Archive of Our Own

Yoonchae sat cross-legged on the studio floor, her back pressed against the mirror wall. The notebook in front of her might as well have been a paperweight; the pen resting diagonally across its blank page had been completely untouched for nearly fifteen minutes. Her legs bounced restlessly, sneakers squeaking faintly against the wooden floor like a tiny metronome of her anxiety. She tilted her head back until it bumped lightly against the mirror, closing her eyes as if the ceiling could somehow give her answers. The air conditioner hummed steadily, but even its white noise couldn’t drown out the storm raging in her head.

And then, as if her brain had just finally reached the breaking point, the words tumbled out before she could stop them.

“…I like her.”

Yoonchae froze mid-breath, her chest tightening as if the room itself had suddenly become smaller. The words sounded alien in her own ears, dangerously loud in the emptiness. Her eyes darted around, as though the mirror might scold her, or worse, laugh at her for confessing aloud. Slowly, she pressed the heel of her palm hard against her face, groaning as if the weight of the admission might crush her through the floorboards.

“Oh my god, why would I say that out loud? Am I losing my mind?!” Apparently, yes. She was definitely losing it.

She dragged a hand down her face and peeked through her fingers, blinking at her reflection like it could offer a solution. Her shoulders slumped, and she let the pen slip from her fingers, rolling gently across the floor. A crooked, reluctant smile lifted the corner of her lips, betraying just how much she adored the person she was talking about.

“Ugh, I really, really like her. Megan.”

Her thoughts spiraled like a hurricane. “She’s just…” Yoonchae hesitated, tilting her head as if the ceiling itself might supply the perfect words. “She’s always there. Smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. How does she do that? Everyone else is half-dead by the time practice ends, and she’s just—” She threw one hand out, gesturing as though she could physically demonstrate Megan’s brightness, “She’s just standing there, grinning like some cartoon mascot! Who even does that? It’s illegal to be that cheerful, I swear.”

Groaning, Yoonchae buried her face in her knees, pressing her forehead against the smooth wooden floor as if she could somehow disappear into it. “Nope. Nope. Nope. This is humiliating,” she muttered into the empty room, her voice muffled but full of panic. Her fingers twitched, fidgeting with the edge of her notebook like it held some secret answer to her spiraling thoughts. “If anyone saw me right now, I’d self-destruct on the spot.”

She rolled slightly onto her side, dragging the pen along the floor absentmindedly, watching it roll a few inches before it stopped. A muffled laugh escaped her, half nervous, half exasperated. “She has the dumbest laugh. You know the kind? That laugh that sounds like she doesn’t care how weird she sounds? Like she’d laugh at her own joke even if nobody else did. And then I end up laughing too, not because the joke was funny but because—ugh—she’s funny. Or maybe I’m just insane. Yeah, probably that.”

Yoonchae pressed her face deeper into her knees, rocking back and forth slightly, and let out a long, theatrical groan that echoed off the mirrored walls. The pen she had been holding slipped from her fingers and clattered loudly across the floor, bouncing once before coming to a stop near her sneaker. She peeked through her bent knees at it, almost blaming the pen for her predicament, as if inanimate objects were conspiring with Megan to ruin her.

“I want to tell her. I want to. But what if she doesn’t feel the same? What if she laughs at me? What if she suddenly avoids me and I ruin everything and then—” She flung her arms out dramatically before letting them flop back onto her lap. “—what if she just… thanks me? Oh my god. Imagine confessing your whole heart and getting a ‘thanks.’ I’d move countries. I’d delete myself from existence.”

She lifted her head slowly, cheeks puffing out in exaggerated frustration, lips pressed together as if trying to keep her words inside before they erupted. Her messy hair fell into her eyes, and she pushed them back with one shaky hand, brushing her hair behind her ear like it would magically make her thoughts sound less ridiculous.

“And she’s so stubborn. Like when she says she’s not hungry but then eats half of my fries anyway. Or when she insists she’s not cold but she’s literally shivering in a hoodie that’s three sizes too thin. And then she steals my jacket. And of course I let her, because apparently I’m the biggest pushover alive when it comes to Megan.”

Yoonchae groaned again, burying her face in her arms, letting out a sound somewhere between despair and adoration. She shifted on the floor, curling slightly, kicking her feet idly against the wall in nervous rhythm, then stopped abruptly as though the movement was too dangerous to continue. “And her dimples! Those stupid whisker dimples—” she whispered, clenching her hands into tiny fists. “She barely has to move her mouth, just the tiniest twitch, and they show up like—like they’ve been waiting just to ruin me. They’re unfair. Unfairly cute. And it kills me every single time because it’s perfect and she doesn’t even notice. She doesn’t even try to be perfect, and it’s worse because… because I notice.”

Her fingers twitched restlessly against the floor, tapping out some chaotic rhythm only she could understand. One hand reached up to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face, but instead of calming her, it only made her frown harder — why did hair have to exist? Why did everything have to be so… Megan?

“I’m done for. Absolutely done for.”

A long pause. Then, a final whisper, hesitant but steady.

“I don’t know if she’ll ever feel the same. But if she did… I think I’d be the happiest person alive.”

If someone were to walk into the studio right now, they would probably freeze in the doorway, blinking in disbelief, because from the outside, it would look like Yoonchae was having a full-blown conversation with — well, someone.

From the outside, it would look completely unhinged — like she had lost all touch with reality and had somehow invited an imaginary audience to witness her spiral. 

But in truth, there was no one there. Yoonchae was talking entirely to herself, pouring out words meant for nobody but the empty room, her entire being consumed by the chaos of her feelings.

Anyone watching would probably tiptoe back out slowly, quietly muttering about calling someone, anything, to check if she was okay, completely unaware that Yoonchae was exactly where she wanted to be — inside her own messy, chaotic, wonderfully insane world of thoughts about Megan.

The door creaked open, and Daniela stepped inside, her footsteps light against the wooden floor. She paused for a moment, tilting her head as she took in the scene before her. “Weird,” she said, her voice casual but curious. “I just saw Megan walking away. Did something happen?”

Yoonchae froze mid-breath, her eyes widening as if Daniela had just announced the apocalypse. Her hands flew to her face, pressing against her cheeks in a futile attempt to erase the last ten minutes of confessions from existence. Her knees bounced rapidly, tapping against the floor in a nervous staccato. “She… she was here?” Yoonchae managed, her voice a panicked squeak that didn’t even sound like her usual self.

Daniela blinked, slightly confused, tilting her head to one side. “Probably?” She stepped a little closer, hands stuffed casually in her pockets, unaware of the storm brewing behind Yoonchae’s wide, panicked eyes. 

“You know, I just saw her walking out, thought maybe something happened between you two.”

The words something happened slipped from her lips casually, almost carelessly, but there was an unmistakable weight in them — an unspoken curiosity Daniela herself might not even have realized she was pressing. Her tone wasn’t accusatory or even particularly nosy; it was more like she had tossed a pebble into still water, waiting to see what kind of ripples would form.

Yoonchae’s mind raced at lightning speed. She heard everything. Oh no, she definitely heard everything. Megan thinks I’m… what? Crazy? A lunatic? An overdramatic mess of a human being? Oh my god, she must think I’m completely insane. Her fingers twisted together nervously, and she bounced on her heels like she couldn’t decide whether to flee or collapse entirely. Her cheeks burned, a bright, painful pink that made her feel like someone had set off a fire alarm inside her face.

“I-I mean…” she stammered, words stumbling over each other, “I—nothing! I was just… sitting here… um… thinking… yeah. Just thinking. Totally normal! No one’s—no one was here!” Her arms flailed slightly, as if by gesturing wildly she could erase the possibility that Megan had actually been there, or worse, overheard her dramatic monologue.

Daniela raised an eyebrow, watching Yoonchae’s performance with a mix of amusement and mild concern. “Uh-huh,” she said slowly, her tone teasing but calm, “you’re… thinking, right. Sure. Thinking. Okay…” She gave Yoonchae a small, knowing smile, but didn’t push further, letting the other girl unravel quietly on her own.

Yoonchae’s breathing hitched as she imagined Megan’s expression, trying to guess what she might be thinking. She probably thinks I’m insane. Or desperate. Or… maybe she’s laughing at me behind her back. Oh no, why didn’t I just zip my mouth? Why did I think talking to the walls was a good idea?! She pressed her palms over her face, rocking slightly forward, trying to disappear into the floor like a cartoon character realizing it had made a grave mistake.

Daniela’s presence didn’t help — if anything, it made Yoonchae’s panic worse. Every blink, every casual tilt of Daniela’s head, every pause in her voice felt like it was magnifying Yoonchae’s humiliation tenfold. She let out a strangled noise, half-whine, half-groan, her body tensing as she imagined Megan’s reaction to all the messy, ridiculous things she’d just confessed aloud.

She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing coherent came out. Her tongue felt heavy, as if it had forgotten how to form words that weren’t screams or squeaks of embarrassment. Her shoulders tensed, hunching closer to her chest, and she rocked slightly forward, pressing her forehead into her arms, hoping — no, praying — that Daniela would leave soon.

Finally, trying to compose herself, Yoonchae peeked through her fingers, wide-eyed and jittery. “S-she wasn’t… right? She didn’t… hear anything, right?” she squeaked, her voice barely above a whisper. She pressed her hands to her mouth, as if by physically covering her words she could somehow prevent Megan’s judgment from existing.

Daniela blinked again, more curious than concerned this time. “Hear anything? I mean… maybe? But probably not. Unless she’s psychic, I don’t think she heard.” Her lips twitched into the faintest smirk, like she wasn’t quite sure why Yoonchae looked like she was about to faint, but she was definitely entertained by it.

Yoonchae flopped backward dramatically, curling into herself like a tiny ball of panic and mortification. Her sneakers scraped against the floor, her pen rolled across the studio, and she muttered under her breath, “…I think I’ve gone completely insane.”

—————

Days had quietly slipped by since Yoonchae started keeping her distance from Megan. It wasn’t abrupt, not enough to draw suspicion from the rest of the girls, but the shift was there — small, deliberate steps back, the kind you wouldn’t notice unless you were the one being pushed away. Megan wasn’t the type to overthink things at first, so to the others, it seemed completely normal. Yoonchae had always had moments where she drifted into her own little world, pulling away from conversations, choosing silence over chatter. They all knew her as someone introverted at heart, a little too reserved at times. This wasn’t unusual for her.

But what the others didn’t see was how intentional this retreat had become. Yoonchae still laughed when someone cracked a joke, still nodded along when Sophia shared a story, still smiled when Lara teased her — but she never let those moments linger when Megan was involved. She became quieter when Megan was around, like someone who had swallowed her words and decided they weren’t worth saying out loud anymore. And yet, this was the same girl who, a few weeks ago, had been caught in a room by herself, talking to the walls as though they were her audience. Forgive her for that — it was just Yoonchae being Yoonchae. She had that habit of thinking out loud, her words spilling into the air with no one to hear them. Sometimes she could go on and on, her voice bright, almost obnoxious, filling empty spaces just because she could.

It wasn’t unusual for her to yap away at times, especially when it came to annoying the girls. Lara in particular was her favorite target — Yoonchae’s teasing was relentless, the kind of playful nagging that only sisters could tolerate. But now, even that energy seemed softer, subdued.

The first sign Megan truly noticed came one afternoon in the car. It was supposed to be a simple ride, nothing more than a short trip. Megan slipped into the seat beside Yoonchae in the back, expecting the usual easy silence between them. But almost immediately, Yoonchae shifted uncomfortably, her hands fidgeting on her lap, her gaze fixed firmly out the window as though the city lights were more fascinating than anything else. Then, without warning, she leaned forward and tapped Sophia on the shoulder.

“Sophia,” she said, her tone light but with an edge of insistence, “can we switch? I feel like sitting in the passenger seat.”

Sophia blinked, a little startled by the request, but she didn’t think much of it. She gave Megan an apologetic smile as she climbed out and traded spots. Megan stayed put, trying not to let her confusion show. Yoonchae had already fastened her seatbelt in the front, her body angled ever so slightly away, as if the seat change was purely for comfort, nothing else. But Megan couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t about the seat at all — it was about her.

