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Gigi’s sitting on the curb. Still. Because where else do you go after emotionally imploding in 4K in front of your crush and a flock of judgemental pigeons?
Her suit’s wrinkled now. One pant leg’s wet because the sprinklers came on like right then, like the lawn had opinions too. The napkin is doing exactly nothing anymore—just hanging out of her nose like a sad flag of surrender.
And the glitter from the posterboard? It’s somehow on her teeth. How? Why? The gods offer no answers.
Then: a shadow stretches over the concrete.
And Gigi’s first thought is, Cool. Death has finally come for me.
But no. Of course not.
It’s Cecilia.
In flats.
With her blazer perfectly pressed, and that mildly confused, head-tilted look she gets when trying to read instructions written by a madman. Or, in this case, a bleeding, pathetic brunette who thought promposals were a good idea.
“I thought the theme was supposed to be subtle,” Cecilia says, blinking down at the wreckage. Her voice is the same as always—unbothered, vaguely amused. Dangerous.
Gigi tries to laugh and nearly chokes on her own blood. “Yeah, well. I thought noses weren’t supposed to bend.”
Cecilia crouches.
There’s a beat.
Then another.
Then she does the worst possible thing.
She picks up the sign.
“Oh my god, no—don’t read that, just let me die,” Gigi wheezes, grabbing for it, but her arm is too heavy and her soul is already halfway to the astral plane.
Cecilia reads it.
Out loud.
With perfect pronunciation.
“‘Will you go to prom with me?’” she repeats, calm, casual, like she’s reciting the ingredients on a cereal box.
Gigi covers her face with both hands. Napkin falls off. Blood drips dramatically onto her tie like a very tragic cherry on top.
“…Cool,” she mutters. “That was for someone else. Wrong… timeline.”
Cecilia doesn’t laugh.
She doesn’t smirk, or make some smart-ass remark.
She just looks at Gigi for a moment.
And then: “You know, most people ask before starting a street fight.”
Gigi groans into her palms. “It wasn’t a fight, it was an unplanned gravity demonstration. I tripped into his fist.”
“…Three times?”
Gigi’s shoulders sag. “I didn’t mean to catch hands over prom, okay? He said Cecilia wouldn’t say yes to someone like me, and I said ‘watch me,’ and then his fist said ‘no.’”
Cecilia’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Then: “Someone like you?”
Gigi shrugs, then winces, because her spine apparently joined her nose in the rebellion. “Yeah, you know. chaotic girl. The disaster. The human equivalent of a feral cat in a thrift store.”
“…I like cats.”
That gets her to look up.
And Cecilia’s just watching her. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just… watching. Carefully. Like she’s seeing something Gigi doesn’t want anyone to see.
Gigi’s heart does the worst thing imaginable. It hopes.
“Cecilia,” she says, slowly, like she’s stepping into traffic. “Are you saying—”
“I would’ve said yes,” Cecilia cuts in, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Gigi short-circuits.
“…Even with the poster? And the glitter? And the fight?” she asks, because she has to know. She needs to understand what universe they’re living in right now.
Cecilia’s mouth quirks, finally. “Especially with the glitter.”
Gigi wants to scream. Or cry. Or ascend. Maybe all three.
Instead, she coughs into her sleeve and tries to look cool. Which is impossible, because she looks like she lost a battle with a raccoon and a craft store.
Still, she stands up.
Wobbles.
Cecilia catches her.
And just like that—like it’s normal, like this is just what happens when she finally asks out marvels—Cecilia threads their fingers together.
“Let’s go home, glitter girl.”
Gigi’s voice is still half-broken and nasal and choked with disbelief, but she manages to croak out, “That’s gonna be my favourite hashtag.”
Cecilia just squeezes her hand.
And Gigi, in all her bloodied, humiliated, sparkling glory, thinks—
Maybe the universe isn’t a complete jerk after all.
Cecilia doesn’t let go of her hand.
Not even when they pass the scene of the crime (aka: the blood-slicked sidewalk, the half-eaten granola bar Gigi threw at the guy mid-fight, and someone’s TikTok rig still filming the aftermath like it’s cinema). Not even when they round the corner and hit the weird stretch of suburban nothing between school and Gigi’s house. Just... holds it. Like it's not a big deal.
Like it’s always been hers to hold.
Gigi’s brain is melting. Not romantically. Like, medically. There’s definitely blood loss involved. Or maybe she’s having an allergic reaction to serotonin.
She peeks to the side.
