JIAH POV
The bus ride home feels fake.
Like I'm sitting inside someone else's life, watching Seoul blur past the window while my brain keeps replaying one single scene on loop—Jiho's hand, warm, steady, not pulling away. Like it belongs there. Like I belong there.
Bora asked me earlier.
Haerin too.
Both of them leaned in with that look. The spill it look.
"What happened?"
"Why are you smiling like that?"
"Your face is red. Did you get heatstroke?"
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I genuinely didn't know how.
How do you explain something that feels like a glitch in the universe? How do you say the boy who rejected me six times suddenly held my hand and walked me to the nurse and gave me candy without sounding clinically insane?
Also—what if I say it out loud and it stops being real?
What if it evaporates the second I hear my own voice say it?
So I just shrugged. Smiled. Shook my head like I was hiding a crime.
They looked suspicious. I stayed silent.
But fuck it—I do have witnesses.
The nurse.
And… Enhyeok.
Okay, maybe Enhyeok doesn't know why I was jumping like a malfunctioning Sim in the classroom. But he definitely saw Jiho. He definitely saw us together. He definitely knows something happened.
Right?
Whatever.
I'm still happy.
Like stupid happy.
Like embarrassing, teeth-hurting, chest-too-tight happy.
I get off the bus, walk the familiar route, keys already in my hand. My building looks the same as always. Grey. Quiet. Five floors of people living separate lives. Nothing special.
But today, it doesn't feel heavy.
Usually when I come home, the silence hits me like a slap. Today it just… waits. Patient. Soft.
I unlock the door and step inside.
"Hi," I say automatically, toeing off my shoes.
Then, because I always do this, I add, "Hello to the ghost. If you exist. Don't be weird."
No answer.
Rude.
I toss my bag onto the couch without caring where it lands and walk straight into my room. The second my door closes, I flop onto my bed face-up, arms spread like I just survived something intense.
I stare at the ceiling.
It has that tiny crack near the corner that looks like a lightning bolt. I've stared at it on bad days. On empty days. On days when my chest felt hollow and my phone stayed silent and my thoughts spiraled into maybe I'm just unlovable territory.
Today?
Today the ceiling looks different.
I whisper it. Quiet. Like a secret I don't want the walls to steal.
"Baek Jiho held my hand today."
I pause.
Then louder.
"He asked me if I was okay."
I laugh suddenly, covering my mouth with my sleeve like I might wake someone up. There's no one here. Just me and my unhinged thoughts.
"He gave me a candy," I say, voice cracking on the stupidest detail.
A candy.
I pull it out of my pocket again even though I've checked it a million times already. Still there. Still wrapped. Still real.
I press it to my cheek like I've lost my mind.
"He walked me to my class," I mumble. "He asked if I was awkward with him."
My face feels hot again.
God, I'm sick.
I roll onto my side, curl into myself, knees pulled up, grin hurting my cheeks.
I want to see him again.
The thought slips in naturally. Easily. Like it's always lived there.
I want morning to come fast. I want to wake up, put on my uniform, step into the classroom and see him exist in the same space as me again. I want to know if he'll look at me differently tomorrow. If this was a one-time thing or—
—or if maybe something actually shifted.
Maybe he's starting to feel something.
And maybe—just maybe—it's the right thing.
I groan and shove my face into my pillow.
"Seo Jiah," I mutter. "Calm down. You're embarrassing."
I lift my head.
"No—actually don't calm down," I correct myself. "This is huge. This is historical."
I laugh again, softer this time, staring at the ceiling like it might judge me.
"How am I supposed to stay normal after this?" I whisper. "How do people just… function?"
My chest feels full. Not buzzing, not frantic—just full. Like something warm settled in and decided to stay.
I clutch the candy to my chest, squeeze my eyes shut, and let myself smile without holding back.
I don't know what this means.
I don't know what happens next.
But tonight—
Tonight, I'm happy.
And that's enough.
The shower steam hits me like a soft slap.
Hot water pours over my head, down my shoulders, over my back, and I just stand there for a second doing absolutely nothing—blank brain, dumb smile, heart still floating somewhere above my skull.
I'm still smiling.
Like an idiot.
Like someone who doesn't know how to act normal anymore.
Water splashes everywhere because I forgot to close the curtain properly, and it starts leaking onto the floor, but I don't even care. Future me can deal with slippery-tile consequences. Present me is busy replaying a hand-holding scene like it's a cinematic masterpiece.
I tilt my head back, let the water hit my face, and laugh. Quiet at first. Then not so quiet.
Oh my god.
Oh my GOD.
I scoop up some foam, thick and white, and before my brain can stop me, I write it on my arm.
BAEK JIHO
All caps. Dramatic. Unnecessary.
I stare at it like I've summoned something illegal.
I snort. "You're insane," I tell myself, but I don't erase it.
Instead, I spin around, almost slipping, arms up like I'm on a music show stage, hair whipping, shampoo flying everywhere. If anyone saw me right now, they'd file a missing brain report.
I dance. Badly. No rhythm. Just vibes.
I blow foam into the air and watch it float and pop and laugh like it's the funniest thing I've ever seen. My cheeks hurt. My stomach hurts. I'm grinning so hard it feels permanent.
Then—
I stop.
I slap my cheeks. Once. Twice.
"Please," I say to my reflection in the foggy glass. "Stop it."
I inhale. Exhale. Slow.
Okay.
Enough.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile and close my eyes.
"No," I whisper. "You need to act mature."
Mature.
Responsible.
Normal.
I straighten up like that will rewire my personality.
"Tomorrow," I mutter, "you're calm. You're composed. You're not blushing like a middle schooler."
I point at the mirror. "You're okay. You're totally okay. You're… worthy."
The word feels weird in my mouth.
Worthy.
Like if I behave well enough, like if I don't freak out, like if I don't scare him away with my feelings leaking everywhere—then maybe he'll keep looking at me the way he did today.
Maybe.
I rinse the foam off my arm, watching his name disappear down the drain, and something about that makes my chest tighten just a little.
I shut off the water.
The bathroom is quiet again, steam curling around me, my heart finally slowing down—just a bit.
I towel-dry my hair, rough and careless, flipping it over my head, rubbing until my arms get tired. My phone buzzes from the counter.
I squint at it through wet lashes.
That's not Bora's ringtone.
Not Haerin's either.
Those two have aggressively recognizable notification sounds. This one is… plain. Default. Corporate. Like an email from the government.
I pick it up, thumb hovering, brain lagging.
The screen lights up.
A message preview.
All caps.
PASS EVEN IF YOU DIE
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
"Pass…?" I whisper.
Pass what?
My brain stares at the words like they're written in another language. Then—click.
Oh.
Oh no.
Maths.
Tomorrow.
The test.
The one I've been aggressively pretending doesn't exist.
My stomach drops.
I open the notification fully.
Unknown number.
Formal tone.
Short.
Threatening in a calm way.
My brain runs through a very small list of people who would text something like this.
Teacher? No.
Bora? She'd spam emojis.
Haerin? She'd apologize first.
There's only one person I know who communicates like this. Like every word costs money.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
My chest tightens.
"No," I whisper. "Don't."
The name doesn't show up.
But my gut already knows.
Don't tell me—
Yu Enhyeok??