Then there was the incident with the water bottle. They had just wrapped up practice, all of them flushed and exhausted, their clothes clinging to their skin with sweat. Megan, being the considerate one, reached for her bottle and held it out to Yoonchae without hesitation. “Here,” she offered, her voice casual, soft, the way she always was with her.

Yoonchae hesitated. She looked at the bottle, then at Megan’s hand holding it out for her. For a second, it almost looked like she’d take it — her fingers twitched, her lips parted as though to thank her — but then she quickly pulled back. She shook her head and forced a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice coming out quicker than she meant. “I… I have a cold. Don’t want you to catch it too.” She waved her hand dismissively, as if to close the subject, though her chest felt tighter than she cared to admit.

And before Megan could insist, Yoonchae turned away and reached for the water bottle Manon had offered her instead. She unscrewed the cap, deliberately keeping her eyes on the floor, sipping slowly as if she couldn’t feel Megan’s gaze lingering on her. Megan had stayed silent, though her jaw had tightened just a little, her knuckles whitening around her own bottle. She didn’t say anything, but the sting was there, sharp and unspoken.

The rest of the girls, of course, noticed nothing. To them, it was all harmless. Yoonchae had always been a little odd about things — sometimes refusing food if she wasn’t in the mood, sometimes swapping seats because she felt restless. But Megan knew better. Megan had always been good at reading people, and Yoonchae was no exception. Something had shifted. And though she tried to act like it didn’t bother her, she could feel it in the small, quiet spaces between them — the places where Yoonchae used to be, and now wasn’t.

—————

Megan was curled up on the couch like a burrito, the blanket tucked all the way up to her chin and the edges bunched tightly around her shoulders. A giant bowl of popcorn sat perfectly balanced on her stomach, the kernels spilling slightly every time she shifted. Her hair was messy, a clear victim of her own restless fingers, and her legs were stretched lazily across the cushions, toes pointing toward the armrest as if she owned every square inch of the sofa. The TV flickered dim light across her face, but her eyes weren’t fully on the screen. They glazed over from time to time, her jaw tensing whenever her mind — uninvited, of course — wandered back to Yoonchae.

Yoonchae, who had been acting strange. Not just the usual moody-quiet Yoonchae, but weird weird. Making excuses, avoiding eye contact, laughing too loudly when she didn’t need to. Megan had noticed. How could she not? Yoonchae wasn’t subtle, no matter how hard she tried to be. And now, instead of enjoying her first proper evening without school, rehearsals, or people demanding her attention, Megan found herself chewing popcorn like it was the only thing anchoring her sanity.

Her fragile bubble of peace lasted all of five minutes.

The door banged open, startling her so badly she almost dropped the bowl. Sophia marched in with the confidence of someone who paid rent for the place — which she absolutely didn’t — and without a word, threw herself onto the other end of the couch. The impact sent a ripple through the cushions, the popcorn bowl wobbling dangerously.

Megan gasped, clutching it to her chest like a mother shielding her child. “Careful!” she snapped, glaring daggers at Sophia. “This is the only stable relationship I have right now.”

Sophia didn’t even flinch. She reached over and dug her hand straight into the bowl, grabbing a fistful of popcorn before Megan could stop her. “Yeah, well, consider it a poly relationship now,” she said around a mouthful, kernels falling onto her lap.

Megan’s mouth fell open in outrage, and she hugged the bowl tighter, leaning away as if distance might keep it safe. Her brows furrowed, and she narrowed her eyes at Sophia. “Why do you always act like this is your couch? You have your own room, Sophia. Go bother your own furniture.”

Sophia, unfazed, sprawled comfortably against the cushions and let her arm drape casually across Megan’s shoulders, like she’d been invited. “Because yours is comfier,” she said with her mouth full, which only made the words sound like static. She grinned afterward, clearly entertained by Megan’s growing annoyance. “And besides, your company’s free entertainment. Why would I waste that?”

Megan groaned loudly, tilting her head back against the sofa and dragging a hand down her face. She tried scooting an inch farther away, but Sophia followed like a shadow, arm glued firmly around her shoulders. With an exasperated sigh, Megan shoved another piece of popcorn into her mouth, crunching down hard as if chewing angrily might solve the problem. “If you’re gonna annoy me, at least don’t steal all my popcorn,” she mumbled around the bite, her words muffled but pointed.

Sophia didn’t acknowledge the warning at all. She just leaned forward, grabbed a few more kernels, and popped them into her mouth like a thief who had every right to steal. Then, with her free elbow, she nudged Megan playfully in the side. The mischievous curve of her lips warned Megan before she even opened her mouth. “So, what do you say we do something fun?”

Megan blinked, turned her head slowly, and gave Sophia a stare that could wither plants. “I am doing something fun,” she said flatly, her tone drenched with deadpan sarcasm. To emphasize her point, she scooped a single piece of popcorn, placed it dramatically in her mouth, and chewed slowly while staring her down. “It’s called sitting in silence and not being harassed.”

Sophia rolled her eyes with such exaggerated force it was a miracle they didn’t roll right out of her head. “Please,” she scoffed, dragging out the word as though she were addressing a cranky grandparent. “You’re nineteen going on seventy. This—” she gestured grandly at Megan’s burrito state, waving her hand up and down like she was presenting an exhibit in a museum “—isn’t fun. This is hibernation. I’m talking about actual fun.”

Megan’s head turned with painful slowness, her expression the human embodiment of an unimpressed emoji. She let her blanket slide down just enough to glare properly, her voice dripping with warning. “If this ends with me sweating or moving more than three steps, the answer is no.”

Sophia’s lips twitched upward. She wiggled her brows shamelessly, like she was about to deliver the sales pitch of the century. “Oh, it involves sweating.”

Megan groaned so loudly it could’ve registered on a Richter scale. She shoved her hands up to cover her face, blanket sliding dangerously off one shoulder. “I regret letting you in,” she muttered, voice muffled against her palms. “This is exactly why I don’t answer my door.”

Sophia, completely unaffected, only leaned further into the couch. “Come play badminton with me.”

That got Megan’s hands to drop. She stared at Sophia flatly, face blank, voice flatter. “…Badminton. Really? That’s your big idea?”

“Yes!” Sophia shot back immediately, her whole body bouncing with enthusiasm. She nodded like she’d just invented electricity, curls bouncing with each movement. “It’s fun, it’s active, and I swear you’ll like it.”

“I swear I won’t,” Megan deadpanned, reaching back into the popcorn bowl and shoving an obnoxiously large handful into her mouth, chewing deliberately loudly just to emphasize her disinterest.

Sophia tilted her head, eyes gleaming in the kind of mischievous way that made Megan instinctively wary. Her tone dropped to something sly, sing-songy almost. “I think you’ll change your mind once you know who else plays.”

That made Megan freeze mid-chew. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion written all over her face as she slowly turned her head toward Sophia, cheeks puffed out with popcorn. “…Why do I feel like this is a trap?” she asked, voice muffled around the mouthful but no less pointed.

Sophia leaned in so close their shoulders touched, grin wide and wolfish. “Because it is a trap,” she whispered dramatically, drawing out the suspense like a villain in a cartoon. Then, with perfect timing, she sang the name sweetly, stretching out every syllable like it was the juiciest secret in the world.

“Yoooonchaeeeee.”

Megan choked. She literally choked. The popcorn went down the wrong way, and she jerked forward, coughing violently. One hand clutched the bowl protectively to her chest while the other pounded against her sternum. “W–what?!” she croaked, voice cracking between coughs, eyes watering.

Sophia lost it. She doubled over, clutching her stomach as she cackled, nearly sliding off the couch in her fit.

“She plays badminton all the time. She even taught me how. She’s really good at it too.” She leaned back against the cushions with a smug little smirk, tossing another handful of popcorn into her mouth like she hadn’t just thrown a grenade into Megan’s fragile peace. “Sooo…” she drawled, bumping Megan’s shoulder with her elbow, “you gonna let her beat me without even trying?”

Megan actually did know that Yoonchae played badminton. Yoonchae herself had told her about it once, in that casual, offhand way that made every detail about her feel like a secret gift. The problem wasn’t the sport — it was the fact that Yoonchae had asked Sophia to play with her, but not Megan. Sure, Megan could rationalize it. Of course Yoonchae wouldn’t ask her. Yoonchae knew perfectly well that Megan and sports had an ongoing feud — whether it was Megan hating sports, or sports hating Megan, she couldn’t quite decide.

Either way, she was a disaster with anything that involved coordination, stamina, or, God forbid, running. Well… not really a disaster, she could technically run, technically throw, technically catch — but only in the same way a cat technically knows how to swim. She would do it if forced, but the thought of willingly picking up a racket and running across a shiny wooden floor made her want to curl deeper into the sofa.

She was the type who found comfort in the glow of a television screen, who liked the steady rhythm of movie dialogue more than the chaotic thwack of shuttlecocks being smacked across a net. She’d much rather be sprawled in bed, one hand fishing for snacks while the other hugged a pillow, than out there swinging at something she’d probably miss. Her comfort zone was here, wrapped in fleece blankets, her world dim except for the flickering light of the TV.

But the truth — the ugly, humiliating truth — was that if it had been Yoonchae asking, Megan would’ve said yes in a heartbeat. She would’ve tripped over herself to say yes. She could already picture it: Yoonchae standing there with that expectant half-smile, her racket hanging loosely at her side, her hair tied back, waiting for an answer. Megan wouldn’t be able to bring herself to say no, not to her. She never could.

Oh God, she could never say no to Yoonchae.

Megan stiffened, her jaw tightening. She tried to play it cool, waving her hand dismissively. “Good for her. I’m not going to break my back swinging a racket just because Yoonchae likes it.”

Sophia, of course, was not fooled. She smirked knowingly, leaning back into the sofa. “Mhm. Sure. Totally not interested.”

---

KATSEYE LOVERS GROUP :D (yoonchae’s idea!)

Sophia:

Rise and shine, losers. Megan’s finally leaving her grandma lifestyle and playing badminton with us tomorrow 🏸😏

Megan:

First of all, I was blackmailed. Second of all, I already regret this.

Manon:

OHHHH this is JUICY 👀 spill the blackmail pls

Lara:

Yesss don’t gatekeep Sophia, give us the tea 🍵

Sophia:

Oh no, no, I’d never betray my bestie’s deepest, darkest secrets…

Megan:

Sophia if you type one more word I swear I’m blocking you.

Daniela:

Blocking won’t stop her, Megan. She’ll just show up at your door with a racket.

Manon:

Bet it has something to do with a certain someone whose name starts with Y and ends with -oonchae.

Lara:

Ohhh now I’m listening.

Sophia:

ANYWAY—Yoonchae, guess what? You’re playing against Megan.

Yoonchae:

Excuse me? Since when was this decided?

Sophia:

Since I decided. You’re welcome.

Megan:

Oh good, can’t wait to publicly humiliate myself in front of Yoonchae. Thanks, Sophia 👍

Daniela:

Why does Megan sound like she doesn’t actually mind?

Manon:

Ohhh the plot thickens 🍿

Lara:

This is the most entertainment I’ve had all week, keep going.

Yoonchae:

No, seriously. Sophia, you’re good at badminton. You should just play with her.

Sophia:

No, I’ll be busy DESTROYING Daniela on the other side.

Daniela:

Correction: you’ll be busy losing to me.

Manon:

Dibs on Lara btw.

Lara:

Stop treating me like a free sample 😭

Megan:

No seriously, Yoonchae’s gonna think I’m an idiot if I play with her.

Sophia:

Correction: she’s gonna think you’re cute.

Yoonchae:

Delete this chat.

Sophia:

No ❤️

—————

The gymnasium was alive with noise — sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, bursts of laughter from the others who had already paired off, and the crisp, rhythmic thwack of shuttlecocks being hit back and forth. It was chaotic, fun, and competitive all at once. But in the middle court, everyone’s attention kept sneaking toward the same place: Megan and Yoonchae.