Cecilia’s looking ahead. Calm. Regal. Ridiculously composed for someone who just got asked to prom by a human glitter blender with a deviated septum.
Gigi licks her lips. Immediately regrets it. The glitter is on her teeth. Confirmed.
“So,” she says, “are you, like, actually saying yes? Or was that a pity moment for the bleeding girl?”
Cecilia blinks. “Do you want a pity yes?”
“No! Obviously not.” Beat. “But I will take one. Like, if it comes with snacks.”
Cecilia’s lip twitches. “Then it’s a yes because I want to go with you.”
Gigi feels her heart do that thing again. The stupid, hopeful, alive thing. She’s gonna die. She’s going to die on this very sidewalk of Prom-Induced Joy Overdose.
Which is not how she expected to go, by the way. She always figured it’d be something more on-brand. Like spontaneous combustion during finals week.
“Oh,” she says. Because she’s a genius. A real wordsmith.
“You don’t have to look so surprised,” Cecilia adds, glancing over.
Gigi shrugs, helpless. “Sorry. I just kind of assumed I’d ask, you’d laugh, I’d die, and we’d all move on with our lives.”
Cecilia stops walking.
Turns to face her.
And says, so softly it barely makes a ripple in the evening air, “I don’t laugh at things that matter.”
Gigi forgets how to swallow.
And then—because the universe can’t let her have one uninterrupted emotional breakthrough—a passing car honks.
She flinches. Cecilia flinches. Their hands are still clasped.
“Was that for us?” Gigi asks, blinking.
“Probably,” Cecilia says. “You’re covered in blood and glitter. You look like a low-budget character from the prom episode of Glee.”
“Hot,” Gigi mutters. Then, “Wait, you watched Glee?”
Cecilia doesn’t respond. But she’s definitely smiling.
Gigi grins. Or tries to. Her lip is swollen, her nose is busted, and she might cry again if she moves too fast.
But still. She grins.
And says, “So... should I still pick you up for prom?”
“You’re not allowed to drive with a concussion.”
“Oh my god, you like me. That’s wild.”
Cecilia rolls her eyes and starts walking again, tugging Gigi along by the hand.
“I’m gonna wear the stupid suit,” Gigi says.
“I assumed.”
“And we’re gonna take ridiculous photos.”
“You mean I’m going to look the part while you’re going to bleed on the corsage?”
“Exactly.”
Cecilia squeezes her fingers again.
And Gigi, despite everything—despite her face being a crime scene and her sign being garbage and the fact that she still has poster glitter in places glitter should not be—lets herself believe in this version of the timeline.
The one where she asked, and Cecilia said yes.
Gigi’s apartment smells like stale popcorn and coconut shampoo.
Not bad. Just… lived-in. Like a space that’s mostly been occupied by a senior student with commitment issues and a dream of being left alone.
Cecilia steps inside and shuts the door behind them with a soft click. Gigi flops face-first onto the couch with a dramatic groan and immediately regrets it when her nose reminds her it’s still broken.
She muffles a swear into the cushion.
Cecilia doesn’t comment. She just stands there, eyes skimming the cluttered but charming one-bedroom apartment: thrifted wall art, a galaxy projector someone definitely got her as a joke but she actually uses, a floor plant that’s mostly dead but hanging on; kind of like Gigi.
“…So,” Cecilia says eventually, “where’s your first-aid kit?”
Gigi waves a hand weakly in the direction of the kitchen. “Bathroom. Under the sink. Probably.”
Cecilia raises a brow. “Probably?”
“I don’t use it, okay? Usually I just sleep it off and let my immune system do the heavy lifting.”
“Gigi, you’re bleeding from the face.”
“Yeah. But, like, on-brand bleeding.”
Cecilia disappears into the bathroom without another word.
Gigi exhales into the couch cushions. The adrenaline is crashing, and what’s left in its wake is a weird mix of embarrassment, relief, and the overwhelming realisation that Cecilia is in her apartment. Like, right now. Not as a class project partner. Not as a fever dream. As her prom date.
Cecilia returns a minute later holding the first-aid kit like it personally insulted her. She sets it down on the coffee table, kneels next to the couch, and opens it with practised fingers.
“You done being dramatic?” she asks, unsnapping the lid.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. I’d be worried if you were.”
Gigi peeks at her through one eye. “You’ve done this before?”
Cecilia hums. “Two brothers. One skateboarding phase. I’m basically a part-time nurse.”
She pulls on gloves like she’s about to do surgery and not dab antiseptic on a human paper cutout made of sarcasm and nerve damage.
