intertwined, neither of you speaking. Eventually, he shifted. "We should—" He gestured vaguely at the window. "It's getting late."

You should go home, it was late and you were crossing a line you knew you should have stayed behind, but neither of you moved. Then he said, quietly: "Do you want to stay? Watch a movie or something? I can walk you home after."

Your heart stuttered. "A movie?"

"Yeah." He shrugged with one shoulder, still holding your hand. "You said you were tired. Studying can wait. We could just—" Another shrug. "Hang out like we used to."

"Okay," you heard yourself say.

He smiled softly and reached for the remote with his free hand. The movie was something random: an old rom-com you had both seen before, something playing in the background more than anything you were actually watching.

He shifted on the couch, getting comfortable, and then, slowly, carefully—like he was afraid you might bolt—he leaned against you. His head rested on your shoulder, his body was warm against your side, he was still holding your hand. You couldn't breathe or move. You couldn't do anything except sit there, frozen, while he settled against you like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Comfortable?" You managed.

"Mmm." His eyes were already closing. "You're warm."

The movie played on though you didn't see any of it. After a while, his breathing evened out. His hand went slack in yours, but he didn't let go: just kept holding on, even in sleep. You looked down at him. His face was soft in sleep, younger somehow, the tension gone from his jaw. His lashes rested against his cheeks and his lips were slightly parted.

He looked peaceful, like he trusted you completely, and that was when the weight of it hit you. The enormity of what you had done.

He didn't know. He didn't know about the potion. He didn't know that any of this—the hand holding, the falling asleep on your shoulder, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world—might not be real and might actually be magic. Might be a mistake you had made on a Saturday morning when you were bored and lonely and stupid.

Your eyes stung and you looked away from his sleeping face.

You were still staring at the wall when he stirred and mumbled something. You looked down to see he was still asleep, but his lips were moving, shaping sounds too quiet to understand.

“Y/n.” He murmured your name in his sleep so softly that your heart cracked open

You sat there for a long time after that, holding his hand, feeling the weight of his head on your shoulder, listening to him breathe, and you cried quietly so you wouldn't wake him. Tears slid down your cheeks, dripping onto your shirt, silent and hot and full of everything you couldn't say.

When he woke, the movie was over and the room was dark. He blinked, disoriented, and lifted his head from your shoulder before looking at you. "Did I—" He rubbed his eyes. "Did I fall asleep?"

"Yeah."

"Oh no." He was embarrassed, you could tell, his ears were pink. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay."

He looked at you and saw something in your face that made his expression shift. "Hey." His voice softened. "Are you okay?"

You nodded because you couldn't speak. He squeezed your hand. "I should walk you home," he said quietly. "It's late."

He stood, pulling you gently to your feet, and throughout he didn’t let go of your hand. The walk home was silent, the streets were dark, quiet, lit only by streetlamps, and he held your hand the entire way. At your door, he stopped. "Hey." He waited until you looked at him. "Whatever it is—whatever's bothering you—you can tell me. Okay? When you're ready."

You wanted to. God, you wanted to, but you couldn't so you just nodded.

He studied you for a moment before slowly leaning in and pressing his lips to your forehead softly.  "Goodnight," he whispered before turning and quickly disappearing around the corner.

You stood there for a long time, staring into space. You had to tell him, deep down you knew that, but how could you tell him when every moment with him felt like this?

The following day you checked the calendar on your phone at least twenty times. Today marked three weeks since the potion and since everything had changed. According to the book, three weeks was the minimum duration. The shortest possible timeline. If his feelings were shallow—if the potion had created everything from nothing—today was when it should have started wearing off.

You waited and watched your phone, expecting a text that didn't come. You checked his social media, seeing nothing new. You paced your room, your heart pounding, your mind racing.

Nothing happened.

By Sunday night, he was still the same: texting you goodnight, sending you a meme he thought you would find funny, asking if you were ready for the chemistry quiz on Tuesday. The potion hadn't worn off.

—

Monday morning arrived and you walked to your corner slowly, your heart already pounding. He was stood there holding something. A flower—small and white, delicate, slightly crumpled like he had been holding it too tight.

You stopped walking at the sight. "What's that?" You asked.

He looked down at the flower, then back at you. A small smile. "Saw it on the walk here growing through a crack in the pavement." He held it out to you. "It reminded me of you."

Your heart stopped. "It—" You swallowed. "It reminded you of me?"

"Yeah." He was closer now, close enough to tuck the flower behind your ear. His fingers brushed your hair, your temple, your cheek. "Pretty and tough."

You couldn't breathe. He stepped back, scanned your face, and smiled. "Perfect," he said quietly before turning and walking toward school as though he hadn't just completely destroyed your ability to function. You stood frozen for a moment before you scrambled to catch up.

The flower stayed in your hair all morning. You could feel it there, a tiny weight, a constant reminder. Every time you moved, every time you turned your head, you were aware of it—aware of him. He walked you to your first class and said goodbye, leaving you standing in the doorway with your hand pressed to your chest.

In class, you couldn't focus. The thought of him was the only thing on your mind.

Lunch came slowly. You were in the cafeteria line, staring at the options without really seeing them, when a voice appeared behind you.

"Well, well, well." Seonghyeon was standing there, tray in hand, grinning at you in a way that made your stomach flip nervously.

"What?" You asked.

"Nothing." He was still grinning. "Just observing."

"Observing what?"

He glanced over your shoulder toward the main table where the others were sitting then back at you. He shook his head slowly, making a soft tsk sound. "I don't know what you've done to him," he said, "but Keonho seems to be... how do I put this delicately?"

"Please don't put it delicately."

"Down bad." He grinned wider. "Completely, utterly, hopelessly down bad for you right now."

Your face erupted in heat. "What? No—we're just—we're friends—"

"Uh-huh." Seonghyeon's grin didn't waver. "Friends who get flowers tucked in their hair. Friends who get stared at like you're the only person in the room."

You turned your head, following his gaze.

Keonho was at the table. He wasn't talking to anyone, wasn't looking at his food, wasn't doing anything except watching you. His head rested on his hand, elbow on the table, expression soft and warm and completely, utterly focused on you.

When your eyes met, he smiled instantly. You snapped your head back to Seonghyeon and you could feel your face on fire. "See?" Seonghyeon was openly smirking now. "Down. Bad."

"We're just—I don't—" You couldn't form a sentence. "Shut up."

"Never." He grabbed his tray, started moving toward the table. But he paused, glanced back at you. "You know he's crazy about you, right?"

Your face heated. "I—"

"I'm not trying to make it weird." He shrugged. "Just... I've known him a long time. I've never seen him like this." He glanced toward the table where Keonho was sitting. "He's always been—I don't know—careful with his feelings. Doesn't let people in easily. But you?" He shook his head. "You've been in there for years, he just... finally noticed."

There was a small pause between the two of you as you processed his words. "What do you mean?" You asked quietly.

Seonghyeon looked at you. "I mean, he's talked about you for as long as I've known him. Little things like 'Oh, Y/n would like this.' 'Y/n told me about that.' 'I wonder what Y/n thinks.'" He shrugged again. "He just never did anything about it until now."

"He's—he's talked about me?"

"All the time." Seonghyeon grinned, but it was softer now. "You're kind of his favourite person, always have been, even when you weren't talking that much. He just needed to figure it out."

The words settled somewhere deep in you. Seonghyeon clapped you on the shoulder. "Anyway, I gotta eat. Just thought you should know." He headed toward the table, leaving you standing in line with your heart pounding and your mind spinning.

You looked toward the table and Keonho was sitting there still watching you. When your eyes met, he smiled once more.

You made it to the table eventually. Keonho saved the seat next to him, like always. When you sat, he glanced at your hair—at the flower, still tucked there—and his smile softened. "It's still there," he said.

"Did you think it wouldn't be?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, easy. "I hoped."

