Chapter Text
Yu Jimin was, by all accounts, prepared.
She had her posters printed two weeks early. A 12-slide platform presentation. A custom Google Form survey for student feedback. Her speech was polished and precise — not a word wasted. Every color, every font, every handshake was part of the plan.
This election was hers.
Until Kim Minjeong strolled into the candidate orientation with a half-buttoned uniform, no notes, and a laugh that made three people in the room blush.
Jimin watched her walk in like she owned the place — coffee in one hand, registration folder in the other, and a loose ponytail that looked like it took twenty seconds to do and still made her look annoyingly good.
Their eyes met.
Minjeong grinned. “Yu Jimin, right? President of the Model UN? Robotics Club? Yearbook Editor?”
Jimin blinked. “Yes. And you’re…”
“Kim Minjeong,” she said, sitting beside her without asking. “Drama club vice president. Also known for handing out lollipops during finals week. Nice to meet my competition.”
Jimin tried not to bristle. “You’re running for president?”
“Is that so surprising?”
“It’s just... you don’t really seem the type.”
Minjeong raised an eyebrow. “Because I smile too much or because I didn’t bring a spreadsheet?”
Jimin flushed.
Minjeong smirked and leaned back in her chair. “Relax, Jimin. It’ll be fun. May the best woman win.”
Jimin had no doubt she would — until the debates began.
It was supposed to be straightforward: two-minute opening statements, then policy questions. Simple.
But when Minjeong took the podium, she didn’t read notes. She talked. She looked directly into the crowd, cracked jokes, told a story about how the cafeteria food once nearly hospitalized her and segued effortlessly into food budget reform.
The students ate it up.
When Jimin stepped up, calm and steady with bullet points and statistics, she felt... cold by comparison. Too polished. Too rehearsed.
Minjeong winked at her when they passed onstage.
That night, Jimin sat in her room replaying the footage on her laptop, trying to figure out why Minjeong made her so tense.
It wasn’t jealousy.
It wasn’t even really annoyance.
It was the way Minjeong said her name during the rebuttal: “Well, I agree with Jimin partially—” with that frustrating emphasis that made it sound too personal, too intimate.
Jimin turned off her screen.
She’d debate her again tomorrow. Harder. Smarter. Sharper.
Because there was no way she’d let Kim Minjeong get under her skin.
Even if she already had.
.
Yu Jimin wasn’t used to losing.
Not in debates. Not in club elections. Definitely not in anything that involved the words academic or leadership.
Which is why watching Kim Minjeong — who waltzed into this election with nothing but charm and chaos — consistently win people over made her grind her teeth so hard it gave her a headache.
Minjeong didn’t even try, not the way Jimin did. While Jimin had a color-coded campaign spreadsheet and a meticulously scheduled social media rollout, Minjeong handed out neon flyers with hand-drawn doodles and posted campaign memes with captions like: “Vote Minjeong: Because school shouldn’t be boring and neither should your president.”
People loved it.
Jimin hated her. Almost as much as she hated how Minjeong smiled at her in the halls like they were friends. They weren’t.
They were opponents. Rivals. And Jimin intended to win.
So when the campaign committee scheduled a joint planning session for the school assembly and she saw Minjeong’s name beside hers on the agenda, she took it personally.
Minjeong showed up ten minutes late. Of course.
“You know we started already,” Jimin said flatly, arms crossed.
Minjeong slid into the seat across from her. “What, no good morning?”
“This isn’t small talk. It’s campaign logistics.”
Minjeong gave her a lazy smile. “You really know how to charm a room.”
“I don’t need charm,” Jimin said, flipping open her notes. “I have a platform.”
Minjeong leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know, your whole ice queen thing? Very intimidating. But you might want to work on being likable.”
“And you might want to try being competent.”
There was a beat of silence.
Minjeong grinned. “Touché.”
They spent the next hour arguing over literally everything — speech order, design templates, who would emcee which segment.
Minjeong pitched an interactive student game.
Jimin vetoed it before she even finished explaining. “This isn’t a circus. It’s an election.”
Minjeong rolled her eyes. “And you wonder why no one wants to sit at your booth.”
“Excuse me—”
“I’m just saying, Jimin. You talk like you're already president. Maybe that’s your problem.”
Jimin snapped her binder shut. “Maybe I just don’t like wasting time.”
Minjeong stood. “Then stop wasting mine.”
She walked out.
And for a moment, Jimin just sat there — flushed, furious, and far too aware that her pulse was racing not just from anger.