It wasn’t because they were evenly matched. Far from it. It was because Megan was putting on a full-blown comedy show while Yoonchae looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Wait—wait, too fast, too fast!” Megan yelped as she stumbled to the side, her sneakers squealing across the floor. She swung her racket like a baseball bat, completely missing the shuttlecock as it floated down and landed softly on the ground behind her. She bent over, hands on her knees, panting dramatically like she had just run a marathon. “Oh my God, Yoonchae, are you trying to kill me? Because that right there—” she pointed accusingly at the shuttlecock with her racket “—was attempted murder with a racket. I should sue.”

On the other side of the net, Yoonchae didn’t even flinch. Her stance was calm, steady, her racket resting loosely in her hand. A few strands of hair clung to her damp forehead, but she didn’t look even half as exhausted as Megan. She rolled her eyes, twirling the racket once like it weighed nothing. “It’s literally badminton, Megan. Not a battlefield.” Her voice was cool, flat — the same tone she always used when Megan was being ridiculous.

“It is a battlefield,” Megan shot back immediately, straightening up with her free hand pressed dramatically over her chest. She pointed her racket at Yoonchae like it was Excalibur. “And you—you’re a ruthless opponent. A cold-blooded killer. Where’s the compassion? Where’s the mercy?”

Yoonchae arched a brow, her lips pressing into a thin line that almost — almost — curved into a smile. “Mercy doesn’t exist on a court.”

Megan gasped loudly, stumbling backward as if Yoonchae’s words had physically stabbed her. She clutched her heart with both hands, racket dangling loosely at her side. “Wow. Ice queen strikes again. No heart, no soul. I can’t believe I once thought you were human. I’m going to write a tragic poem about this betrayal.”

Daniela’s laugh rang out from the sidelines, sharp and unrestrained, echoing off the gym walls. She clapped her hands once for emphasis, nearly doubling over in her seat. “Focus, Megan! Or you’re gonna lose twenty-one to zero!” she shouted, her words dripping with the kind of merciless amusement that made the others laugh along with her.

Megan whipped her head toward Daniela, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. Her racket waved like an angry flag as she pointed it across the court, eyes narrowing into mock offense. “Excuse you!” she hollered, dragging out the words for dramatic effect. “I have… at least two points in me. Minimum!” Her tone was somewhere between theatrical bravado and a whine, earning more chuckles from the peanut gallery.

When she turned back, her eyes locked on Yoonchae with a sudden burst of determination — or something that vaguely resembled it. Her lips tugged into a sly grin, a mischievous gleam in her eyes that dared Yoonchae to take her seriously. “And you, miss badminton prodigy, are going down.” She punctuated it by dramatically adjusting her grip on the racket like she’d seen professionals do, except it just looked awkward in her hands.

Yoonchae, meanwhile, looked entirely unfazed. She stood tall and still on the opposite side of the net, her posture so steady it was almost regal. Her expression betrayed nothing, except for the faintest flicker of annoyance in the way her brow arched. She gave the tiniest roll of her wrist with the racket, as if reminding Megan this wasn’t a comedy show but a game. “Stop talking and serve,” she said evenly, her voice carrying easily across the court. Then, almost imperceptibly, she rolled her eyes — slow, controlled, like she had dealt with a hundred Megans in her lifetime and was somehow cursed to deal with this one the longest.

Megan gasped, clutching her chest like Yoonchae had just committed an unforgivable sin. “Bossy! You’re so bossy, you know that?” she muttered, loud enough for the sidelines to hear, shaking her head as if she were scandalized. Still, she tossed the shuttlecock into the air with a flourish, puffing her cheeks out for courage. “Fine. But when I win, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She swung with every ounce of energy in her body, her entire frame twisting with the effort — too much effort. The shuttlecock shot forward like it had been launched from a cannon, sailing clean over Yoonchae’s head and landing with a soft, tragic plop several feet outside the boundary line.

The gym fell silent for a second before bursting into laughter. Even Sophia clapped mockingly from her match on the other side.

Yoonchae’s head tilted slightly, her face composed, her eyes cool. She didn’t chase after it, didn’t flinch. She just let the silence drag before she deadpanned, “Out.”

Megan froze, racket halfway to the floor, then threw both hands in the air in protest. “No! That was strategy!” she declared, pointing furiously toward the shuttlecock now lying in shame outside the court. “See? I’m trying to tire you out by making you run after it. Mind games, Yoonchae. Ever heard of them?”

Yoonchae’s lips parted slightly, the barest exhale leaving her nose as she raised a brow at Megan. Her racket rested lazily against her shoulder. “You missed,” she said flatly. Then, with a beat of silence, she added, “Again.”

The bluntness hit Megan like a dart to the chest. She stomped one sneaker against the shiny wooden floor, cheeks puffing out, her whole face scrunching like a sulky child. “You’re so mean to me,” she whined, dragging her words out dramatically as she stomped a second time for effect.

“Because you won’t shut up.”

Sophia let out a long, low whistle from the sidelines, dragging it out just to make it sting. She cupped her hands around her mouth dramatically. “Oooouuuch. Megan, you’re really getting destroyed on all fronts!”

The others burst into laughter, clapping and egging the chaos on. Daniela even smacked her palm against her thigh, wheezing.

Megan, however, wasn’t about to take that humiliation lying down. She whipped her head toward Sophia, then back at Yoonchae, pointing her racket like a knight brandishing a sword. Her eyes narrowed into fierce little slits. “Fine. You think you’re all cool and untouchable? Watch this.”

She tossed the shuttlecock up like she was summoning divine power… and then promptly swung at it with all the grace of a toddler whacking a piñata. The poor thing barely made it over the net, fluttering pathetically.

Yoonchae didn’t even blink. She stepped forward once, her movements so smooth it looked like she was gliding, and flicked her wrist. The shuttlecock shot back across the court with surgical precision, landing with a soft thunk right at Megan’s sneakers.

Megan froze for a second, her eyes wide as saucers. Then she let out a full-bodied shriek — the kind usually reserved for horror movies — and swung her racket with wild desperation, as if she were being attacked by a swarm of bees. Miraculously, she made contact.

The miracle lasted half a second. The shuttlecock smacked into the net with a pathetic plop and slid down until it hit the ground on her own side of the court.

The gym went silent.

Then Lara, unable to hold it in, erupted into cackles so loud it echoed across the walls. She stood up from the bleachers, pointing at the net like it was the star player. “That’s a point! For the net!”

The laughter exploded. Manon actually rolled onto her side on the bench, clutching her stomach, and Sophia was shaking her head like she couldn’t believe what she was watching. Daniela slapped her knee, nearly toppling over.

Meanwhile, Megan recoiled backward as if the shuttlecock had physically attacked her. She stumbled a few steps and clutched her chest, her mouth hanging open in shock. “Did you see that?!” she yelped, her voice cracking dramatically. She pointed an accusatory finger at Yoonchae, eyes wild. “She’s targeting me! That was attempted homicide!”

On the other side, Yoonchae didn’t so much as flinch. She spun her racket in her hand with mechanical ease, her posture loose but precise. Her face betrayed nothing but calm indifference as she corrected flatly, “It was a drop shot.”

Megan gasped like she’d just been stabbed. She staggered a step, clutching her chest tighter, her mouth opening in mock horror. “Oh my god! She even has fancy names for her war crimes!”

The others howled with laughter again.

Yoonchae tilted her head, her voice cool as ice. “You’re just bad at it.” She didn’t look smug, didn’t even sound like she was trying to insult — but that calm, clinical honesty cut sharper than any shout.

Megan flailed dramatically, nearly dropping her racket as she pointed it at Yoonchae like a dagger. “You wound me. Right here.” She tapped her chest twice for emphasis. “Do you have any idea how cruel you sound right now?!”

Finally — finally — Yoonchae’s lips twitched. Just barely, but enough for the sidelines to notice. The faintest smirk curved at the edge of her mouth, and when she spoke, her voice was low, steady, with that quiet sharpness that made Megan’s skin prickle. “Cruel? Or honest?”

The gym erupted. Manon clapped her hands together like she’d just witnessed a plot twist. “Ohhh,” she sang, dragging the sound out in delight. “That’s basically flirting in Yoonchae language!”

The reaction was instant. Megan nearly choked on her own spit. “What?!” she shrieked, her face turning red so quickly it was almost comical. She stumbled backward, swinging her racket wildly in panic. “That was not flirting! She’s just mean!”

The girls on the sidelines were already in chaos, howling and stomping their feet.

But Yoonchae? Yoonchae didn’t even grace it with a reaction. She simply turned her racket in her hand once, then walked calmly toward the sidelines. Her face was carefully blank, but the tips of her ears were suspiciously pink as she set the racket down and grabbed her water bottle. Without a single word, she sat on the far end of the benches, as far from the others as she could manage.

Megan stomped after her, still flustered and muttering under her breath about “cruelty” and “war crimes.” When she plopped herself down on the opposite end of the bench, she pulled her knees up and hugged them, pouting exaggeratedly while sneaking glances at Yoonchae every few seconds.

And Yoonchae? She didn’t look at her once. Not directly. But her grip on the water bottle tightened just slightly before she set it down beside her.

On the other side of the court, the girls sat close together on the benches, their attention split between pretending to look casual and keeping a sharp eye on the game. It wasn’t even about the score anymore — no one was counting points. What they were really watching was the tension between Yoonchae and Megan, the way their dynamic shifted with every rally, every snide comment, every almost-smile that slipped through before Yoonchae caught herself.

Daniela sighed dramatically, sinking lower into her seat until her shoulders slouched. She pressed her knuckles against her cheek, her eyes narrowing as Megan tripped over her own foot while chasing a shuttlecock that wasn’t even worth saving. Yoonchae, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch — her expression remained cool, detached, as if she were swatting at mosquitoes instead of an opponent.

“I don’t think this is working,” Daniela muttered finally, her tone carrying that blend of skepticism and exasperation that only comes after watching your friend embarrass herself for the past fifteen minutes straight. Her gaze slid toward Sophia, who looked far too smug for someone watching Megan spiral into comedic disaster.

“It definitely is,” Sophia answered smoothly, her voice carrying a kind of quiet certainty that made Daniela frown harder. She leaned back, stretching her legs out in front of her like she was settling in for the long game. “You just have to wait.”

Daniela turned her head sharply, her ponytail flicking over her shoulder. “Wait? For what? Yoonchae to finally explode and walk out? Because if anything, Megan’s making her more annoyed than ever.” She gestured with both hands toward the court, where Megan was currently clutching her chest like she’d been personally victimized by Yoonchae’s last shot.

From their spot on the bench, it looked obvious: Yoonchae was keeping her walls high, her face locked in that same reserved mask. Megan was still too oblivious to notice she was practically banging her head against a brick wall. If anything, their “mission” looked like it was backfiring, driving them further apart instead of closer together.

But Sophia only smirked wider, and this time she finally glanced sideways at Daniela, her eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s exactly what it’s supposed to look like,” she said knowingly, her voice dropping like she was letting Daniela in on some grand secret. She tilted her chin toward the court, lips curving upward as Yoonchae’s gaze flickered — just for a fraction of a second — toward Megan when she thought no one was watching.

“Well,” she murmured, leaning forward now with her elbows on her knees, her grin widening like a predator who’d just scented blood. “This is all part of the plan. And it’s working. We just have to wait a little longer.”

Daniela groaned, dragging a hand down her face. She wasn’t convinced, not entirely. But Sophia’s confidence was unsettling — like she could already see the ending written out, and everyone else was just struggling through the chapters.

So, they waited. And watched. Because as chaotic as it looked, Sophia believed — no, knew — that this was definitely working.

---

The game ended in the most Megan way possible — her racket dangling at a hopeless, limp angle in her sweaty hand, her shirt plastered to her back as though she had run through a sprinkler, and her hair sticking out from her ponytail like a tragic halo of defeat. She looked less like an athlete and more like someone who had crawled out of a warzone where the only casualty was her pride.

Her legs wobbled like overcooked noodles, her chest rose and fell with dramatic heaves, and every step she took across the court was a slow, dragging shuffle, like she was reenacting a zombie apocalypse. If someone had added sad violin music in the background, the whole picture would’ve been complete.

On the other end of the court? Nothing. Yoonchae had already vanished the second the match ended. She didn’t linger, didn’t offer a handshake, didn’t even glance in Megan’s direction. Just that sharp, efficient exit with her racket tucked under her arm and her ponytail swaying behind her like she was walking away from an explosion in an action movie.