You didn't know what to say to that. Under the table, his knee pressed against yours. His hand rested on his thigh, close enough that you could have reached out and touched it if the urge to do so grew too much. Across the table, Yuna caught your eye. She glanced at the flower in your hair, then at Keonho, then back at you and narrowed her eyes. You gave a tiny shrug and she simply smiled. 

After school, he was at the gate like always. You meant to ask if his coach was truly still sick, or if he was just dodging practice to walk you home. But before you could even think of asking, when he fell into step beside you, he reached for your hand. Just took it in his grasp like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You walked home in silence, holding hands, the flower still in your hair. At your door, he stopped. "I'm glad you kept it," he said, looking at the flower.

"It's pretty."

"You're pretty." The words came out before he could stop them. His ears went pink. "I mean—that's not—I didn't mean to—"

You laughed at his words, genuine and surprised, and he stared at you before laughing too. "Shut up," he muttered, but he was smiling.

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face said everything." You were still holding hands. He looked at you for a long moment and then gently lifted your joined hands and pressed his lips to your knuckles.  "I'll see you tomorrow," he said quietly before walking backwards, eyes locked on your figure until he turned the corner

—

Tuesday morning followed the same routine and you were almost at the school gates when Yuna appeared. She was practically vibrating with excitement, her eyes wide, her grin threatening to split her face. She was waving her phone in the air like a banner.

"Did you see?" She demanded, grabbing your arm with enough force to stop you both mid-stride. "Did you see the announcement?"

"Good morning to you too," you said, stumbling slightly from the impact. "What announcement?"

She shoved her phone in your face and on the screen was the school's official Instagram post: bright graphics, bold text, and a date that made your stomach drop.

CONCERT TONIGHT! 7PM ON THE FIELD! THREE BANDS! FOOD TRUCKS! DON'T MISS IT! 

"The concert!" Yuna was bouncing on her heels now, practically vibrating. "Tonight! On the field! They just put up the posters like twenty minutes ago, and the whole school is already freaking out. Three bands, food trucks, the whole thing. It's going to be amazing."

You stared at the screen. In your weeks of worrying—of counting different days and reading footnotes and agonising over every interaction—you had completely forgotten about the concert you spent months looking forward to.

Yuna read your face instantly and her eyes widened. "Don't tell me," she said slowly, her voice dropping into something almost dangerous. "Don't you dare tell me—"

"I forgot," you admitted.

She gasped, a full-body, hand-to-chest, dramatic theatrical gasp that drew the attention of at least three nearby students. Her eyes went impossibly wide and her mouth fell open.

"You forgot?" Her voice climbed an octave. "You forgot about the concert? The one we've been talking about for months? The one with the band you love? The one we made a playlist for? The one I've been saving an outfit for? You forgot?"

"I've been busy—"

"Busy doing what? Staring at—"

"What did you forget?"

Both of you turned to find Keonho still standing there from your morning walk. He had been standing right beside you this entire time, and you had forgotten about him too, caught up in Yuna's whirlwind. His head was tilted slightly, his expression caught between curious and amused.

Yuna's grip on your arm tightened painfully. "She forgot about the concert tonight," Yuna announced, pointing at you accusingly like you were a criminal who had just confessed to a major crime.

Keonho's eyebrows rose. "The concert? The one with the—" He named your favourite band. The one you had mentioned approximately seven hundred times over the years whose lyrics you had quoted at him since middle school. "That concert?"

"That one," you said weakly.

He stared at you for a moment

"How," he said, "do you forget about your favourite band playing at your school? The one you've been talking about since we were fourteen?"

"I've been—" You searched desperately for an explanation that wasn't I've been spiralling about accidentally dosing you with a love potion and then falling impossibly deeper for you while drowning in guilt. "Distracted."

"Clearly." He was smiling, warm and amused and utterly devastating. "Well, you're going now, right? Since you remembered?"

"Of course she's going," Yuna cut in, recovering her momentum. She looped her arm through yours possessively. "We're going together. Best friend date. I already have outfits planned, it's going to be iconic."

Keonho nodded, easy as anything. "Cool. I'll probably be there too, Seonghyeon's been talking about it for weeks. He's convinced one of the bands is going to notice him in the crowd and ask him to join on the spot."

"That's—" You laughed despite yourself. "That's very Seonghyeon."

"Very Seonghyeon," he agreed. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, soft and warm. "Maybe I'll see you there."

"Maybe," you managed. He smiled, waved, and headed toward his locker.

Yuna waited until he had disappeared into the crowd of students before she spun to face you, eyes wide, grip still tight on your arm. "You forgot about the concert because you've been too busy pining over him."

"I haven't been pining—"

"You've been pining. Intensely. Obsessively. It's been weeks of pining. You've forgotten about everything except him." She shook her head, but there was no real anger in it. Just exasperation—fond exasperation. "But now we have a concert to prepare for, and I am not letting you mope. Tonight, we have fun. No thinking about boys or potions or anything except music and food trucks and being normal teenagers for one night. Deal?"

You wanted to argue, but she was looking at you with such hopeful determination. Such fierce loyalty. Such Yuna-ness.

"Deal," you said.

—

After school, Yuna claimed you. She materialised at your locker the second the final bell rang, grabbing your arm before you could even close the door. "Sorry," she told Keonho cheerfully as he approached. He had been walking toward you but Yuna was already pulling you away. "Best friend time. You can have her back tomorrow."

He laughed, held up his hands in surrender. "Wouldn't dream of interfering with best friend time." His eyes found yours over Yuna's shoulder. "See you tonight maybe?"

"Maybe," you said.

He smiled and walked away before Yuna dragged you in the opposite direction.

Your room ended up in chaos. Yuna had pulled everything out of your wardrobe. Clothes everywhere: on the bed, on the floor, draped over your desk chair, hanging from your doorknob. It looked like a boutique had exploded.

She held up two options, considering them with the intensity of an art critic evaluating masterpieces. "This one," she said, lifting a flowy top in her left hand, "would make people focus more on your face. More eye-catching but less central." She lifted the other option in her right hand—a fitted top you had forgotten you owned, cute and flattering and slightly dressier than your usual. "This one would make your figure look amazing. Which vibe are we going for?"

"Can we just wear something normal?"

"Normal is not an option for concerts." She tossed the fitted top at you and it hit you in the face and fell into your lap. "Try this."

It took around fifteen more minutes for an outfit to finally be concocted, and the two of you practically ran from your house to school for fear of being late.

Lights were strung everywhere on the school field: across the stage, along the fences, weaving through makeshift poles. The stage itself was larger than you had expected, with actual speakers and lights and everything. Food trucks lined one side, their windows glowing, smells of fried food and sugar drifting through the air. Students filled the space in clusters, talking and laughing and waiting.

"Oh," you breathed. "Wow."

"Right?" Yuna was grinning. "Told you. Now come on, I want to get closer."

She grabbed your arm and pulled you forward through the thick crowd. Bodies pressed in from all sides. You let Yuna drag you along, weaving between groups, dodging elbows and bags. The music hadn't started yet, but the energy was building, a hum of anticipation that vibrated through the air.

You were so focused on following Yuna, on not losing her in the crowd, that you didn't pay attention to anything else when your foot caught suddenly on something and you were falling.

You reached for balance that wasn't there. Your heart lurched. You were going down, right here, in front of everyone—

A hand wrapped around your waist, strong and steady, pulling you upright before you could hit the ground. You were pressed against something solid—someone's chest—and the hand was still there, warm and firm, holding you steady.

"Got you." You turned and saw it was Keonho. His face was inches from yours. His hand was still on your waist, spanning the curve of it like it belonged there. His eyes were dark in the evening light, wide with something that might have been concern, might have been surprise, might have been something else entirely.

"Hi," you breathed.

"Hi," he breathed back.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The crowd surged around you, oblivious, lhe lights flickered, somewhere someone laughed. He was still holding you, still looking at you like you were the only person in this entire field—

“Ahem.”

