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Irene's favorite color was pink. At least it used to be. It started with a letter. No names, no clues, just purple stationery and words that knew her too well. Every week, another envelope tucked neatly into her bag, slid under her door, or found lying on her desk like it belonged there. Irene never tried to find out who it was. Maybe she was afraid to. Maybe some part of her liked being wanted in silence. It was a secret she kept to herself, even as she smiled for someone else.
She only knew it made her feel seen—wanted.
And Seulgi... Seulgi would have said she was content with that. Admiring from a distance. Writing from the shadows. But obsession, even when it looks like love, has sharp edges.
And no secret stays beautiful forever.
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