The only words she’d gifted Megan during the entire match were sharp, clipped commands that cut like glass.

“Out.”

“Serve.”

“Focus.”

“Pathetic.”

Megan still wasn’t sure if she had imagined that last one, but it had definitely sounded like Yoonchae muttered it under her breath while lining up a smash.

Not once had her tone been warm, encouraging, or remotely human. It was like playing against a robot programmed to destroy her dignity. Megan wanted to roll her eyes so hard they’d rattle out of her skull and scream into the empty ceiling of the gym.

“It’s like… playing with a wall,” she groaned, tossing her racket onto the bench like it had personally betrayed her. “No, worse than a wall. A wall at least doesn’t glare at you like it’s personally offended you exist.” She sighed, kicked at an imaginary pebble on the ground, then flung herself backward so she landed sitting on the floor with her arms spread out like she was reenacting a death scene. “I hate my life.”

She was still wallowing in her dramatic puddle of self-pity when an arm suddenly slammed down across her shoulders. Megan practically shrieked — a strangled, duck-like squeak that echoed through the gym — and whipped her head to the side like she was under attack.

Sophia. Of course.

Sophia was plastered to her side like a smug barnacle, her grin so wide it looked like it might crack her face in half. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her eyebrows wiggled furiously, up and down, up and down, like they had a mind of their own. Her arm tightened possessively around Megan’s shoulders, keeping her locked in place as though she was about to drag her into chaos whether she liked it or not.

“Oh, no,” Megan said instantly, voice flat with dread. She didn’t even bother hiding her suspicion. Her entire body slumped forward in defeat, like a prisoner who already knew their sentence before the judge spoke. Slowly, she raised a finger and jabbed it toward Sophia without even looking at her face. “This is a trap. I know this setup. I’ve seen this look. You’re about to ruin my life again.”

Sophia gasped, hand flying to her chest in a mock display of horror. “Ruin? Me?” Her voice pitched up dramatically, as though the accusation itself wounded her. “Excuse you, I would never ruin your life. I only…” She leaned closer, eyes twinkling wickedly. “…elevate it.”

Megan gave her the most unimpressed stare she could muster, deadpan to the core. “Elevate me straight into the grave, maybe.”

Sophia only grinned wider, her arm tightening like a vice around Megan’s shoulders. She leaned so close now that Megan could feel the warmth of her breath tickling her ear, making her twitch. Sophia’s tone dropped low, conspiratorial, the same way she always spoke right before things went catastrophically wrong for Megan.

“I have something to tell you.”

Megan groaned like a dying animal, flopping her head back against Sophia’s arm as though the very words had drained the last of her will to live. Every time Sophia pulled this move, Megan ended up cornered — usually humiliated, sometimes traumatized. “I knew it. It’s a trap.”

Ignoring her, Sophia pressed on with the kind of casual delivery that was way too casual to be trusted. Her voice dripped with fake innocence, her words smooth and unbothered, like she was just talking about the weather. “The coach talked to me,” she said, her arm still locked firmly around Megan’s shoulders. “She wants you to join their team for badminton.”

Megan stopped dead in her tracks. Her sneaker squeaked loudly against the polished gym floor, the sound echoing in the empty space like a dramatic soundtrack to her impending meltdown. She blinked once. Twice. Her brain lagged so hard it felt like she’d just gotten hit with a blue screen of death. Then, finally, her voice cracked out of her throat, embarrassingly high-pitched.

“What?!” She practically squawked, eyes bulging like she’d just seen a ghost. “What coach? There was no coach when we were playing earlier! Unless—unless there’s some invisible ghost coach haunting this gym, spying on my suffering, and that’s who you’re talking to?” Her hands flailed wildly as she spoke, chopping the air in frantic disbelief.

“Uh-huh.” Sophia didn’t even blink. She simply reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone with a flourish, like she was an attorney about to drop the smoking gun in a courtroom drama. She wiggled her eyebrows once for emphasis, then unlocked the screen with a single swipe and shoved it right up to Megan’s nose.

“I recorded everything,” Sophia announced proudly, hitting play with a theatrical tap. “And she wanted you to join their team.”

The video flickered to life, showing a shaky recording of Megan shrieking mid-swing, her racket whiffing past the shuttlecock by a good three feet before she tripped on her own shoelace. The sound of Manon’s laugh echoed faintly in the background.

Megan recoiled so hard she nearly smacked Sophia’s phone out of her hand. She slapped both palms over her face, dragging them down in slow-motion horror before whirling on Sophia with a look of pure betrayal. “You’re insane!” Her voice cracked again, half outrage, half despair.

She staggered backward a step, throwing both hands in the air so dramatically that her racket nearly slipped out of her sweaty grip. “I don’t even play that good! I barely even smack that shuttlecock—it’s just me versus thin air out there!”

Her words came out in one long, desperate stream, her gestures getting bigger and wilder the more she spiraled. She jabbed a finger toward the net like it was her mortal enemy. “Did you not see me out there? I was—” She stomped her foot for emphasis, eyes narrowing in anguish. “I was butchering physics! The laws of aerodynamics were personally offended by me!”

And she wasn’t wrong. Everyone had seen it. The massacre was legendary. Megan had been annihilated 30–0, flailing across the court like a moth pinned under a floodlight. At one point, she’d shrieked so loudly the sound bounced off the gym walls, and at another, she’d actually spun in a full circle like she was auditioning for a slapstick comedy sketch. The fact that she had managed to survive until the last point was a miracle in itself — especially considering her opponent had been Yoonchae.

Yoonchae, with her steady eyes and that annoyingly precise wrist flick, had made the entire match feel less like a friendly game and more like systematic bullying. Every shuttlecock that landed with surgical accuracy at Megan’s feet had felt like a personal attack. And Yoonchae? She hadn’t even sweated. She hadn’t even smiled. If anything, she’d looked vaguely irritated that Megan existed.

The idea that any coach, real or ghost, would want Megan on their team was so absurd it sent her into a fit of unhinged laughter. Not the cute kind — the slightly manic kind that made the veins on her neck pop. “Pfft—ha! Yeah, right,” she wheezed, bent over with her hands braced on her knees. “Sure. Sign me up for the Olympics, why don’t you?”

Sophia, of course, didn’t so much as flinch. She simply shrugged, casual as ever, like she was talking about lunch plans instead of Megan’s very obvious lack of athleticism. “I don’t know,” she said, brushing invisible dust off her sleeve, her tone infuriatingly smooth. “Maybe she just saw something in you.”

“Like what? My ability to miss the shuttlecock by three feet?” Megan snapped, throwing her arms out dramatically.

“Exactly,” Sophia said without missing a beat. Then, with a sly grin, she added, “But hey—if you don’t want it, just tell her.” She shoved her phone back into her pocket, the gesture so smug it made Megan want to snatch it out and throw it across the gym.

“Oh, gladly,” Megan fired back, crossing her arms so tightly across her chest it looked like she was trying to crush her own ribs. She tilted her chin upward in defiance, sweat still dripping down the side of her face like battle scars. “Point me in the direction of this imaginary coach and I’ll tell her to shove it. Right to her face. No hesitation.”

For a second, she thought she’d won. That Sophia would sigh and give up her ridiculous charade.

But no. Sophia’s smirk only widened, slow and deliberate, curling at the edges like a villain about to monologue. Which could only mean one thing: danger.

“Or,” Sophia drawled sweetly — too sweetly — her arm tightening just a fraction around Megan’s shoulders, like she was physically keeping her from bolting, “you could make a letter. You know, for formalities. Coaches like formalities.”

Megan froze, narrowing her eyes instantly. She didn’t trust that tone. She didn’t trust that smirk. She didn’t trust anything about this conversation anymore. Her gut screamed at her, waving red flags left and right, practically flashing neon signs that read: Sophia is lying. Abort mission.

And yet… Megan was sweaty. Exhausted. Emotionally scarred from Yoonchae’s death glares and physically destroyed by thirty consecutive points of humiliation. Her patience had evaporated somewhere around the second time she tripped over her own shoelaces.

If writing some dumb letter would get Sophia to stop breathing down her neck with all her eyebrow-wiggling schemes, then… fine. Megan slumped forward, sighing so hard it came out like a death rattle. “Ugh. Whatever. Gimme a pen before I pass out and choke on my own sweat.”

Sophia grinned like a cat who had just set a mouse trap.

Megan shoved the crumpled note back at Sophia with a flourish, her lips curling into a smug, almost feral grin. “There. Happy now? You wanted a letter, you got a letter. Go ahead, hand it over to your imaginary coach and let her frame it or something.” She flicked her wrist dramatically like she was dismissing royalty, clearly satisfied with herself.

Sophia caught the paper with practiced ease, holding it delicately between two fingers as if it were the most precious relic in the world. The grin that spread across her face was too wide, too knowing, the kind that carried trouble in every corner. Her eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, and she even tilted her head a little, savoring the moment like a villain watching their plan come alive. “Perfect,” she breathed under her breath, so soft it was almost a secret — but loud enough for Megan to catch.

Megan froze, her victorious grin instantly faltering. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, sharp as daggers, as if she could cut Sophia’s smug expression in half. “Why do you look like that?” she demanded, jabbing a finger at her friend’s too-pleased face. “That’s the look you get right before you ruin my life. Don’t play dumb—I know that look.” Her voice pitched upward in panic, the kind of tone that screamed she was about three seconds away from bolting.

Sophia pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh, her smirk betraying her completely. She didn’t even bother denying it. That only made Megan’s stomach twist tighter.

Before Megan could snatch the letter back, before she could even think of escape, something clamped down on her arms.

“What the—HEY!”

Daniela swooped in from behind, silent as a shadow but twice as lethal. She hooked her arm through Megan’s like it was the easiest thing in the world, pinning it in place with frightening efficiency. On the other side, Manon mirrored the move perfectly, her grip firm and unrelenting. Together, they looked like they’d rehearsed this, like soldiers executing a well-coordinated ambush.

Megan shrieked, twisting like a wild animal, her sneakers squeaking against the floor as she tried to wrench free. “Are you kidding me?! Since when did I sign up for group wrestling practice?!” She kicked her leg backward, narrowly missing Daniela’s shin.

Daniela only arched a brow, her lips twitching like she was holding back laughter. “You fight too much for someone who just lost 30–0,” she muttered, tightening her grip.

“LET ME GO!” Megan wailed, thrashing so hard her ponytail whipped across Manon’s face. Manon didn’t even flinch; she only gave an unimpressed look, as if Megan’s frantic struggling was nothing more than an annoying mosquito buzzing in her ear.

And then Lara appeared. Oh, Lara. She didn’t bother with subtlety. She came around from the front with the slow, gleeful stride of someone about to steal candy from a child. A grin spread across her face — sharp, feline, smug — before she swooped in and snatched Megan’s free wrist with a victorious little snap.

“Gotcha,” she sang, her tone dripping with satisfaction. She shot Sophia a wink over Megan’s flailing, red-faced form, her grin stretching wider.

Sophia, of course, looked like the devil herself had been handed a gift. She tucked the letter carefully into her pocket, patting it twice for good measure, like it was the final puzzle piece locking into place. Then she straightened, her expression pure triumph.

“Yes,” she whispered to herself, unable to resist the dramatic flair. Her eyes flicked over the chaos before her — their captive squirming like a fish in a net, her co-conspirators holding steady — and her smile sharpened.

Everything was going exactly according to plan.

—————

It had been six days, ten hours, seven minutes, and six seconds since Yoonchae decided to start ignoring her. Megan knew the exact number because — of course she did. She wasn’t just keeping track. She was obsessing over it the way a prisoner scratches tallies into the cold stone of their cell wall, marking every excruciating second of their torment.

Yes. She was counting.

Yes. She was absolutely keeping a record.

Yes. She may or may not have a dedicated section in her diary titled, in all caps, “MY LIFE AS A GHOST: YOONCHAE REFUSES TO SEE ME”

The first entry had been embarrassingly raw:

Exhibit A — Yoonchae didn’t even glance at me!

Simple. Direct. Pathetic.