You both turned and Yuna was standing there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. She was looking at the two of you with an expression that was caught between amusement and something sharper.

"I think," she said, turning deliberately toward the stage, "this is close enough."

His hand dropped from your waist instantly but his eyes stayed on you for a few seconds longer. 

The concert eventually started and music filled the field, loud and vibrant, the first band launching into a song you recognised. The crowd surged forward, voices joining in, hands raised. Lights swept across the field: greens and blues and purples, reflecting off faces and phones and the stage.

You should have been watching the band, but you could feel him beside you.

Keonho was standing close— closer than necessary, given how much space there was. His shoulder was inches from yours, his arm brushed yours when he moved. You hadn't looked at him since the almost-fall, but you were acutely aware of every inch of space between you.

The lights caught your face. You knew they did—you could feel the warmth, the brightness. You were singing along, the lyrics familiar and comforting, and for a moment, you forgot everything else.

After a while, you felt the weight of his gaze, and you looked up to see him watching you. His eyes were soft in the coloured light, warm, focused entirely on you.

You smiled gently, tilting your head slightly "Do I have something on my face?" You asked, half-joking.

He shook his head slowly but didn't look away, and slowly his hand rose

You saw it in your peripheral vision, and something in you stilled. He was holding something small, delicate and circular.

A flower crown.

You recognised it immediately. It was a tradition at your school, for every event, someone sold them: little woven crowns of fake flowers and ribbons, and if you bought one, if you placed it on someone's head, it meant...

It meant you liked them. It meant you were confessing. It was the closest thing the students at your school had to a grand romantic gesture.

It was silly, really. A tradition for teenagers too scared to use words. You had seen it happen a dozen times, always with a little thrill of vicarious romance.

But now it was happening to you.

He placed the crown on your head, using both hands to adjust it and make sure it sat right. His fingers brushed your hair, your temples, the shell of your ear, and each touch sent electricity through your skin.

You simply stared at him, unsure of what you could do at that moment.

He pulled back and his eyes scanned over you—the crown, your face, the expression you couldn't hide—and the look in them was something you could only describe as love.

Pure, uncomplicated love

Then, slowly, he leaned forward.

You didn't even realise you were doing the same until you were already moving, already leaning in, already closing the distance between you. His eyes fluttered half-closed. Your heart pounded in your ears. This was it. This was really—

"So!"

Yuna's voice cut through everything like a knife. Her arms wrapped around both your shoulders, pulling you both into an awkward sideways hug. She was grinning, chattering about the next band coming on stage, completely oblivious—or completely intentional, you couldn't tell.

You smiled and nodded along, your heart pounding, your face burning, the flower crown feeling suddenly very heavy on your head. You didn't look at Keonho, you couldn't.

When Yuna finally released you, and the moment had passed, you sneaked a glance. He was looking at the stage now, expression unreadable, but his ears were pink. You looked away. Yuna leaned in slightly and her lips brushed your ear. "Your first kiss shouldn't be when he's under that spell."

The words hit like ice water. She was right, of course she was right. You knew she was right, but god, it hurt to know.

The rest of the concert passed in a blur and when the final band finished and the lights came up and the crowd began to disperse, you knew what you had to do.

"Walk you home?" Keonho asked, appearing at your side.

You glanced at Yuna and she was watching you both, her expression serious now. She met your eyes, and the message was clear: Tell him. Now.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay."

Yuna squeezed your arm as you passed. "Text me later."

You nodded, and then you were walking, just the two of you, away from the lights and the music and the crowd. You didn't go straight home. Your feet just turned away from your street, away from the safety of your front door, toward somewhere else.

He followed without a word. The playground where you had spent countless afternoons as children emerged in the distance. The swings where you used to race, pumping your legs furiously, trying to go higher than him. The bench where your mothers would sit and gossip while you played.

You walked to the swings and sat down on one, him taking the one beside you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The swings creaked gently, the only sound in the quiet night. The concert was a distant echo now, muffled by distance and trees. The sky above was dark, scattered with stars, indifferent to the two of you sitting here on ageing playground equipment.

"This takes me back," he said finally.

"Yeah."

You remembered running around this playground until your legs gave out, him always winning at races, you always letting him, even then. The way he would share his snacks with you when you forgot yours and how you would sit on these very swings and talk about nothing, about everything, about the future you couldn't imagine.

Another silence settled between you. Then, both at once:

"I need to tell you—"

"Can I say something—"

You stopped and looked at each other before laughing awkwardly.

"You go first," he said.

"No, you go first. You started."

He was quiet for a moment, considering. Then he nodded, looked down at his hands wrapped around the swing chains. "Okay." He took a breath. "I need to tell you something and I'm probably going to mess it up, so just... bear with me."

You waited though your heart was already pounding.

"These past few weeks," he started. "They've been—I don't know—different. Good different." He paused, searching for words. "You're different, or maybe I'm different, or maybe we're both different, and it took me way too long to notice." He laughed, soft and self-deprecating. "I'm messing this up."

"You're not."

He looked at you in the dim light from the distant streetlamps, his eyes were dark and serious and utterly vulnerable. "What I'm trying to say is—I like you." The words came out simple. Honest. "Not just as a friend. I like you like—" He gestured vaguely with one hand, still gripping the chain with the other. "Like more. Like I want to hold your hand and walk you to school every morning and put flower crowns on your head. Like you're the first person I want to talk to when I wake up and the last person I think about before I fall asleep. Like—" He stopped and swallowed. "Like I think I've been falling for you for a while and just didn't realise it until now."

The words hung in the air between you. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. The flower crown felt suddenly heavy on your head—a symbol of everything he had just said, everything he was offering.

"I know it's sudden," he continued, the words rushing out now like he was afraid he would lose courage. "I know we've been friends forever and this changes things. I know it's weird and complicated and you might not feel the same way, and that's okay, I just—" He took a breath. "I had to tell you, I had to know if there's any chance you might feel the same."

He looked at you and hope flickered in his eyes like a candle in the wind.

"Keonho." Your voice cracked as you felt your heart break. "I can't accept that."

The change was immediate. You watched his face crumble, saw the hope drain out of him like water from a broken cup. His shoulders slumped and his whole body seemed to deflate, curling inward.

"Oh," he said quietly. The word was small and completely ddevastated. "Okay. I—" He swallowed hard. "Have I been too much? The walks, the hand-holding, the flower—was that too much? Did I misread everything?" His voice wavered. "Do you not like me like that? Because if you don't, I understand, I just—I thought—"

"No." You cut him off, desperate, reaching for his hand without thinking. He let you take it, but his fingers were limp, unresponsive. "No, that's not it—that's not it at all. I do like you. I've liked you for years. That's not the problem."

He stared at you, confusion replacing some of the hurt. "Then what is? What could possibly be the problem if we both—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't understand."

You took the deepest breath of your life.

"Do you remember that Saturday?" You began, your voice shaking. "A few weeks ago when your parents sent you to get my dad's toolbox?"

He nodded slowly, warily. "Yeah. I remember."

"I was home alone. My parents were at your house." You gripped the swing chains, needing something solid. "And before you came over, I was... I was doing something stupid."

His expression was unreadable as he gradually processed your words.

"Yuna got me this book," you continued. "A present and a joke. It was called 'Practical Magic for the Modern Heart' or something ridiculous. She thought it would be funny because I—" You stopped. Swallowed. "Because I never do anything about how I feel about you."

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't speak.

"There was a recipe in it for a love potion." The words tasted like ash. "I know how that sounds. I know. But it wasn't real—I didn't think it was real. It was just milk and strawberry syrup and cinnamon—groceries, nothing magical. I made it because I was bored and alone and stupid and I just wanted to see what would happen if I followed the instructions."

You were crying now though you didn't remember when it had started.