Gigi watches her. Watches the calm, capable way Cecilia moves—like this is just another Tuesday. Like this moment doesn’t feel world-shaking to Gigi, sitting there in her rumpled suit with her pride in a ditch.
“This is weird, right?” Gigi says suddenly.
Cecilia glances up. “Your nose? Yeah. It’s crooked.”
“No, I mean—this.” She gestures vaguely between them. “You. Here. Taking care of me like I didn’t just fuck up.”
Cecilia finishes opening a gauze pad and dabs at the blood under Gigi’s nose. Her touch is surprisingly gentle. Like she knows exactly how not to make it worse.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” she says.
Gigi snorts. Immediately regrets it. “Ow. Don’t lie to me right now, my face hurts.”
Cecilia’s mouth twitches. “Okay. It’s a little weird. But I don’t mind.”
“…You don’t?”
Cecilia shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Like she’s not a big deal. “I wanted to say yes, didn’t I?”
Gigi stares at her. “Why did you?”
Cecilia’s hands pause.
And for a second—just one—her face does something rare. Something vulnerable.
“I don’t know. Maybe because you actually asked.”
There’s a beat.
Gigi opens her mouth. Closes it. Then, “That’s depressing.”
“Welcome to high school.”
Another beat.
Cecilia finishes cleaning her up, tosses the bloody gauze into a bag, and starts applying a fresh bandage.
It’s quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional noise from the galaxy projector slowly spinning stars across the ceiling.
“Thanks,” Gigi says finally, voice quieter than usual.
Cecilia doesn’t look at her. Just says, “You’re welcome,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
And for a moment—just one—it is.
Gigi leans back into the couch once Cecilia’s done with the bandages, head tilted slightly so the blood doesn’t start again. She’s aware of everything now—the weight of her own heartbeat, the sting of her pride, the warmth radiating off Cecilia, still kneeling on the floor like she belongs there.
Which is, frankly, illegal.
Cecilia doesn’t move away. She just sits back on her heels, eyes scanning Gigi’s face like she’s checking her work. Or memorising something.
“…So,” Gigi says, because silence is dangerous and her brain is louder than usual, “do I look cooler now? Like someone who survived a bar fight? Or just like a feral squirrel who got into a glitter factory and lost?”
Cecilia tilts her head. “Somewhere in between. Like an unhinged prom mascot.”
Gigi snorts again, then stops herself before she re-breaks her nose. “Cool. Sexy.”
“Terrifying,” Cecilia corrects, and finally, finally, smiles.
It’s a small one. Barely there. But Gigi feels it like a meteor.
“You know, I wasn’t planning on prom,” Gigi says after a moment. “Not really. Not unless it was with you. And even then, I figured I’d mess it up somehow.”
Cecilia leans an elbow on the couch. Her voice is quiet now, matching the mood. “Why?”
Gigi shrugs. “Because that’s the pattern. I like a thing, I reach for it, the thing explodes. Or I do.”
“You didn’t explode tonight.”
“I bled on a tie, Cecilia.”
“Still counts.”
They lapse into silence again, but it’s different this time. Not awkward. Just soft. Like both of them are waiting to see what this turns into, and neither one wants to rush it.
Then Cecilia says, almost absently, “You’re not as much of a disaster as you think you are.”
Gigi laughs. “Lies.”
“I mean it.”
Gigi turns her head. Looks at her.
Cecilia doesn’t flinch.
“You’re kind of loud and reckless and allergic to planning,” she says. “But you care. And you try. And that’s rare.”
Gigi blinks. “Okay, I’m definitely concussed. You just said something vaguely nice to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t. But also: can you say it again so I can record it and use it as my morning alarm?”
Cecilia finally pushes to her feet. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet. Believed in.” Gigi grins. “By a certified prom goddess.”
Cecilia rolls her eyes, grabs the first-aid trash, and heads toward the kitchen. “Shut up and hydrate, glitter girl.”
There are balloons in Gigi’s nightmares now.
Because it turns out that going to prom with Cecilia was just step one in the carefully orchestrated chaos that followed.
Step two? Helping set it up.
Against her will.
“I’m not even in student council!” Gigi whines, dragging a box of LED string lights across the gym floor. “I’m a civilian!”
“You’re a prom date,” Cecilia replies crisply, arms full of floral centrepieces. “That makes you a war asset.”
“You tricked me.”
“I offered you an opportunity.”
“You weaponized love.”
“Correct.”
