The following weeks were painted in colors I never knew existed. Carla's "Living List" became our bible. We bunked class to read poetry in the park, the words feeling more important whispered under an old oak tree. She dragged me to a karaoke bar where we screamed off-key rock ballads in a private room until our throats were raw. I felt the shell I'd lived in for years cracking open, and a new, braver version of myself tentatively stepping out as I was being born again .
I was watching her more than I was watching the world. The way her nose scrunched when she laughed, the specific cadence of her voice when she got excited about a story. That strange, warm feeling in my chest was now a constant presence, a sun I orbited around.
One afternoon, we were hunting for the "best vintage comic book" in a cluttered, dusty store. The air was thick with the smell of old paper. We were squeezed into a narrow aisle when she suddenly stopped. She reached out a hand to steady herself on a shelf, her knuckles turning white.
"Carla?" I asked.
She closed her eyes for a second too long. "Just stood up too fast," she said, her voice a little thin. She offered a smile that seemed to take effort. "Forgot to eat lunch, that's all." She waved me off, but the moment lingered. A small, cold seed of worry had been planted in my gut.
That night, I was humming while making dinner. My brother, Seo, was actually home, slumped at the kitchen table, the day's exhaustion clinging to him like a shadow.
"You're… humming," he stated, his voice rough but laced with curiosity.
I felt myself blush. "Yeah. I guess."
He studied me for a long moment. "It's a girl."
It wasn't a question. I nodded, focusing intently on the eggs I was scrambling.
A low chuckle escaped him. "That's love," he said, a simple, definitive statement that shook me to my core.
"It's not!" I protested, too quickly, the heat rising to my face. But I couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips. He just smirked, a rare, genuine expression that made him look years younger.
The next day, I waited at our usual spot outside the library, the spot where our story truly began. She never came. I texted her: Hey, you running late? No response. The day after was the same. The vibrant colors of the past few weeks began to drain away, fading back into a familiar, anxious gray. The silence felt louder now, filled with questions I was afraid to ask.
When she finally reappeared in class three days later, she was paler. Faint, lavender shadows hung under her beautiful amber eyes, and her smile seemed more fragile.
"Family stuff," she said before I could even ask, her tone offering no room for argument. "Sorry I ghosted you."
I wanted to ask a hundred questions. I wanted to demand to know what was wrong, if she was okay. But the fear of shattering this beautiful, fragile thing we had built was stronger. So I just nodded, my heart a conflicted mess of relief and fear, and said, "I'm just glad you're back."
And I pretended not to notice the way her hand trembled slightly as she showed me a new item she'd added to the list: "Dance in the rain."