"I poured it into an old milk carton—but I was going to throw it out, I swear I was going to throw it out—but then the doorbell rang, and it was you, and I forgot. I just—I forgot it was there."

Your voice broke. "When I made your coffee, I grabbed the first milk I saw. I didn't think about it. Why would I think about it? It was just milk." You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to hold yourself together. "But it wasn't. It was the potion… and you drank it."

Deafening, horrible silence followed as you scrambled to find reason.

"You drank it," you repeated, because saying it again made it more real. "And I didn't realise until after you left. I opened the fridge and saw the real milk carton was still there and I knew what I'd done."

Keonho hadn't moved. His face was pale and his eyes were fixed on you, wide and unblinking.

"Nothing happened at first," you continued, the words pouring out now, unstoppable. "I thought maybe it was fine, maybe nothing would happen. But then Monday morning you were at my corner waiting to walk me to school, and you kept walking me to school, and you sat next to me at lunch, and you started—" You gestured helplessly. "All of it; the rice, holding my hand, the flower, all of it."

Your voice dropped to a whisper. "And I didn't know what was real. I still don't know. The book said the potion lasts three weeks to ten months, but it didn't say—it doesn't say—" You shook your head. "Every time you looked at me, every time you touched me, I didn't know if it was you or the magic. I didn't know if any of it was real."

He was quiet for a long moment before opening his mouth to speak.

"So everything I've been feeling." His voice was strange—hollow. "The walks, the hand-holding, the flower. All of it—" He stopped and swallowed. "You made me feel that?"

"No—I didn't make you—"

"You gave me a love potion." His voice rose slightly, cracking at the edges. "You put something in my coffee without telling me, and now I don't know—" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what's mine anymore. I don't know if any of this is real."

"I don't know either." The words tore out of you. "That's what I've been trying to figure out. That's why I'm telling you now because I couldn't let you kiss me tonight without knowing. I couldn't let you say all those things and not know if they were really yours."

He stared at you before he stood and the swing rocked behind him, empty, accusing. "I need—" His voice caught. He cleared his throat. "I need to go."

You stood too, reaching for him. "Keonho—"

"Don't." He stepped back, out of reach. His eyes met yours for just a second, and what you saw there destroyed you: hurt, confusion, betrayal. "I can't—I just need some time. To think. To figure out what any of this means."

"Keonho, please—"

But he was already walking away. You watched him go. His back was straight, his hands shoved in his pockets, his steps steady and determined. He didn't look back.

"Keonho," you whispered though he was too far to hear.

The swing creaked gently behind you, the night was quiet, the flower crown was still on your head. You sank back onto it and you sat there alone in the dark for a very long time.

Your phone buzzed eventually.

Yuna: ?? hello?? how did it go??

You stared at the screen. Your fingers were cold, your face was wet, and your heart was a hollow thing in your chest.

You: he walked away

Three dots appeared immediately.

Yuna: i'm coming

You: no

You: i just want to sit here for a while

Yuna: ok. but i'm staying on the phone with you. you don't have to talk. just... don't be alone

The phone buzzed with an incoming call and you answered.

You could hear her breathing on the other end. Just sitting with you, across the distance, in the dark.

You didn't know how long you sat there.

The swing creaked gently beneath you, a rhythm as familiar as your own heartbeat. The night had gone quiet: no more distant music, no more laughter from the school field. Just the occasional car, the rustle of leaves, the sound of your own breathing.

Yuna stayed on the phone the entire time. She didn't talk and neither did you, but you could hear her there, a soft presence on the other end of the line. Sometimes she hummed quietly, sometimes she shifted, the fabric of her bed or chair rustling. She was waiting and watching over you from afar.

Eventually, your fingers went numb from gripping the phone and you stood. “I’m going home now.”

"Okay." Her voice was soft. "I'll stay on until you're inside."

You walked though it felt like you weren’t truly present.

The streets were empty this late and your footsteps echoed against the pavement. The flower crown was still on your head—you had forgotten about it entirely until a petal drifted down in front of your face, and you looked up to see it in your peripheral vision.

Your house was dark when you arrived. Your parents had gone to bed hours ago. You slipped inside as quietly as you could, toed off your shoes, crept up the stairs.

Your room was exactly as you had left it—clothes everywhere from Yuna's wardrobe raid, your mirror still angled where she had positioned it, the lingering smell of her perfume.

You closed the door, leaned against it and slid down until you were sitting on the floor. "I'm inside," you whispered into the phone.

"I'll hang up now. But I'm here. Okay? I'm always here."

"Okay."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

The line went dead and you sat on the floor for a long time, staring at nothing.

You didn't sleep that night, how could you?

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his face. The way it had crumbled, the hollow look in his eyes, the set of his shoulders as he had walked away. What else could you have done?

You couldn't have let him kiss you without knowing. You couldn't have let him confess without telling him the truth. That would have been worse—so much worse—to let him fall further into something that might not even be real.

But god, it hurt. It hurt so much.

By morning, you were a wreck: dark circles under your eyes, skin pale and blotchy from crying, hair a mess. 

You should have got ready for school, showered, changed, tried to look human. But the thought of walking to that corner, of seeing if he was there—or worse, of him not being there—

You couldn't.

You texted Yuna.

You: i can't go today

Yuna: i know. i'll cover for you. say you're sick.

You: i am sick

Yuna: i know. text me if you need anything. anything at all.

You set the phone down and crawled back into bed, hoping the covers would swallow you whole.

The days passed in a blur of nothing. You didn't eat. You barely moved. You just lay there, staring at the wall, replaying everything. Your mum checked on you once, concerned. You mumbled something about a stomach bug, and she bought it, bringing you tea and crackers you didn't touch.

Yuna texted constantly with updates you didn't want and comfort you couldn't absorb. He's still not at school. Seonghyeon says he's ignoring everyone. We're all worried.

You didn't respond because what was the point? You had done this. You had ruined everything. Years of friendship, of quiet longing, of finally finally having him look at you the way you had always wanted—and you had destroyed it all with one stupid mistake.

The guilt was a living thing now, it sat on your chest, heavy and suffocating, it whispered in your ear when you tried to sleep.

By Thursday afternoon, days later, you couldn't take it anymore.

The anger came suddenly, a hot surge that pushed you out of bed. You didn't know where it was directed—at yourself, at the universe, at the stupid book that had started all of this.

You reached under your mattress and grabbed the book, pulling it out before throwing it hard. It hit the wall with a satisfying thump and fell to the floor, pages splaying open. Landing face-down, open to some random page.

You stood there, breathing hard, chest heaving.

The book lay on your floor like an accusation, open and waiting. The pages were ruffled from the impact, bent at the corners, and through some cruel joke of the universe, it was open to that page.

Page 47. The potion recipe. 

You stared at it, rereading the words you had practically memorised by that point, but as you looked further you realised there was more text at the bottom of the page.

Smaller than the rest, almost like a footnote. The kind of thing you would have missed if you had been reading quickly, if you had been distracted, if you had been too focused on the recipe itself to notice.

You had missed it, never seen it.

You walked closer, knelt down and read its contents.

Note: The draught does not create love where none exists. It merely removes obstacles that prevent the heart from recognising what already belongs there.

The words blurred as you read them again.

Does not create love where none exists.

Merely removes obstacles.

What already belongs there.

Your hand pressed to your mouth.

If the potion didn't create love—if it could only deepen what was already there—then—

Then everything he had felt was real—every gesture he had done was a subconscious urge that had simply been uncovered,

He had liked you, he had liked you before. Maybe for weeks, maybe for months, maybe for years, and the potion hadn't created those feelings—it had just... removed whatever had been in the way. Fear, maybe, or habit, or the simple blindness of knowing someone so well you stopped really seeing them.

You sank to the floor and the book sat in front of you, open to its terrible truth as you stared at the words, your mind racing.

He liked you, always had, and now he was gone, and he thought everything he had felt was manufactured, and he wouldn't answer anyone's texts, and you had no idea how to fix this.