But over the days, the entries became longer, more dramatic, more detailed. What started as casual notes had turned into something resembling war reports. She had bullet points. Arrows. A tracking system so precise it could rival military intel.

Megan had developed a whole system now. A horrifyingly detailed system.

She had columns — actual columns — for different categories of pain. One chart dedicated to eye-rolls (seventeen and a half; she was counting the one where Yoonchae’s eye twitched halfway through before she stopped herself, because half an eye-roll still counts). Another for sighs (twenty-three and climbing, though she ranked them on a scale from “barely audible” to “full hurricane gust”). Her favorite, if you could even call it that, was the sigh Yoonchae let out on Day 3, when Megan had made a joke about her “resting ice queen face” — it had been so sharp, so exasperated, Megan swore it could have powered a wind turbine.

And then there were the blank stares. Endless. Merciless. Soul-crushing. Each one felt like a dagger to the heart. Megan documented those with full sentences in her diary, complete with doodles of herself clutching her chest, fainting onto a cartoon gravestone, or lying flat on the floor with little X marks for eyes.

But hell — Yoonchae was driving her insane.

She really wrote it all down. Every moment. Every wound. Every crime.

---

Monday:

She walked past me in the kitchen like I was a piece of furniture. Not even a “good morning,” not even a twitch of an eyelash in my direction. I literally stood there with a bowl in my hands like some lovesick idiot and said “hi.” Twice. Once softly. Once louder. And what did she do? She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and LEFT. No words. No acknowledgment. Just silence and condensation dripping off the bottle as she walked out like I didn’t exist.

I swear, I nearly threw the cereal bowl at her retreating back.

---

Tuesday:

We were on the couch. It could’ve been perfect. I tried to start a normal conversation about our practice schedule, leaning toward her, waiting for anything — a nod, a grunt, even a sarcastic jab. Instead? She leaned back, shut her eyes, and pretended to fall asleep. PRETENDED.

And don’t tell me I’m imagining things. I know she wasn’t asleep because in the quiet, I heard it. A mutter. Sharp, quick, and low. Something like: “Idiot.”

I nearly combusted. She actually pretended to sleep just to avoid talking to me?! She even rolled her eyes under those closed lids — I FELT it. I just couldn’t prove it. Not yet. But mark my words. I WILL GET PROOF.

---

Wednesday:

Studio day. I devised a plan. A clever, subtle, definitely-not-obvious plan. I “accidentally” dropped my pen near her foot, thinking I could lean down, maybe brush against her sneaker, create a spark. A moment.

What happened? She didn’t just ignore me. She KICKED my pen under the couch. KICKED it. With the precision of an assassin. Then she had the audacity — the absolute nerve — to say, “Lost it?” and walk away.

---

Thursday:

Living room. I knew exactly what would get on her nerves today. So when she walked in, I patted the seat next to me with the smuggest grin I could muster.

“You know,” I started, stretching my legs across the couch so she’d have to climb over me if she wanted to sit, “your handwriting is kinda terrible. Like, are you writing notes or… abstract art? I mean, doctors probably wouldn’t even be able to read it.”

I waited, watching her closely. This was foolproof. She always snapped when I made fun of her handwriting — either an eye roll, a sharp “shut up,” or a whole lecture about how “legibility is subjective.”

But this time?

Nothing.

She just looked at me once, slow and unimpressed, like I was a fly buzzing near her ear. Then she slid her hand into her pocket, pulled out her earbuds, and popped them in one by one. No words. No sigh. No glare. Just silence.

And then — the betrayal — she leaned back against the cushions, eyes closed, as if I didn’t even exist?!?!?

---

Friday:

Picnic. Outdoors. Sunshine. Romance, right? WRONG.

I thought, this is it. I’ll just casually lay my head on her lap. Cute. Sweet. Heart-flutter moment. So I did it. I laid my head down, already smiling, waiting for that gentle hand on my hair.

Do you know what she did? She stood up. Instantly. Like my head was lava. My skull hit the grass so hard I saw my ancestors.

Everyone saw. Manon gasped. Daniela choked on her drink. Lara and Sophia laughed so hard she almost spilled chips all over the blanket. My dignity shattered into pieces that day, scattered across the field like confetti.

---

Saturday:

Movie night. Lights dimmed. Perfect atmosphere. I plopped down next to her on the couch, bowl of popcorn in hand, ready to share. Ready for the rom-com moment to finally arrive.

She didn’t even hesitate. She stood. She moved. And she went to sit on the floor. Next to Sophia. THE FLOOR.

And the worst part? Everyone saw. Everyone.

Lara gave me the look. The “oh honey” pity look. Daniela bit her lip so hard trying not to laugh I thought she’d bleed. And Manon? That traitor mouthed, “Damn.”

---

Megan had complained so much it was practically her new hobby, her full-time career, her magnum opus. Every chance she got, she would throw herself across the couch like a tragic heroine from some old black-and-white film, arm draped across her forehead as though she were seconds away from fainting. The sighs she released were so thunderous they could have been measured on the Richter scale. If sighing were an Olympic sport, she would’ve already had three gold medals and a sponsorship deal.

And what was it all for? Yoonchae. Of course it was Yoonchae. Yoonchae, with her maddening silence, with her ice-queen composure, with her ability to act like Megan wasn’t literally withering away in front of her very eyes. Megan ranted about how this was emotional torture, cruel and unusual punishment, how she deserved — no, needed — at least one glance, one smile, one anything. She would have settled for Yoonchae telling her to shut up if it meant Yoonchae’s attention was on her for even a second. That was how bad it had gotten.

Sometimes, when she flopped dramatically onto the cushions, Megan would kick her legs in frustration like a child denied candy, muttering about the unfairness of it all. Other times, she would roll onto her stomach, chin in her hands, staring dreamily at the ceiling as if she might see Yoonchae’s face there. Because that was the truth underneath all the theatrics: she was helplessly, hopelessly in love. Pathetically so. Painfully so.

But the girls? Completely useless. Instead of rushing to her side with tissues and ice cream, they just shrugged, like she was whining about slow Wi-Fi. One would barely look up from her phone, the other would nod absently as if Megan were just giving a grocery list, and the rest would hide those smiles. Suspicious smiles. Secretive smiles. Smiles that screamed we know something you don’t.

Megan saw them. She wasn’t blind. Well — okay, maybe slightly blinded by the tears welling in her eyes whenever Yoonchae brushed past her without a word, but she wasn’t that blind. She could tell. They were hiding something.

It was maddening. How could they smile while she was in the middle of the most heartbreaking, soul-crushing unrequited love story of her life? Every time she whipped around to glare at them, they’d plaster innocent faces back on, eyes wide and lips sealed, but Megan knew. She was being mocked. Betrayed. Left to drown in her love-sickness.

And maybe she was being dramatic. Maybe the diary filled with tallies, tragic poems, and doodles of her own teary-eyed face was a little much. But Megan couldn’t help it. She was a girl in love, and Yoonchae’s cold-shoulder act was killing her slowly. It was the kind of love that made her ache, the kind that turned every sigh into a sonnet, every ignored glance into a dagger. She was suffering — and she was suffering beautifully.

But no more. Enough was enough. Megan couldn’t let this torture drag on while everyone else acted like it was normal. She was going to do it. She was going to corner Yoonchae, demand her attention, demand her answers.

And if Yoonchae ignored her again? Well, Megan was fully prepared to faint dramatically into her arms.

—————

Megan stormed out of her room like a woman on a mission. Her slippers slapped angrily against the hallway floor as she marched down, throwing open every door she passed with the same righteous energy of someone exposing secrets. Her pulse was erratic, her chest tight, but she didn’t stop to think. She couldn’t. If she stopped, the weight of six days of silence would crash down on her and she would combust.

First stop: Yoonchae’s room.

Empty. Bed made, blanket folded, everything neat and lifeless as if it hadn’t been touched in days. Not even the faintest trace of her — no shoes by the door, no jacket slung across the chair.

Her brows knitted together. Fine. Living room, then. She spun into the space with the speed of a detective about to crack a case, eyes darting to the couch where she knew Yoonchae sometimes curled up with her phone. Except this time, nothing. The cushions sat still, undisturbed, too perfect. It felt like a stage set, not a real home.

Her chest tightened. Kitchen? Nothing but the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. Studio room? Still nothing, just the ghostly outlines of instruments and canvases, mocking her with their emptiness.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that felt suspicious, suffocating, like someone had swallowed the air whole. The girls weren’t around either, but Megan barely registered that detail. Her mind was occupied with only one thought, one name. Yoonchae. Always Yoonchae.

Her feet carried her outside before she even realized it, her pulse drumming in her ears. And that’s when she saw her.

Yoonchae.

She was out on the field, standing tall like a shadow carved against the fading sun. Her hair was slightly damp with sweat, stray strands sticking to the curve of her cheek. Her body moved with sharp, precise motions as she smashed shuttlecocks across the net. Each swing was merciless, the sound of racket hitting feather echoing like a crack of thunder in the empty air. It looked less like practice and more like punishment — like she was exorcising something out of herself, something heavy and unspoken. Every swing, every snap of her wrist carried something heavy, like anger, like frustration, like… maybe even pain.

Megan’s heart squeezed so tight she thought it might shatter.

Without thinking, she snatched up the spare racket leaning against the bench. Her hands trembled around the grip, but her feet moved anyway, carrying her forward until she stood on the opposite side of the net. The field suddenly felt too big and too small at once, the grass swallowing her steps, the net between them stretching like a barrier she couldn’t cross.

Yoonchae didn’t acknowledge her. Not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes. She simply tossed another shuttlecock into the air, the motion fluid, almost elegant, before smashing it across with a force that made Megan flinch.

Megan lunged clumsily, racket swinging wide, missing the shuttlecock by several feet. It smacked the grass beside her, useless. Her breath hitched, not from exertion but from the sharp sting of being dismissed yet again.

But Megan didn’t care. For once, she didn’t care about missing. She didn’t care about looking ridiculous, sweaty, or foolish. None of it mattered. She only cared about one thing.

Her throat burned, words clawing their way out before she could stop them.

“Why are you ignoring me?” Megan blurted, her voice sharper than she intended, cracking under the weight of six long days of silence. Her knuckles whitened on the racket handle, shoulders tense, chest rising and falling too fast.

Yoonchae didn’t answer right away. She bent down instead, slow and deliberate, her movements unhurried, calculated. Fingers brushed against the grass as she retrieved another shuttlecock, and for one excruciating second, Megan thought maybe — just maybe — she would look at her. A glance, a flicker of acknowledgment, anything.

But nothing. Yoonchae’s face remained composed, impassive, her lashes lowered like she hadn’t even heard Megan’s trembling voice. She tossed the shuttle into the air with mechanical precision, racket slicing through it with a sharp, brutal swing. The sound cracked like thunder, and the shuttlecock zipped past Megan’s shoulder, so close it ruffled a strand of her hair.

The silence was suffocating.

“Who’s ignoring who?” Yoonchae finally said, her voice low, even, steady — but so distant it made Megan’s chest ache like she’d been punched.

Megan swung at the shuttlecock far too late, the racket cutting through nothing but air. She stumbled a little, frustration searing through her veins. A curse slipped from her lips before she could swallow it back. Her head snapped up, wild and desperate, her heart slamming against her ribs.

“You!” she burst out, louder than she meant to. Her voice cracked, raw, jagged at the edges. “You’re ignoring me. You’re avoiding me. You won’t even look at me!”

Her breaths came quick, uneven, and the words tumbled out faster, like she’d been holding them in for days and couldn’t stop them now if she tried.

“You don’t glance at me, you don’t say my name, you act like I don’t exist. You act like—” her throat tightened, choking her mid-sentence. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out anyway, “—like I didn’t just breathe next to you.”

The confession hung between them, fragile and trembling, like glass seconds away from shattering. Megan felt her whole body tense with the vulnerability of it. Sweat slicked her palms. Her grip on the racket tightened until her knuckles ached. Her eyes stung hot, threatening tears, but she bit them back, jaw clenched, refusing to let them fall.

She hated this. She hated how pathetic she must look — standing there, sweaty, clumsy, heart wide open while Yoonchae stayed locked up tight like a vault. But she couldn’t stop. She was already unraveling, threads pulling loose faster than she could catch them.