The gym is a mess of half-inflated things, tangled extension cords, and very tired-looking volunteers. There’s a ladder leaning precariously against the bleachers, a playlist looping on tinny speakers, and the smell of three-day-old frosting from the cupcake table someone set up way too early.
Gigi’s wearing a tank top and joggers, glitter somehow still clinging to her collarbone from two nights ago. Her arms ache. Her soul aches. Her hair’s in a ponytail that’s 80% rebellion, 20% practicality.
Cecilia, meanwhile, is perfectly efficient in black jeans and a tucked-in tee, clipboard tucked under one arm, eyes narrowed in logistical focus.
“You know,” Gigi mutters as she detangles lights from an obviously cursed knot, “I feel like you said yes just to acquire free labour.”
Cecilia doesn’t look up. “And I feel like you’re bad at knots.”
“That’s fair.”
Cecilia glances over eventually, when Gigi’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by lights and glitter and mild despair.
She smiles, just a little.
Then walks over, kneels beside her, and starts helping untangle the chaos.
“I did want to go with you,” she says quietly, like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
Gigi looks up. “I know,” she says.
But hearing it again?
Yeah. It still hits.
The gym looks like it forgot it was a gym.
Somewhere between the strings of warm lights and the ridiculous amount of gauzy fabric draped from the basketball hoops, it became something else. Soft. Almost magical. Or at least magical-adjacent.
Gigi is, against all odds, clean. Dressed. Upright.
She stands just inside the entrance in a suit she didn’t technically buy—her mom showed up at her apartment the morning after the Great Nose Incident with an ‘I told you to stop bleeding on things’ look and a garment bag. It fits. It’s sharp. It’s way too serious for someone who barely passed geometry.
And it’s still not the best thing in the room.
That title goes to Cecilia.
Cecilia, in a long floral dress, soft and simple, like spring personified. Her hair is pulled back with little gold clips. There’s a tiny cluster of pressed flowers at her wrist, like she grew out of a fairytale.
Gigi tries very hard not to stare.
Fails.
Then stares harder.
“You’re doing that look again,” Cecilia murmurs when she approaches, voice low and calm and far too dangerous to Gigi’s central nervous system.
“What look?”
“The one where your brain turns off and your face forgets how to act.”
“I have never—” Gigi starts, then immediately steps on her own shoelace and stumbles.
Cecilia catches her and Gigi makes a noise like a dying video game character.
“…Okay, fine, maybe a little,” she mutters, trying to regain her balance and her dignity. “You look illegal. That’s not my fault.”
Cecilia raises an eyebrow. “Illegal?”
“Like—unfair. Like if this were a movie, the music would get all sparkly right now and you’d be glowing and walking in slow-mo.”
“I am walking in slow-mo. You’re just glitching.”
Gigi laughs, full and warm and sudden. Then she takes a breath.
Offers her hand.
“I mean. Since you’re already here… with me. Want to make it official?”
Cecilia glances down at their hands like she’s studying them.
Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she links their fingers again.
“I already said yes, didn’t I?”
The night unfolds in blinks and flashes.
Someone spikes the punch. Gigi nearly dies on a mini éclair. The slow songs are mostly awkward, the fast ones are too fast, and the DJ keeps mispronouncing people’s names like it’s a personal vendetta.
But then there’s a moment.
A slow song that isn’t terrible. The lights dim. The disco ball kicks in.
And Cecilia reaches for her.
Wordlessly.
Like it’s obvious.
Like Gigi isn’t still waiting for the other shoe to drop, the glitter to explode, the ceiling to cave in.
But nothing caves in.
Cecilia steps close.
Gigi follows.
They sway, clumsily at first, then more naturally. Cecilia’s hands rest just above Gigi’s waist. Gigi’s fingers find Cecilia’s shoulders. There’s a breath between them, then none at all.
And the world—just for a second—goes quiet.
Gigi says, softly, “You know this is peak rom-com finale, right?”
“I know,” Cecilia replies, dry as ever. “But without the budget for a crane shot.”
“We’ll have to fake one.”
Gigi spins her—badly. Cecilia laughs, fully this time, a sound Gigi thinks she’d bottle if she could.
They return to centre. Still swaying. Still close.
“Hey,” Gigi says. “Thanks for saying yes.”
Cecilia’s voice is quiet. “Thanks for asking.”
And if the world ends tomorrow?
Gigi thinks she’s okay with that.
Because right now, under a mess of LED lights and bad music and the unmistakable smell of teen spirit deodorant—
She’s here.
With her.