You didn't sleep that night—the same as every night since your stupid mistake—but it was different from the other nights. Before, you had been paralysed by guilt. Now, your mind was racing, turning over possibilities, running through scenarios.

You could tell him by showing him the book and making him read the footnote. But would he believe it? Would he think you were just trying to manipulate him again?

You could wait, give him space and just hope he came back on his own. But what if he didn't? What if he stayed away forever?

Nothing felt right.

You made a decision, you were going to school and you were going to find Yuna and you were going to show her the book, and maybe—hopefully—she would know what to do.

You found Yuna at your locker that Friday morning.

She was leaning against it, scrolling through her phone, and when she looked up and saw you, her face went through approximately seventeen emotions in three seconds.

"Oh my god." She pushed off the locker, grabbed your arms. "You're here. You're actually here. Are you okay? Should you be here? What's happening?"

"I need to show you something." Your voice was rough from disuse. "Somewhere quiet and private."

Yuna's eyes widened, but she just nodded, looped her arm through yours, and started walking. "The library," she said. "Back corner, no one goes there during homeroom."

You weaved between shelves until you reached the farthest corner, hidden from view by tall stacks and a dusty globe no one had touched in years.

Yuna turned to face you. "Okay," she said. "What's going on?" You reached into your bag and pulled out the book. She recognised it immediately. "The spell book? Why do you have—"

"Open it." You handed it to her. "Page 47."

She took it, confused, but flipped to the page. Her eyes scanned the recipe before she eventually reached the bottom. Her eyes widened as they scanned over it multiple times, fully processing the words. "This—" She pointed at the footnote whilst she looked up at you. "This says—"

"I know."

"It says the potion doesn't create feelings. It just—" She looked back at the book, then at you. "It just uncovers what's already there."

"I know."

"Which means—" Her eyes were huge now. "Which means everything he felt—the walks, the flower, the confession—that was all him. That was all real."

"I know."

"He liked you before, he always liked you, he potion just—" She gestured wildly. "Woke it up or something."

"I know."

Yuna stared at you for a moment, then she grabbed your shoulders hard.

"He always liked you!" She shook you slightly, her face alight with realisation. "Do you understand what this means? He didn't fall for you because of magic. He fell for you because he already had. For years, probably. He just needed something to—to shake him loose, to make him see."

You nodded, because you had been thinking the same thing all night. "Seonghyeon said it," you managed. "At lunch that day. He said Keonho's always talked about me, that I'm his favourite person, that he's just been—" You swallowed. "Slow to realise."

"Exactly!" Yuna shook you again, for emphasis. "This whole time, you've been torturing yourself thinking you forced this on him. But you didn't, you just—accelerated something that was already happening."

You pulled away from her grip and sat down heavily on the floor, your back against the bookshelf. "So what do I even do now?"

Yuna paused, moving to sit across from you. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" You gestured vaguely. "He's not talking to me, he's not talking to anyone. He thinks everything he felt was fake. He thinks I manipulated him, and even if I show him this—" You tapped the book. "Will he believe it? Will he believe me? After everything?"

Yuna was quiet for a moment. "You have to try."

"But what if—"

"You have to try." She leaned forward, grabbed your hands. "You can't let him keep thinking his feelings weren't real. That's not fair to him and it's not fair to you." She squeezed. "So you find a way. You make him listen, you show him this book and you make him read those words and you don't stop until he understands."

You looked at her. "How?" You whispered.

"I don't know yet." She squeezed again. "But we'll figure it out. Together."

You leaned your head back against the bookshelf.

You and Yuna sat there through homeroom, through first period, through the morning bell that you were both ignoring. The book lay open between you on the floor, page 47 staring up like an accusation and a promise all at once.

"We need to find him," Yuna said for the fifth time.

"We've been over this, he's not answering anyone."

"Then we find him in person. His house, his locker, follow Seonghyeon until he leads us to him."

You shook your head. "If he's ignoring everyone, showing up at his house will just make it worse. He'll feel cornered and trapped."

Yuna groaned, flopping back against the bookshelf. "Then what? We just wait? Hope he eventually comes back?"

"I don't know." You pulled your knees to your chest. "I don't know anything anymore."

Silence settled between you. The library was quiet, muffled sounds of the school day filtering in from far away.

Then approaching footsteps caused the two of you to look up.

Seonghyeon appeared around the corner of the bookshelf. He looked uncomfortable—shifting from foot to foot, not quite meeting your eyes, his usual easy confidence completely absent.

"Hey," he said. "Can we talk?"

You and Yuna exchanged a glance. "Sure," you said.

He leaned against the nearest bookshelf, arms crossed, jaw tight. "Look, I don't know much about what's going on." His voice was quieter than usual. "Yuna kinda explained it, and Keonho hasn't told me anything other than you forced him into feeling something? He's been completely shut down all week. Won't answer texts, won't talk at his locker, won't even look at me when I try to catch his eye." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I've known him since we were kids. I've never seen him like this."

Your chest ached. "I'm sorry—"

"I'm not here for an apology." He cut you off, but not harshly, just firmly. "I'm here because someone needs to get through to him, and I think that someone has to be you."

You blinked. "Me? He won't even talk to me, he walked away from me and he's been ignoring my texts—"

"Exactly." Seonghyeon pushed off the bookshelf, took a step closer. "Don't you get it? The only reason he's this wrecked is because you're the one who did it. If this was anyone else—if some random person had pulled this—he'd be angry for a day and then move on. But this is you." He pointed at you for emphasis. "You're not just some person to him, you never have been."

Yuna shifted beside you, but didn't speak. "I don't understand," you admitted.

Seonghyeon sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, I'm not supposed to say this. Keonho would kill me if he knew I was telling you. But—" He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "He's liked you for years. Like, years." Your heart was pounding. "I'm not stupid," Seonghyeon continued. "I noticed. I just figured he knew and wasn't acting on it for some reason. Maybe he was scared, maybe he didn't want to ruin the friendship. I don't know. But it was always there under the surface waiting."

He looked at you directly. "And then these past few weeks happened and suddenly he was happy. Like, genuinely happy in a way I haven't seen in a long time. Walking you to school, sitting with you at lunch, that dopey look he gets when you're not looking—" He shook his head. "I thought he'd finally figured it out and stopped being an idiot and went for it."

"But he didn't know about the potion—"

"No, he didn't, and now he thinks everything he felt was fake." Seonghyeon's voice softened. "Do you understand what that does to a person? To find out that the best thing that's happened to you in years might not even be real?"

Your eyes stung. "I know. I know, and I didn't mean—"

"I'm not blaming you." He held up a hand. "I'm not. From what Yuna told me, it was an accident and you didn't know. But now you do know. The potion didn't create anything because he’s been in love with you for years, and he needs to hear that from you."

"What if he won't listen?"

"Then you make him listen." Seonghyeon's jaw set. "You show up at his house, you grab him by the shoulders and shake him if you have to. You don't let him push you away." He paused. "Because here's the thing—you mean more to him than you probably realise. You always have. And if you give up now, if you let him disappear into his own head forever, you're both going to regret it for the rest of your lives."

The words hung in the air and Yuna reached over, squeezed your hand.

Seonghyeon straightened, shoved his hands in his pockets. "That's all I came to say." He looked at you one more time. "Don't let him go without a fight."

He walked away and you sat there, stunned, his words echoing in your head.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You went to classes you didn't remember, you ate lunch you didn't taste, you nodded along to conversations you didn't hear. All you could think about was Seonghyeon's words.

He's liked you for years.

Years.

Not weeks. Not since the potion. Years.

And you had been so wrapped up in guilt, so convinced you had ruined everything, that you hadn't let yourself see it. That night, you texted him.

You: I know you're not ready to talk. That's okay. I just need you to know—I'm not giving up. I'll be here when you're ready.