Her free hand curled into a fist at her side, nails digging into her palm hard enough to sting. Maybe if she hurt herself there, it would distract her from the ache in her chest.

“Do you have any idea what that’s like?” she demanded, her voice trembling, every word scraping raw against her throat. “To sit next to you and feel invisible? To crack jokes, to tease you, to try—” she broke off, breath hitching, the word catching in her chest before spilling out again, cracked and desperate—“to try and get something out of you, anything, and all I get is silence? Blank stares? Like I don’t matter? Like I’m… nothing to you?”

Her voice echoed faintly across the empty field, and for a long, unbearable moment, there was nothing but the sound of Megan’s ragged breathing.

And then Yoonchae stopped. Finally, finally, she lifted her gaze and looked at Megan. Her expression was unreadable, face calm, distant, controlled like she was wearing a mask.

“You’re imagining things,” she said flatly.

It was the knife twist Megan hadn’t been ready for.

The breath left her lungs in a rush, like she’d been sucker-punched. Her arms went slack at her sides. The racket slipped from her fingers and clattered against the ground, the metallic sound bouncing across the field, far too loud in the heavy quiet.

Her hands trembled — not from exertion, not from missing another stupid shot, but from something deeper, heavier, rawer. Something that pressed against her ribs and made it impossible to breathe.

She moved. Her legs carried her forward without permission, stumbling a little over the grass until she reached the net. She didn’t hesitate — didn’t care about rules, didn’t care about games. She pushed past it, crossed the barrier, and stood in front of Yoonchae.

Too close. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her. Close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat on her temple, the twitch of her jaw, the way her fingers tightened around her racket.

“Then tell me,” Megan whispered, her voice trembling and cracking halfway through, betraying the storm that had been clawing at her chest for days. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms, shoulders squared but stiff with restraint. Her eyes searched Yoonchae’s face with a desperation that was almost painful to witness — like she was begging for a sign, a crack, a single moment of softness. “Tell me why you’re acting like this.”

Her chest rose and fell unevenly, each inhale sharp like broken glass, each exhale shaky and pleading. She looked at Yoonchae as if the girl in front of her was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. If she didn’t get an answer, if she didn’t hear something — anything — she felt like she would splinter apart and crumble on the field right there.

Yoonchae didn’t respond right away. She just stood there, her racket limp in her hand, her knuckles pale from how tightly she had been gripping it moments before. Her eyes locked on Megan’s, and for a long, suffocating second, she didn’t blink, didn’t move — just looked. Megan swore she could feel the weight of that stare pressing against her ribcage. Then, finally, Yoonchae exhaled, her shoulders sagging as she lifted her free hand and pushed her damp hair back with trembling fingers, trying to compose herself.

“I’m trying to make it easier for the both of us,” she said flatly.

Her tone was calm — too calm. The kind of calm that wasn’t peace but suppression. The kind of calm that came from swallowing storms.

Megan blinked, confusion flooding her face. Her brows furrowed as she shook her head, stepping forward like she hadn’t heard her right. “Easier? Easier for who? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel easy for me.” Her voice cracked at the edges, carrying both disbelief and desperation. The words didn’t make sense, not when her heart was pounding this loud, not when Yoonchae’s voice sounded like it had been dipped in ice.

Yoonchae’s lips parted like she was going to brush it off again, but something inside her snapped instead. She had been holding back for so long — biting her tongue, suffocating her own feelings, convincing herself silence was safer than truth. But Megan’s trembling voice, those wide pleading eyes, the rawness in every syllable… it broke through the dam.

Her racket slipped from her fingers, clattering against the asphalt, forgotten. Her hands balled into fists at her sides before unfurling again, restless, shaking with the intensity of words clawing to escape.

“You think this is what I want?” Yoonchae’s voice rose, raw and unsteady. “You think ignoring you, pushing you away, pretending I don’t care—do you think any of that is easy for me?” Her hands curled into fists at her sides, shaking as she spoke. “God, Megan, I’m killing myself trying to stay away from you.”

Megan’s breath caught. The words slammed into her chest like a blow.

Yoonchae’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, her voice cracking when she continued. “I found it. The note you left in my bag. The one where you basically said you didn’t feel the same. You don’t even have to deny it—I know. I read it. And that’s when I knew. I had to stop. I had to put an end to whatever this… thing is before I destroy myself completely.”

Megan’s mind reeled. A note? She didn’t even know what Yoonchae was talking about, but the panic in her chest didn’t let her form the words to defend herself.

Yoonchae laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and broken. She stepped closer, close enough that Megan could see the fire in her eyes, could feel the way her body trembled with the force of the words she’d held back for so long.

“You don’t get it, do you?” she said, her voice low, ragged. “I am in love with you, Megan. Stupidly. Pathetically. Desperately.” She dragged in a shaky breath, her chest heaving. “And every day I’ve been trying to bury it, trying to pretend it’s not eating me alive, but it is. It’s everywhere. You’re everywhere. Your stupid smile that makes me feel like the sun actually exists for me. The way you tease me, push me, annoy me until I want to scream—but I can’t. Because I love that it’s you.”

Megan’s eyes widened, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out.

“And your laugh.” Yoonchae’s voice cracked again, softer now, trembling like a string pulled too tight. Her throat bobbed as she tried to steady herself, but the words spilled anyway, ragged and unsteady. “God, I hate your laugh because it won’t leave me alone. Because it follows me everywhere I go, and I hear it when I close my eyes, and it makes me want things I can’t have. You’re everywhere, Megan. Every thought, every breath. And I can’t—”

Her voice broke into silence, cutting off mid-sentence, the weight of her emotions dragging the words back down her throat. Her chest rose and fell in uneven waves, her fists trembling, her face twisted with the rawness of everything she had been holding in.

Megan stood rooted to the ground, stunned, her mind spinning out of control. She felt like the field had tilted beneath her feet, like gravity had betrayed her. Yoonchae? In love with her? The girl she thought was ignoring her, avoiding her, pretending she didn’t exist… had just confessed feelings Megan never even dared to imagine.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Her voice refused to work. Instead, she blinked, her chest tightening painfully as she managed to croak out, “Me? I… I rejected you?” Her voice was high-pitched with disbelief, almost squeaky, her finger trembling as she pointed to herself and then at Yoonchae, like this whole scene was one big joke she didn’t understand.

Yoonchae’s jaw clenched. She reached into the pocket of her shorts with slow, deliberate fingers, as though even the act of pulling something out cost her strength. Then she extended her hand and pressed a crumpled piece of paper into Megan’s palm.

“Then explain this,” she muttered, her voice low and rough.

Megan frowned, unfolding the note with shaky fingers. The words hit her like a slap to the face.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I fit in. – Megan”

Her brows knitted tighter and tighter, a storm gathering in the lines of her forehead. She blinked hard, her lashes brushing against the paper as though a second look would reveal some hidden meaning. She read it once, twice, three times, as if repetition might twist the letters into something — anything — else. But the words stayed the same. Stark. Cold. Final.

Her lips parted, breath catching in the back of her throat. Then they pressed shut again, trembling, as her chest constricted like a fist was squeezing it from the inside.

And then it hit her.

Her stomach plummeted, hollowing her out so fast it felt like the ground itself had dropped from beneath her. The world tilted violently on its axis — the court, the grass, even the air around her — all of it spinning until the only thing sharp and real was the note clenched in her shaking hand. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything, even the faint rustle of wind brushing through the trees.

That note.

She knew it.

She recognized it.

Her lungs constricted as she stared at the scrawled words, her brows knitting tighter and tighter until they ached. This wasn’t some strange message, not some hidden rejection. It was hers. The exact words she had scribbled days ago in messy frustration, when Sophia had been on her case nonstop about how the coach wanted her to join the team, even suggesting letters — letters, for god’s sake — because apparently coaches liked things in “formal writing.” Megan had rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it all, dragged her pen across paper, and written that stupid little note just to shut Sophia up.

She remembered it so clearly. The sigh she let out. The way she shoved the folded note into Sophia’s hands without a second thought. It was never supposed to matter. It was never supposed to end up here.

And yet somehow — how — that meaningless scrap of frustration had slipped into Yoonchae’s bag.

Her mouth fell open. Her throat burned with words clawing to escape. Panic bloomed in her chest like fire, and it spilled out of her all at once, unpolished and desperate.

“Wait—” she blurted, the word sharp, almost breaking. Her breath came shallow, ragged. “That’s… that’s not what you think. It’s not meant for you. It was never meant for you.”

Her voice cracked mid-sentence, the sound fractured and weak, but she couldn’t stop. The paper crumpled tighter in her fist, her knuckles bone-white as she clutched it like it was evidence that could save her from losing everything. Her whole body trembled with urgency, her wide, pleading eyes darting to Yoonchae’s face, searching, begging for her to believe.

“I wrote this for the coach.” The words tumbled out fast, uneven, almost shouted in her desperation.

Her hands flew up in frantic arcs, gesturing wildly as though she could physically shove away the misunderstanding. “Sophia was nagging me—she wouldn’t stop, she kept saying the coach wanted me to join in more, and maybe it’s stupid, maybe it sounds ridiculous, but I panicked, okay? I’m not even good at badminton! I didn’t think I belonged with them, so I—” she shook the note violently in the air, her voice breaking around the edges, “—I wrote that. That was about me and the team. Not you. Never you. God, Yoonchae, not you.”

Her words tore out raw and jagged, like every syllable scraped her throat on the way up.

Yoonchae’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came. Her brows furrowed, drawing together in disbelief, confusion, and something else — something sharper. The walls around her cracked for the first time, just enough for Megan to see the storm behind them. Anger. Pain. Fear. Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, each breath sounding too harsh, too loud, as though she was fighting not to crumble right there.

Megan’s chest squeezed painfully at the sight. The expression on Yoonchae’s face — like the world had betrayed her, like Megan had betrayed her — tore her to shreds. She couldn’t let it stand.

She stepped forward, each drag of her feet heavy, as though trudging through quicksand. Her chest heaved like she’d been running for miles, though she hadn’t moved more than a step. Her hand lifted on instinct, pressing over her heart, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt as if she could rip her soul out and lay it bare.

“I would never reject you,” she breathed, the words fragile and trembling so hard they almost dissolved in the air. “How could I? Don’t you get it? You’re the reason I even try.”

Her voice swelled, bursting out as the tears she had been holding back burned hot at the corners of her eyes. They slipped free, blurring her vision, but she didn’t care.

“You’re the reason I stay. The reason I push through when everything feels impossible. The reason I don’t quit, even when I feel like I can’t keep up. You—” her throat closed up, forcing her to pause, swallow hard, lips quivering around the words, “—you’re the first person I look for when I walk into a room. Every time. Always. You’re the one who makes me want to be loud, ridiculous, annoying… myself. Because if I can make you look at me, if I can make you laugh, even just once, then maybe—” her voice cracked, splintering into a whisper so soft it was almost a prayer, “—maybe I matter too.”

The silence that followed was brutal. Heavy. It pressed down on her shoulders, on her chest, until she could hardly breathe.

Megan’s hand trembled as she reached forward, hesitating halfway, frozen in midair. Her fingertips hovered, terrified of breaking the fragile moment, before finally brushing against Yoonchae’s arm. The contact was feather-light, so delicate it barely registered, but to Megan it felt like touching lightning. She flinched, not away but closer, desperate to hold on before it slipped away.

“I like you, Yoonchae,” she whispered, the words ripped straight from her raw, bleeding heart. Her throat was tight, every syllable uneven and unsteady, but true. So true. Words she had buried for too long, words she could never take back now. “Not in some passing, careless way. Not something small or fleeting. I like you so much it hurts. So much it terrifies me.”

Her lashes fluttered as more tears escaped, racing hot and fast down her cheeks. She hated crying — hated it — but she was powerless against it. The fear of losing Yoonchae was too heavy, too consuming.

“I can’t stop,” she choked, shaking her head as sobs pushed at her chest. “I don’t want to stop. So please—” her words fractured into pieces, broken but honest, “—stop looking at me like I threw you away. Because I didn’t. I couldn’t. You’re the only one I want to keep falling for. Again. And again. For as long as you’ll let me.”

The crumpled note slipped from her hand at last, falling soundlessly into the floor like an afterthought, like it had never mattered at all. Her body shook with every sob she tried to smother, vision blurred beyond recognition. And yet through it all, Yoonchae was the only thing she could see. Standing there, wide-eyed, glistening, lips parted as though the words Megan had unleashed had stolen the air right from her lungs.

For a beat, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, fragile, so fragile it could have shattered with the faintest breath. Megan thought this was it — the moment she’d lose her for good. But then, slowly, carefully, Yoonchae’s rigid shoulders softened. Her expression broke, crumbling into something raw, something unbearably tender.

Before Megan could even brace herself, Yoonchae closed the space between them in one decisive step. She reached out, her arms wrapping around Megan’s trembling frame, pulling her close, close enough that Megan’s sob hitched against her shoulder. Yoonchae’s chin brushed the crown of Megan’s head as she held her tight, as if anchoring her, as if she’d never let go.

Megan gasped softly at the contact, her tears soaking into Yoonchae’s shirt as her hands instinctively fisted in the fabric, clutching like she was afraid this embrace would vanish the second she loosened her grip. Yoonchae smelled faintly of fresh rain and something warm she couldn’t name, and it made Megan’s chest ache in a way that was almost sweet.

“So,” Yoonchae murmured, her voice low, shaky but laced with a softness Megan had never heard before. Her breath tickled against Megan’s temple, sending shivers down her spine. “You like me too?”

The question was simple, teasing even, but her tone betrayed her — hopeful, almost disbelieving, like she was afraid the answer might slip away if she blinked.

Megan pulled back just enough to see her face, though her hands stayed on Yoonchae’s arms as if glued there. Her lashes were damp, her cheeks flushed, but she smiled through it all, a small, shaky smile that made her look like sunlight breaking through a storm. “Of course I do,” she whispered, her voice breaking into a laugh that was half-sob, half-joy. Her thumb brushed against Yoonchae’s arm absentmindedly, like she couldn’t help but memorize the feel of her. “I don’t just like you, Yoonchae. I’m—” she bit her lip, eyes shimmering as she stared up at her, “—I’m completely gone for you.”

Yoonchae’s lips curved, her own smile tugging at the corners despite the tears threatening to spill. She let out a breathy laugh, shaky and disbelieving, as though Megan’s words had just knocked the air from her lungs. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from Megan’s damp face, her fingertips lingering longer than necessary. “Loud and stubborn and… completely impossible.” Her touch was featherlight, tracing down Megan’s jaw before settling gently at her cheek. “And I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

Megan’s heart thudded wildly, her tears softening into quiet sniffles as she leaned into Yoonchae’s touch, closing her eyes for a brief second to savor the moment. “Then don’t let me go,” she murmured, her voice fragile but steady, as though the words were carved straight out of her soul.

Yoonchae didn’t answer right away — she didn’t have to. Her arms only tightened, pulling Megan flush against her chest as if afraid that even a fraction of space might break whatever fragile magic had just wrapped itself around them. She buried her face into the curve of Megan’s shoulder, inhaling shakily, letting herself drown in the familiar scent of her shampoo, the softness of her hair brushing against her cheek. It was overwhelming — the kind of closeness Yoonchae had secretly craved for so long but never dared to reach for.

Her entire body trembled, not from fear but from release, from finally letting down walls she thought were unbreakable. Her lips ghosted near Megan’s ear, breath warm, uneven, as though words lingered there but refused to escape. Megan, in return, clung back with equal desperation, her fingers curling into the fabric of Yoonchae’s shirt, gripping as if she could anchor herself in this moment forever. The world around them blurred, sounds dulled, even the air seemed to hold still — until all that remained was the thunderous rhythm of two hearts finally beating in sync.

For the first time in what felt like forever, both of them felt whole. No misunderstandings. No masks. Just them.

But then—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sharp sound sliced through the fragile silence, making both girls stiffen in each other’s arms. Yoonchae’s head snapped up, her brows furrowing, while Megan blinked rapidly, dazed and still teary-eyed, like she couldn’t process why the world dared to intrude on this.

And then more claps followed. A slow, exaggerated rhythm. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

Yoonchae twisted her head, her grip instinctively tightening around Megan as if shielding her from whoever dared interrupt. Megan, on the other hand, sniffled, still pressed against Yoonchae, turning her head with watery eyes.

And there they were. Four figures standing not too far away, all grinning like they had just won the lottery.

Manon’s hands were raised high, clapping dramatically above her head with the flair of someone who was far too proud of herself. She even added a little bow between claps, like she was receiving a standing ovation on stage. Lara stood beside her, slightly red from trying to contain her laughter, one hand pressed over her mouth but failing miserably as giggles spilled through anyway, her shoulders shaking with every sound. Sophia leaned casually against a bench, her slow, smug clap drawn out and deliberate, paired with that knowing smirk that screamed I told you so. Daniela, meanwhile, was bouncing on her heels like she physically couldn’t contain her excitement, clapping far too enthusiastically, her grin so wide and bright it nearly rivaled the moonlight spilling over them.

“Finally!” Manon shouted, her voice ringing across the open space. She pointed directly at the pair, her finger stabbing the air with all the drama of someone announcing the twist ending of a soap opera. “Ladies and gentlemen, we did it. The mission is complete!”

Megan froze. Her entire body went rigid in Yoonchae’s arms, as if she’d just been struck by lightning. Her eyes widened in horror, her face flushing crimson so fast it felt like her skin was on fire. She immediately tried to squirm out of Yoonchae’s hold, hands pushing weakly against her, but Yoonchae — equally stunned and mortified — reacted on pure instinct, tightening her arms around Megan as if her body refused to let her go, no matter how much her brain screamed at her to move.

A loud, guttural groan tore out of Megan, muffled half into Yoonchae’s shirt. “No. Absolutely not. Tell me I’m hallucinating. Please.” Her fists pounded lightly against Yoonchae’s chest like a child throwing a tantrum. “Tell me they are not real people standing there watching us right now.”

“What… mission?” Yoonchae managed to croak out, her voice dangerously low, a strained mix of suspicion and disbelief. Her cheeks burned so hot she could’ve sworn they’d leave scorch marks, though she tried desperately to keep her composure.

Sophia straightened her body like she was about to deliver a presidential speech, her smirk only growing wider. With exaggerated flair, she raised her hand and very deliberately flicked invisible dust off her sleeve, like she was in some slow-motion scene straight out of a blockbuster. Her voice came out rich with smug triumph, dripping with the confidence of someone who had been waiting weeks for this moment. “Operation Get-These-Two-Idiots-Together.”

Megan’s head snapped up so violently she nearly gave herself whiplash. Her hair flew into her face, strands sticking to her lips, but she didn’t care. “You—you named it?!” she squeaked, her voice shooting embarrassingly high like she’d just inhaled helium. She jabbed a finger at Sophia, “you made an operation?! What are you, the CIA of matchmaking?!”

“More like the FBI,” Manon cut in cheerfully, she swung her arms like she was conducting an orchestra, then aimed two finger guns directly at Megan, winking. “Friends. Being. Incredibly-awesome.” She clicked her tongue like she’d just dropped the world’s best punchline. “You’re welcome.”

Megan let out something between a whimper and a scream. “You guys—” her voice cracked, breaking in half like fragile glass as she jabbed a trembling finger at them, “—you orchestrated this!”

Lara gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d just been accused of high treason. But her grin was wicked, her tone gleeful. “Sweetheart, orchestrated is such a small word for what we did.” She spread her arms wide, as if presenting a Broadway stage. “We didn’t orchestrate this. We produced this. Full production value. Lights, camera, action. We even had rewrites!”

Megan made a strangled noise, burying her face into her hands again like she might disappear if she pressed hard enough.

Meanwhile, Yoonchae had gone completely still. She pinched the bridge of her nose, her lashes lowering as her chest rose and fell like she was silently praying for divine patience. “Explain,” she said, her voice dangerously calm, even though her pulse was practically pounding out of her throat. “Now.”

And oh, they explained.

Lara, still laughing so hard that her eyeliner was threatening to run. Her giggles came out wheezy and broken, but she still managed to get the words out. “Yoonchae laughs at all of Megan’s jokes—even the bad ones,” she gasped, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “Like, objectively terrible jokes. Nobody else laughs. Nobody. Just her.”

Yoonchae’s head snapped toward her so quickly Megan swore she heard a vertebra crack. Her brows furrowed, her lips parted in indignant protest. “I do not—” she began, her voice tight, but her denial only made her ears glow hotter.

“Yes, you do,” Manon interrupted gleefully, bouncing on her toes like she’d been waiting for this moment since birth. Her eyes were practically glowing with mischief, her grin wide enough to split her face in two. “And don’t even get me started on how Megan always saves you a seat. Always. Doesn’t matter if the place is empty. Doesn’t matter if we’re not even late. There’s always a seat waiting for you. Coincidence? I think not.”

Megan let out the loudest groan humanly possible, dropping sideways until she flopped dramatically against the couch cushions like she’d just been shot. Her arm flew over her eyes, muffling her scream. “Stop. Talking. Please.”

Daniela clasped her hands together in front of her chest like she was reciting poetry on a candlelit stage. “Yoonchae always blushes when Megan hands her a bottle of water. A bottle of water.” She sighed as if it were the most romantic thing she’d ever witnessed.

That was all it took. Lara absolutely lost it. Her laughter was wild and unrestrained, tears already pricking at the corners of her eyes. “A bottle of water!” she wheezed, “God, that’s so pathetic it’s beautiful.”

Yoonchae, on the other hand, went into full meltdown mode. It wasn’t just a blush; it was a full-body catastrophe. She spluttered so violently it sounded like she had swallowed air wrong, her coughs tripping over each other as if Daniela’s words had physically punched her in the chest. Her hands, which had been hovering uncertainly at her sides, flew up instinctively to cover her face, only to falter halfway like she couldn’t decide whether to hide or defend herself. Her ears burned crimson, the flush climbing rapidly until it painted her entire neck. “I—I—what—That’s not—!” The syllables tumbled out broken and staccato, her voice ricocheting between octaves as though her vocal cords themselves had given up on her.

Megan — oh, poor Megan — was faring no better. If Yoonchae was combusting on the outside, Megan was dissolving from within. Her face was buried so deep into Yoonchae’s shoulder that her hair created a messy curtain around them both, shielding her expression from the others, though her humiliation radiated loud and clear. Her muffled groan, low and desperate, reverberated through Yoonchae’s arm. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she muttered into the fabric of Yoonchae’s shirt, her words trembling between horror and a laugh that threatened to escape. The sound was so soft, so raw, that Yoonchae almost felt it more than heard it.

Across from them, Sophia was thriving. If Megan and Yoonchae were fire and gasoline, she was the match being gleefully struck over and over. The queen of smug commentary, Sophia leaned back against the nearest bench with the practiced ease of someone who had been waiting weeks — maybe months — for this very moment. She crossed her arms loosely, her eyes glittering like she was front-row at the world’s juiciest premiere. Her smirk curved slow and deliberate, tugging at her lips until it stretched into something almost cruel in its satisfaction.

“At this point,” she began, savoring every syllable, her voice thick with the weight of dramatic pause, “you two were basically a drama series already.” She arched one brow and let the silence linger, her gaze dragging deliberately between Yoonchae’s mortified profile and Megan’s crumpled figure in her arms. Then, with a lazy flick of her wrist — as if conducting an orchestra — she gestured toward the crumpled note lying abandoned on the ground. The piece of paper looked so small, so harmless, and yet it gleamed like the weapon it truly was.

With the theatricality of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Sophia’s smirk deepened. “We just needed to trigger the confession scene. Cue…” she let her words trail for maximum effect, eyes narrowing with delight, “…Plan B.”

The declaration landed like a firework, detonating between them.

Megan’s head shot up so fast she nearly knocked into Yoonchae’s chin, her hair falling in messy strands across her face. Her wide eyes were wild with outrage, her chest heaving as she stared at Sophia like she had just confessed to a crime of war. Her hands flew up in a flurry of disbelief, pointing helplessly at the group as if the gesture itself could summon sanity.