You received no response, though you had expected that.

Saturday morning, it rained a proper downpour, heavy and relentless, turning the world grey and blurred.  You watched it from your window, tracing the paths of droplets on the glass.

Your phone buzzed.

Yuna: what's the plan?

You stared at the message. What was the plan? You couldn't just show up at his house—that felt like ambushing him. You couldn't keep texting—he wasn't responding. You couldn't do nothing—Seonghyeon's words wouldn't stop echoing. You needed to think, to move, to get out of this room that was starting to feel like a cage.

You: going for a walk

Yuna: in this weather??

Yuna: are you insane??

Yuna: Y/n answer me

You pulled on a thin jacket and slipped out the front door before your mum could stop you, ignoring the insistent buzzing of your phone. The rain hit you immediately as you walked with no destination in mind, just one foot in front of the other, letting the rain wash over you, letting the cold numb the ache in your chest.

Eventually, without consciously deciding to, you ended up at the park.

The playground was empty, swings hanging limp and wet in the rain. You walked to the swings and sat down on the same one you had sat on that night. The chain was cold and wet in your hands and the seat was soaked through immediately, water seeping into your jeans. You didn't care.

This was where it had gone wrong. This was where you had told him the truth and watched him walk away. If you could go back—if you could do it over—would you change anything?

You would still have had to tell him, you knew that, keeping it from him would have been worse, so much worse, letting him fall further into something he thought was fake.

But maybe—maybe you could have done it differently: shown him the book first, let him read the footnote himself, given him proof before the confession had shattered. It was too late now.

The rain fell harder as you leaned your head against the chain, letting the cold metal press into your skin. 

Two streets away, in a dark bedroom, Keonho sat on his bed. He hadn't moved in hours, hadn't eaten, hadn't slept properly in days. His phone sat beside him, screen dark, notifications silenced. He had been ignoring everyone: his parents, Seonghyeon, you. Especially you. Because every time he thought about you, he didn't know what to feel. 

The rain pounded against his window, thunder shook the house, and he remained unmoving, the weight of his emotions swallowing him whole.

His phone buzzed but he ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. And again. Someone was spamming him. He picked up the phone, annoyed, ready to silence it permanently before freezing when he saw the messages were from Yuna.

Yuna: i hope you're happy

Yuna: she went out in this storm because she's so wrecked over you

Yuna: she's not answering her phone anymore

Yuna: keonho i swear to god if something happens to her

Yuna: ANSWER ME

His heart stopped whilst he stared at the messages. His fingers moved before his brain caught up.

Keonho: what do you mean she went out

Three dots appeared immediately.

Yuna: OH NOW YOU DECIDE TO RESPOND

Yuna: she said she was going for a walk HOURS ago and now she's not answering and there's a STORM and i'm going to KILL you

Keonho: where did she go

Yuna: I DON'T KNOW she just said a walk

Yuna: not that you'd care

Yuna: since you've been ignoring everyone including the girl who you've apparently been in love with for years

Yuna: yeah Seonghyeon told me everything

Yuna: so congrats, you're both idiots

He was already standing, already pulling on his jacket, already heading for the door. His phone buzzed one more time as he ran out into the rain.

Yuna: find her and bring her home and then FIX THIS or so help me god

The rain hit him like a wall. It was worse than he had thought—worse than it had looked from his window. The kind of rain that soaked through everything in seconds, that turned streets into rivers, that made sensible people stay inside. He didn't care. He simply ran, hoping to find you wherever you were.

The rain was too loud surrounding you, a constant roar that drowned out everything else. Your eyes were closed. Your head was still against the chain. You had given up on anything except existing in this moment, in this rain, in this pain.

Slowly a sound emerged through the rain, footsteps approaching from the distance. You opened your eyes and through the grey saw a figure running straight for you, a figure you would have recognised anywhere. The familiar build. The way he moved: shoulders slightly forward, arms pumping, head down against the rain. The silhouette that had been imprinted on your heart for as long as you could remember.

You stood quickly and the swing rocked behind you, chains creaking wildly. You took a few stumbling steps forward, rain streaming down your face, and then you were standing in front of him.

Both of you were soaked and breathing hard. He stopped short, almost colliding with you. His chest heaved and his eyes were wide, searching, unreadable.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The rain pounded down around you like a curtain, like you were the only two people in the world, like nothing existed except this moment. Then, finally, he breathed out: "Yuna said you left on a walk."

His voice was raw, like he hadn't used it much in days.  You stared at him. "You—" Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat, tried again. "Yuna messaged you?"

"She was worried about you." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. Rain dripped from his jaw, his nose, the ends of his hair. "I've been walking for an hour checking everywhere. " A pause. " She was... uh, she was pretty angry."

Despite everything, a small sound escaped you—almost a laugh. "She has that effect."

"Yeah." His lips twitched, just slightly. "She said you weren't answering and you'd been gone for hours, that there was a storm." He gestured vaguely at the sky, at the rain still pouring down. "She wasn't wrong about the storm."

"Why are you here?" You asked quietly.

He was quiet for a moment, then he glanced past you at the swings behind you.

"I thought maybe you'd come here," he said. "To this place."

"Why?"

He looked back at you. His eyes were dark and unreadable "Because it's where I lost you," he said quietly.

The words hit you like a physical blow. "Keonho—"

"I read your message." He cut you off, but gently. "The one where you said you wouldn't give up. I read it a hundred times, maybe more." He took a step closer. "And I've been trying to figure out what's real, what's mine, what I can trust."

Your heart pounded. "And?"

"And I keep coming back to the same thing." Another step. He was close now, close enough to touch. "The flower, the walks, the way I felt when you laughed, the way I've always felt when you laughed, even before any of this." His voice dropped. "That wasn't the potion. That was me."

You couldn't breathe.

"That's what I've been trying to hold onto," he continued. "The things I know were mine. The things that have been mine for years, even when I was too stupid to see it." He laughed—a broken, wet sound that was half sob, half disbelief. "Seonghyeon told me. After you sent that message, I called him. First time I'd talked to anyone in days, he told me about the footnote you found, and I asked him—I asked if he'd noticed, if he'd seen it before. If any of it was real."

"What did he say?"

"He said—" Keonho shook his head, rain flying from his hair. "He said I've been in love with you since we were fifteen and just didn't know it. He said it was obvious to everyone except me. He said—" His voice cracked. "He said you're the only person who's ever made me genuinely happy, and I was too blind to see it."

In love.

The words hit you like a wave. "Keonho—"

"I'm not done." He held up a hand, but gently. "I need to say this. I need you to hear it. I've been sitting in my room for days, going crazy, trying to figure out what's real and the only thing I keep coming back to—the only thing that feels solid—is you. Is us. Is every moment we've had together, even before the potion, even before any of this."

He took a breath and rain ran down his face like tears. "I was angry," he admitted. "When you told me, I was so angry because I thought—I thought you'd taken my choices from me. I thought none of it was real, that I'd been manipulated and everything I felt was just... chemicals, magic, not mine."

His voice cracked again. "But it was real, it's always been real, I just didn't see it until you—" He gestured vaguely, helplessly. "Until you woke me up. Until you made me look at you differently. Until I finally saw what had been in front of me the whole time."

The rain continued to fall, but neither of you moved.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For walking away and not answering and making you wait and making you sit here alone in the rain thinking I hated you." He swallowed hard. "I don't hate you, I couldn't hate you and I've tried. Believe me, I've tried these past few days, and I just—I can't."

You shook your head, words failing. He reached out and took your hand. His fingers were cold, wet, trembling slightly, but they were wrapped around yours, and he was here, and he was real. "I don't want to wait anymore," he said quietly. "I don't want to be scared. I don't want to lose you again." He squeezed your hand. "If you'll still have me after everything, if you still want—"

You didn't let him finish. You moved before you thought. Your free hand reached up, fingers brushing against his wet jaw and he skin was cold beneath your touch.. His eyes widened slightly—surprise, maybe, or disbelief—and in that half-second, you saw everything: the exhaustion, the hope, the fear, the love.