“Plan B?!” she screeched, her voice pitching embarrassingly high, teetering on the edge of a wail. “There was a Plan B?!”

“Oh, honey, there was a Plan A, B, and C,” Manon announced proudly, puffing up her chest like she’d just unveiled a master strategy. She raised her hand and began counting them off with exaggerated precision, ticking each finger like she was revealing classified information. “Plan A: make Yoonchae avoid Megan, just to see how fast Megan would lose her mind.” She grinned wickedly, her eyes glinting as she looked directly at Megan. “Which she did. Beautifully.”

“She literally complained about it,” Lara wheezed, her voice breaking mid-laugh as she tried — and failed — to compose herself. “Every. Single. Day.” She dragged out each word like it was a punchline, her grin so wide it practically split her face in two. “To us. Loudly. Like clockwork. Honestly—” she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand, still shaking with laughter.

Megan whipped around toward them, her eyes wild, pointing her finger like she was prosecuting them in court. “Because it was weird!” she practically shrieked, her voice breaking as her chest heaved from the sheer force of her indignation. “She was ignoring me! I thought she hated me!”

Sophia, ever the picture of calm superiority, arched a single unimpressed brow. She tilted her head just enough to make it sting, her lips curving into a razor-sharp smirk. “Oh, Megan,” she said smoothly, her voice slicing through Megan’s meltdown like silk. “If she hated you, she wouldn’t stare at you like you hung the stars.”

Yoonchae visibly choked. It wasn’t just a stumble in her breath — it was a full-body betrayal. Heat bloomed across her face, creeping up her cheeks and painting them a deep, telltale pink. She immediately dropped her gaze, lashes fluttering in panic as if she could somehow hide beneath them. “Sophia.”

“Anyway!” Daniela cut in cheerfully, her voice bubbling with mischief as she clapped her hands together. “Plan B was my favorite. Make Megan play badminton even if it’s painfully obvious she’s bad at it. Trick her into believing the coach wanted her on the team, and then force her to write a rejection note. Boom. Instant drama prop.”

The words hung in the air for a beat, and then Megan’s jaw practically unhinged, her finger shooting toward Sophia like an accusation on fire. “That was your idea?!” Her voice cracked as her eyes blazed with disbelief. “It doesn’t even make sense! At all!”

And the thing was… she wasn’t wrong. Even the other culprits — Daniela, Lara, and Manon — wavered for a second. They all turned to Sophia with varying shades of skepticism painted across their faces, as though they were only just now realizing how ridiculous it had been. Lara’s mouth twitched as if she wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite decide if she was allowed. Daniela’s brows furrowed, and Manon actually mouthed the words hilarious under her breath, lips barely moving.

Sophia smirked, utterly unbothered. “Doesn’t have to make sense. It worked, didn’t it?”

Megan sputtered, flailing for words, her hands gesturing wildly like she might actually pull sanity out of the air if she tried hard enough. Her desperation spiked, and she spun toward Yoonchae like she was her last lifeline. “Yoonchae, back me up here!”

But instead of the righteous support she expected, Megan was met with betrayal of the softest, most devastating kind. Yoonchae’s lips were pressed tightly together, her chest trembling as she tried — tried — to hold back a laugh. Her eyes glistened with suppressed mirth, and when Megan caught the slight upward twitch of her mouth, her whole world came crashing down.

“You—” Megan’s voice broke, equal parts horrified and wounded. “You’re laughing at me?!”

Before she could spiral further, Manon swooped in with a dramatic flourish, spreading her arms as though she were unveiling the climax of a Broadway show. “And finally—Plan C: the confession.” She bowed her head slightly, one hand extended toward Megan and Yoonchae like she was presenting a priceless masterpiece in a gallery. “Which, as you can see…” Her smirk widened as she gestured grandly toward the two of them tangled together, Yoonchae’s arms still hovering protectively around Megan, who looked seconds away from combusting. “…executed perfectly.”

Megan made a strangled noise — something between a groan and a whimper — and immediately buried her face back into Yoonchae’s shoulder. Her whole body curled in on itself, trembling with humiliation. “I hate all of you,” she mumbled into Yoonchae’s shirt, her words muffled but drenched in despair. Her hands flailed uselessly against her thighs, as if the sheer force of her embarrassment might physically knock them all out. “Every single one of you. Traitors. Absolute snakes.”

Daniela nearly toppled over with glee, her cackle splitting the air like lightning. “Oh, please. You love us. And you’re welcome.”

“Welcome?!” Megan’s voice pitched up an octave as she yanked her head up again, face blazing scarlet. “I literally just confessed my soul in front of—” she jabbed her finger at the circle of girls with the desperation of someone betrayed by fate itself, “—these clowns?!”

Lara giggled so hard she had to cover her mouth with both hands, her shoulders bouncing uncontrollably. After a moment, she managed to choke out words between wheezes, waving her fingers in mock surrender. “Correction: you confessed your soul to Yoonchae. We just had front row seats.”

Manon sighed dramatically, clasping her hands like she was in a romance film. “It was beautiful, Megan. Truly. Ten out of ten. No, eleven out of ten. I almost cried.”

“You did cry,” Sophia deadpanned, nudging her with an elbow.

“Shut up!” Manon sniffled, wiping her eyes quickly. “It was emotional!”

Yoonchae groaned, dragging her hand down her face, though her other arm still refused to let Megan go. “I cannot believe this. You guys seriously…” She trailed off, shaking her head, though the corners of her lips twitched upward despite her best efforts.

Sophia’s smirk softened, her voice gentler. “Believe it. We just wanted you both happy. And now—” she gestured between Yoonchae and Megan, “—look.”

Daniela squealed, clapping again. “They’re hugging! They’re actually hugging without one of them pretending to suffocate!”

Lara snorted. “Yeah, and Megan isn’t even yapping for once. That’s true love.”

Megan groaned louder, muffling herself deeper into Yoonchae’s shirt, fists clenching the fabric. “I swear, I’m changing my name and moving countries.”

For a long moment, Yoonchae tried — tried — to keep her composure, her lips pressed tight like she could will away the embarrassment that was still clinging to her skin. But then it slipped. A soft laugh, quiet at first, bubbled out of her chest, warm and unguarded. It was the kind of sound that melted into the air, softening all the sharp edges left behind by the girl’s teasing and Megan’s spiraling panic.

She ducked her head, shaking it lightly as strands of hair fell into her face, her shoulders trembling with amusement. “You’re all unbelievable,” she finally said, her voice tinged with equal parts exasperation and reluctant fondness. Her gaze drifted over her friends, each of them looking so smugly ridiculous that she couldn’t help but let the smile tug wider at her lips. For all their scheming and theatrics, they had somehow managed to pull this off. And the absurdity of it — the fact that they had to pull off something so convoluted just to get her and Megan here — made Yoonchae’s chest ache in the sweetest way.

Manon, ever quick on her feet, gasped as though offended, pressing a hand dramatically against her chest. She leaned forward with wide, mock-innocent eyes and said, “Unbelievably amazing, you mean.” Her tone dripped with self-satisfaction, like she’d just been awarded the medal for Most Brilliant Matchmaker of the Year.

That earned her a snort from Yoonchae, who tilted her head just enough to deliver her comeback with precision. “Unbelievably annoying,” she countered, her brows arching, though the corners of her lips betrayed her with a smile that refused to hide. Her laughter, though quiet, was soft enough that Megan felt it rumble faintly through her chest where she was still clinging.

Lara, who had been practically vibrating with pent-up energy beside the others, suddenly burst out, unable to contain herself. She clapped her hands together, her grin stretching wide as her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Okay, but can we—like—group hug instead of just you two hogging all the hugging rights?” She gestured frantically toward the pair of them, as if their embrace was an exclusive VIP event that needed immediate opening to the public.

Her words sent another ripple of laughter through the group. Daniela whooped loudly in agreement, bouncing on her toes like she was ready to launch herself at them. Sophia rolled her eyes, though her smirk didn’t falter, clearly amused at the thought of chaos unfolding.

Megan, however, groaned so loudly it could’ve been mistaken for a battle cry. She clutched Yoonchae’s shirt tighter, burying half her face into her shoulder again like a child refusing to share their favorite toy. “No. Absolutely not. This hug is private property,” she mumbled, her words muffled but her meaning crystal clear. “Group hugs are cancelled.”

Daniela gasped, her hand flying to her chest as though she’d just been mortally wounded. “You selfish gremlin! After everything we’ve done for you?!” She staggered back a step, clutching Lara’s arm like she needed physical support.

Lara only cackled harder, already taking a step forward like she was gearing up to pounce. “Too late,” she declared, eyes sparkling with wicked glee. “You don’t get a choice, Megan. Democracy rules. Group hug is happening.”

Megan’s muffled protest was cut short when Daniela lunged first, wrapping her arms tightly around both her and Yoonchae with all the force of a linebacker. Megan let out a strangled squeak, half indignation, half laughter, her legs kicking wildly as she tried to wriggle free. “Daniela! Get off! This is assault—”

“—this is love! This is friendship!” Daniela corrected, squeezing tighter until Megan let out a dramatic groan.

Lara was next, charging in with a shriek of laughter and throwing herself onto the growing pile, her arms looping around all three of them. “We’re making history today, people!” she shouted, nearly knocking them off balance.

Yoonchae let out a startled huff, staggering slightly as the weight of her chaotic friends crushed in around her. But despite the chaos, her arms stayed firmly locked around Megan, steadying her in the middle of it all. Her laughter, though breathless, was low and warm against Megan’s ear.

Then, of course, Manon dove in without hesitation, wrapping them all up like she was the star of some slow-motion sports movie. “Operation: Success!” she declared triumphantly, her cheek pressed against Yoonchae’s shoulder.

And finally, Sophia. She didn’t rush in like the others — oh no. She strolled forward with deliberate calm, her smirk sharp as ever. “I can’t believe I’m lowering myself to this level,” she muttered, before slipping into the hug pile anyway, sliding an arm around Lara’s waist and patting Megan’s back with mock sympathy. “Congratulations, lovebirds. Don’t say we never did anything for you.”

At that, Megan finally gave up her fight, her laughter bursting out in helpless waves. She threw her head back, cheeks flushed, hair sticking messily to her face as she wheezed, “I hate all of you—”

But her arms betrayed her, slowly uncoiling from her defensive grip and wrapping, however reluctantly, around the nearest shoulders.

Yoonchae just smiled. It wasn’t her usual tight-lipped, guarded one, nor the smug grin she used to mask her nerves. No — this smile was unburdened, almost shy, and it softened the sharp lines of her face in a way Megan had never seen before. Amid the noise, the crushing weight of bodies pressing in for the group hug, the ridiculous tangle of arms and laughter, Yoonchae dipped her head slightly. Her lips brushed dangerously close to Megan’s temple as she whispered, low and fragile, “They’re unbearable. But… I’m glad they did it.”

The words struck Megan like a spark in dry air. Her entire body froze for half a beat, her breath catching in her chest. Then, slowly, hesitantly, she tilted her head up, strands of hair falling across her face, only to catch the gentle curve of Yoonchae’s smile illuminated in the slant of the setting sun. It was the kind of smile people wrote songs about — quiet, unspoken, but heavy with meaning. And just like that, the embarrassment, the chaos, the shrieking voices and cackles surrounding them, all of it melted into something softer. Something warmer. Something that wrapped around Megan’s ribs like a blanket and made it impossible to breathe without aching.

The group hug dissolved eventually, their friends stumbling back in a heap of laughter and smug pride at their so-called “masterpiece.” Manon tripped over Daniela’s foot, sending both of them tumbling onto the grass with howls of laughter. Lara fanned herself dramatically, still wiping away tears of glee, while Sophia smirked like a queen surveying the battlefield she’d conquered.

But even as everyone pulled away, Yoonchae and Megan stayed close, still caught in each other’s arms, their foreheads nearly touching as if the world outside their little bubble didn’t exist.

And for the first time, with the stars scattered above and their ridiculous friends cheering like lunatics behind them, neither of them felt the need to run or hide anymore.

It wasn’t just an operation. It was a beginning.