Then you closed the distance and your lips met his.

Your nose bumped his slightly, your teeth clacked against his lower lip, and you felt him wince just slightly before the kiss deepened. You were both so wet that water dripped between your faces, running down your cheeks, collecting where your lips met and turning the kiss salt-tinged and cold.

It was perfect.

For a frozen heartbeat, he didn't move. His hand was still wrapped around yours, his body still, his breath caught somewhere in his chest. You felt the hesitation, the uncertainty—is this real, is this allowed, could he trust this—

Then something shifted. His hand released yours and came up to your face, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that made your heart ache. His thumb traced your cheekbone, wet and warm despite the cold. He tilted his head slightly, adjusting the angle, and then he was kissing you back eagerly, desperately, like you were air and he had been drowning for days.

His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, eliminating the last inches of space between you. You were pressed together now: chest to chest, heart to heart, and you could feel him shaking. 

You kissed him back just as fiercely. Your hands found their way into his wet hair, fingers threading through the soaked strands. The rain pounded down around you both, soaking through what little dry spots remained. It ran in rivers down your joined faces, dripped from your chins, collected in the small spaces where your bodies pressed together. You couldn't have cared less.

You had waited years for this. Years of stolen glances and unspoken feelings. Years of telling yourself it was enough just to have him as a friend. Years of watching him date other people, laugh with other people, be happy without you—and telling yourself that was fine, that was normal, that you were fine.

You were never fine.

And now, finally, finally, he knew.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Your forehead rested against his. His eyes were still closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, rain dripping from them like tears. His chest heaved beneath your hands.

After a moment he opened his eyes and looked at you.

The rain still fell around you, but at this moment, it didn't exist. Nothing existed except his eyes looking at you like you were the answer to every question he had ever asked. "I've wanted to do that," he said quietly, "for so long. I just didn't know it."

A laugh escaped you: wet and broken and full of a joy so intense it almost hurt. "Same." His thumb traced your jaw, gentle, reverent. 

"I'm cold," you admitted.

A small smile flickered across his face. "Same." Another smile, wider this time. "We should probably go inside before we freeze."

"Probably."

Neither of you moved. You stood there in the rain, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air, existing in the same moment. His hand was still on your jaw, your fingers were still in his hair, the world could have ended right then and you wouldn't have noticed.

Then, slowly, he leaned in again. This kiss was slower, softer, and far more deliberate this time.

He kissed you like he was memorising you: the shape of your lips, the way you tilted your head. His mouth moved against yours with a tenderness that made your eyes sting.

One of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers pressing gently into your wet skin. The other rested at your waist, thumb tracing small circles through your soaked shirt. He was warm despite the cold, solid despite the trembling.

Your hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, gripping the wet fabric of his jacket, holding him close.

When you finally pulled apart—just inches, just enough to breathe—he was smiling. "Okay," he said softly. "Now we can go inside."

You laughed bright and surprised, and he took your hand again, squeezing it before you both began your walk out of the rain.

When you reached the corner where your streets diverged, you both paused. His hand was still wrapped around yours, warm despite the cold, solid and real in a way that made your chest ache with something you couldn't quite name. 

"My house is closer," he said quietly. "And my parents are out. If you want to—" He shrugged, a little awkward, rain still dripping from his hair. "Dry off and warm up before you go home."

You should have said no. Your mother was probably worried and you were soaked through and shaking with cold. Going to his house, alone, after everything—

"Yes," you heard yourself say.

He smiled and tugged you gently in his direction.

His house was dark when you arrived. He fumbled with the keys, his cold fingers slipping twice before he managed to unlock the door. Inside, it was warm and quiet, the central heating fighting against the storm outside. "Bathroom's down the hall," he said, toeing off his soaked shoes. "There are towels in the cabinet. I'll find you something dry to wear."

You hesitated in the entryway, suddenly aware of the water dripping from every inch of you onto his floor.

"Go." He gestured. "I'll clean up, it's just water."

The bathroom was small and familiar—you had been here countless times over the years, but never like this. Never dripping wet, never with your heart still pounding from kissing him in the rain.

You found towels in the cabinet, thick and soft. You dried your hair as best you could, patted down your soaked clothes, stared at yourself in the mirror.

There was a sudden knock at the door.

"Got you some clothes," his voice came through. "They'll be huge on you, but they're dry."

You opened the door a crack and his hand appeared, holding a folded sweatshirt and sweatpants. You took them, fingers just grazing his own. "Thanks."

"Meet you in the living room?"

"Yeah."

You changed quickly. The clothes swam on you: his sweatshirt fell to mid-thigh, the sweatpants had to be rolled three times to stay up, but they were warm, and they smelled like him, and you pulled the collar up to your nose just to breathe it in.

When you emerged, he was in the living room.

He had changed too: dry sweats, a different hoodie. His hair was still damp, towel-dried and messy, falling across his forehead. He had a blanket draped over the back of the couch and two mugs on the coffee table. "Hot chocolate," he said, a little shy. "Hope that's okay. I figured we both needed something warm."

You sat and he positioned himself beside you—close, but not quite touching, as though he was waiting for permission.

You took his hand and he exhaled before leaning into you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You sipped hot chocolate, listened to the rain against the windows, held his hand and felt him hold yours back.

"This is weird," he said eventually.

You glanced at him. "Weird good or weird bad?"

"Weird good." He squeezed your hand. "Just—different. Being here with you like this." He paused. "It's like everything's the same but also completely different."

You nodded. "I know what you mean."

He was quiet for a moment. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"When did you know? That you liked me. Like, really liked me."

You thought about it for a moment. "I don't think there was one moment," you admitted. "It was more like slowly realising that the way I felt about you wasn't how you feel about just a friend. That I thought about you more than I thought about anyone else and you were the first person I wanted to tell things to, good or bad." You glanced at him. "Does that make sense?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, it does." A pause. "For me, it was... I don't know. It was like you suddenly came into focus, like I'd been looking at you my whole life but never really seeing you, and then one day—" He shrugged. "I saw you."

"The potion—"

"Wasn't the potion." He cut you off gently. "I've thought about this a lot for the past few days, and I think—I think the potion just... lowered some wall I didn't know I had. Made me stop overthinking and stop being scared." He looked at you. "But what I felt after that? That was mine. All mine."

Your eyes stung. "I was so scared," you whispered. "When you walked away. I thought I'd lost you forever."

"I know." He reached up, brushed a strand of hair from your face. "I'm sorry, I should have—"

"Stop." You covered his hand with yours. "You had every right to be angry and need space. I don't blame you for any of it."

He looked at you for a long moment, digesting your words. Then, slowly, he leaned in. This kiss was different from the ones in the rain, tender in a way that made your heart ache.

When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours. "I'm really glad you're here," he whispered.

"Me too."

An hour later, your phone buzzed.

Mum: where are you?? it's almost dark and there's a storm

You stared at the message. You had completely forgotten.

You: at Keonho's. drying off. I'll be home soon.

Mum: keonho's??

Mum: Y/n what is going on

You glanced at Keonho and he was watching you, amused.

"I should go," you said. "My mum's worried."

He nodded, stood, offered you his hand. "I'll walk you."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You smiled and took his hand.

The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time you stepped outside. The sky was still grey, but lighter somehow.  He walked you to your door, stopping at the end of the driveway. "Same time as usual on Monday?" He asked. "For the walk to school?"

Your heart fluttered. "Yeah, same time."

He smiled warmly, eyes tracing your face. "Good." He squeezed your hand. "I'll be at your corner."

You stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. Then he leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, and walked away, a slight bounce in his step.

You watched him go, cheeks burning at his sudden gesture.

profiles .ᐟ

shenanigans | 4liferz

chapters .ᐟ

one. "weird girl"

two. "warning"

three. "organic encounter"

four. "everything happens for a reason"

five. "a nudge"

six. "apologies"

seven. "fate"

eight. "everything will be okay"

nine. "blooming"

ten. "the signs"

eleven. "his logic"

twelve. "late night troubles"

thirteen. "operation jellytin is a go"

fourteen. "believe in me"

fifteen. "2222"

sixteen. "coincidence"

seventeen. "candles & the dark makes?"

eighteen. "emergency sleepover"

nineteen. "like glass"

twenty. "crazy"

twenty one. "crazy together?"

twenty two. "breaking"

twenty three. "operation success"

twenty four. "crazy together."

wc: 5.8k+

CH 6

Family dinners have always been the hardest.

That's why you rarely show up.

To escape the heavy, judgemental states of your father before your mother gaslights you into thinking this is all tough love but still love altogether.

It has been a couple of months since you sat together like this, silence still prevailed. You've lost your appetite thinking of all the things that had happened this whole week.

Your brain claws onto fractions of what your therapist said earlier, but it's all hazy cause you're forcefully trying to push them aside. And that's the thing with parents like yours.

Mental health was never considered a problem in your house. There never existed such a thing as depression. They were so stuck in the ways of the old, that they turned a blind eye to their own daughter suffering as a result of their own failures, reflecting on her very being. You knew how they're reactions to everything, that's why you never opened up to them.

And no one helped you. No one ever told you it was okay to feel the way you did when you were just eight and your parents would fight. With the houses so close to each other in the street, the nosy neighbours who couldn't keep to themselves, the whole neighborhood knew just how problematic your family was.

It was Martin, who made those days bearable. For someone younger than you, even if he couldn't fully comprehend how you truly felt, he sure knew how to take your mind off things. Every week, some inconvenience would occur and you knew how the story went. But your memories are filled with his bright smiles, playground dates, cookies from his mother's kitchen and warm hugs.

You sit by the table with your parents, you father in a formal attire as he just came back from work. Your mother is wearing a beautiful dress, showing her elegance and perseverance. You feel as if you're the odd one, with your worn out baggy jeans, vans and a dark red, striped jacket. Your mother realises that it's Martin's before you even mention it, because it looks too big on you.

Your mother starts sweetly, "It's so nice of you to come by. You're always so caught up with college, that you barely show up. It's almost as if you're avoiding us."

You let out a nervous laugh, "Well, you know, busy me."

"Well, we're glad you're here. How's Martin doing, does he still look after you?" She asks.

There's a small smile that shows up on your face unknowingly at the mention of him, as you say "Yeah, you know how he follows me around right?"

She laughs, her voice sweet like honey as she says, "Yeah, he never left your side. Clearly, he still hasn't."

You miss that about her very dearly.

The two of you sharing a knowing look and chuckle softly, slowly falling into comfortable silence. Your father never said anything throughout this conversation so your mother nudges him slightly, looking at him expectantly.

He clears his throat before saying, "So, has anything new happening at your college? Or are things the same?" You could feel the condescending hint in his tone.

Way to break the ice.

"Oh well, nothing's changed that much. But they're implementing more activities and they recently implemented new after school clubs to improve our borders and give us more exposure."

"Seems like a waste of time." He says.

He's always been tough.

You don't say anything after that, the tension palpable. Your mother tries to ease the tension, "How are you science grades, sweetheart? You doing good?" She asks.

"Yeah, I'm doing a lot better than before, I'm close to getting an A-grade." You tell her, a small smile on both of your faces.

"But you're not even there yet. So there's nothing new happening in your life. Disappointing as always." He says, a neutral expression on his face.

"Honey, don't be like that. You know how much she was struggling, with the whole smoking addiction and everything." She tells your dad, calmly.

You freeze instantly. You never told your father you were an addict. You thought you could trust her but clearly she didn't do a good job, keeping this to herself. You shoot her a look.

He shoots an angry glare at you, asking,"Y/N. You smoke?"

"No! No, not anymore." You try to brush it off, shoving food in your mouth.

"But you used to?" He firmly looks at you.

"Honey, it's okay, she stopped a long time ago. She just didn't want to tell you." You glare back at you mother, shooting her a Mum, what the fuck you doing?

He looks at you once again before asking, "Why were you smoking?"

You hesitate a lot, figuring you can pretend you didn't hear him. But he raises his voice at you, "Answer me, why were you smoking?"

"I found it difficult to cope up with college." You lie to him. You know exactly why. The painful memories of Mario flooding your brain.

"Why should she be smoking in the first place? If she didn't waste her time, focusing on her feelings, like a weakling, then she would've stood at the top of her class. You women, always so emotional about everything. It's a luxury we cannot afford." He says, trying to feign a neutral expression, but his outburst says otherwise.

You scoff at him before saying, "You're the one to talk. You act like you've accomplished so much in your life that you assume the anger you throw back is justifiable. You're just as emotional." Two can play this game.

"We'll, aren't you disrespectful as always. You really haven't changed, have you?" He says, his temper slowly rising.

"Yeah, just like you never did. Imagine telling me to change when you haven't set an example yourself." You respond back.

"You are such an ungrateful brat. After all we've done for you, this is how you repay us? Do you realise how big of a shame it would bring upon us if our neighbourhood found out you smoked? And you're playing around with that tall boy, Martin? Is he as dumb as you are? Oh, who am I kidding, he probably is!" He yells at you.

"Okay, that is it. Throw insults at me all you want but do not bring Martin into this. He's been nothing but helpful and loving and caring to me, he's done the very things you failed to fulfill! You can buy and pay for me all you fucking like, but if you can't provide some emotional help to your child and pick on her, you failed." You pause for a moment, before continuing.

"Both of you, all you did was fight around me growing up. Like didn't you ever realise how much it was harming me? Because the two of you are so stupid, you're so immersed in proving your point to the other that you forgot I existed. And for your information father," You raise your voice sarcastically, "I got this stupid addiction cause of you both. You failed to help me out and left me on my own, but chose to have such heavy expectations on me that I couldn't fulfill. So this, is all on you. For not being there for me when I needed you."

"You could've said something, I didn't realise you were as weak as a loser." You father retorted.

"How could I, without you yelling at me every second of the day? All you know, is to hurl insults and blame evryone when truly, this is evidence of your narrow mind and negligence. Nobody will respect you, if you fail to do that to others."

Your chest is heaving heavily as your parents' eyes go wide at your confession. They've never heard you speak like that before, and this might be the very last time you might speak to them. You grab your things, and walk out the door, leaving your food as it was.

At the door, you turn around and tell them, "And this is why I never show up. Because everytime we speak, we fight. From the time I was young, I can never have a peaceful dinner without Dad trying to insult me or Mum. This, is also why I continually insisted that I move out. I love you guys, and I forgave you even after you haven't changed. But don't expect me to understand, when you never did."

Your dad looks at you for the first time since years, sombrerity in his eyes as he asks, "So, if we weren't like that, you would've stayed with us rather than living in the dorms?"

"Yeah, I would've. But it never happened, and you made it difficult to make that possible." You reply.

And with that, you turn around before they could say anything. You head towards the bus station, and catch your bus standing right on time as you book a ticket to the college dorms.

On the bus, you see Martin and your heart just stops. He has his wired earphones in, hugging his macbook close to him, head leaning on the window as rain starts to drizzle outside, his white shirt with black stripes fitting him perfectly.

It's only then do you feel concious of yourself, still wearing his red stried jacket

He has an empty seat next to him, so you figure it's not harmful to sit next to him.

You should've been careful.

Because once you do, he shifts slightly so he leans his head on your shoulder. You freeze, heart hammering in your chest. He murmurs something softly, but your ears catch it. "Don't leave me" he says.

You bite you lip, at his words, trying not to let a sound out as you lean in and press a small his on the top of his head.

"I'll try not to."

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