Work Text:
The second Yooyeon walks into homeroom, the fluorescent ceiling lights could vanish, and no one would notice.
At least, Seoyeon wouldn’t. Because all she ever notices these days is Kim Yooyeon.
“Morning, Seoyeonie,” Yooyeon says with that warm voice and the smile that scrambles Seoyeon’s thoughts like eggs in a frying pan.
Seoyeon’s grip tightens on her mechanical pencil. “M-Morning.”
Yooyeon flops into the seat beside her, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear and stretching out her arms like she owns the sky.
And maybe she does. Because Yooyeon has that rare kind of glow—like the sun would move out of the way for her. She’s loud but gentle, funny without trying, and friendly to absolutely everyone. Even teachers smile wider when she’s in the room.
But the thing is… Seoyeon sees something else in her. Something softer, quieter. Something most people probably miss.
And that’s what makes it so much worse.
Because everyone likes Yooyeon. And Seoyeon can’t help but feel like she’s just another face in the crowd. Just another girl who’s too shy, too plain, too easily forgotten.
But still—she writes her name in the margins of her notebook. Over and over, like it might mean something someday.
It started last semester. They got paired for a history project and Yooyeon came over to Seoyeon’s house. She brought snacks, wore mismatched socks, and sat on the floor even though there was a perfectly good couch.
She asked Seoyeon if she liked astronomy, because her wallpaper had tiny constellations on it. Seoyeon had nodded, cheeks pink, and Yooyeon had smiled like she meant it. Like she was genuinely interested.
That was the beginning.
Now, months later, the crush has grown roots. Deep ones.
And the worst part? Yooyeon has no idea. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
During lunch, Yooyeon laughs with a group of students by the vending machines. Seoyeon sits by the window, watching her with quiet eyes and half-eaten kimbap. There’s a rhythm to it now: Yooyeon turns heads wherever she goes, and Seoyeon counts how many times her heart skips when she hears her laugh.
Someone leans closer to Yooyeon—Nakyoung, from Class 3-4. She brushes something off Yooyeon’s sleeve with a coy smile.
Seoyeon’s stomach twists.
She looks away, stabbing at a piece of kimbap with her chopsticks.
“Earth to Seoyeon,” says Dahyun, her best friend, waving a hand. “You’re doing the staring thing again.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You always say that.”
“I’m just—thinking.”
“You’re thinking about her,” Dahyun says bluntly. “You should just tell her.”
Seoyeon nearly chokes. “What? No. I can’t—she doesn’t—” She lowers her voice. “She’s just… Yooyeon.”
“Exactly. She’s sweet. You never know.”
But Seoyeon does know. Or at least, she thinks she does. Because girls like Yooyeon belong to the world, and girls like her? They write poems about them in secret notebooks and never say a word.
Seoyeon writes songs.
Little melodies in the back of her math notebooks. Lyrical daydreams scribbled on the inside of her planner. She writes about Yooyeon’s smile, the way she tugs on her sleeve when she’s nervous, the way she always hums under her breath when she thinks no one’s listening.
She’d never admit it, but some days she walks the longer route to class just to catch Yooyeon practicing choreography in the empty music room.
Yooyeon always moves like she’s meant to be seen. But Seoyeon? She watches like a secret she can’t let slip.
“Come to the game with me,” Yooyeon says one Friday afternoon, tugging on Seoyeon’s wrist. “You never go to school events. You’re always in the library or something.”
“I like the library,” Seoyeon mumbles.
“I know. But come on—it’s the last game of the season. I’ll sit with you the whole time, promise.”
That promise is what does it.
So Seoyeon goes. The bleachers are packed, the crowd loud, but Yooyeon keeps her promise. She sits so close their shoulders touch and cheers loud enough for both of them.
“See?” she says, flashing a grin. “You’re not combusting. You’re doing great.”
Seoyeon laughs, heart hammering. “I guess.”
But halfway through the game, Nakyoung appears again. She sits behind Yooyeon and leans forward, whispering something in her ear. Yooyeon laughs, turning her head slightly toward her.
The space between Seoyeon’s ribs tightens.
She excuses herself to get water and stays by the vending machine too long.
It’s ridiculous, she thinks.
She should just get over it. People get crushes all the time. They fade.
But Yooyeon… Yooyeon lingers.
She lingers in every hallway echo, in the sound of sneakers squeaking on tile, in every little doodle Seoyeon draws on the corners of her notebooks.
One evening, Seoyeon walks home in the rain. She didn’t bring an umbrella because she forgot the forecast, and now she’s soaked to the bone. As she rounds the corner near her street, a soft voice calls out behind her.
“Seoyeon!”
She turns.
Yooyeon, umbrella in hand, jogs up beside her. “You always forget your umbrella,” she says, pulling her in under the umbrella. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”
Seoyeon swallows hard. “Why are you here?”
“I saw you leave without one. I figured you’d need backup.”
The rain hits the umbrella like static.
Seoyeon looks at her. Her face is too close. Her heart beats too loud.
She almost kisses her.
Almost.
But she doesn’t.
Because this is Yooyeon. And Seoyeon is still just the quiet girl beside her in homeroom.
Seoyeon tells herself to move on.
She really tries.
But then Yooyeon shows up at her locker with a carton of strawberry milk, says “You looked like you needed this,” and winks before running off to class.
Or she finds her in the library and falls asleep on Seoyeon’s shoulder with a book still open in her lap.
Or she texts late at night with pictures of the stars, asking, “Is that Orion? Or did I mess it up again?”
And all of Seoyeon’s efforts crumble.
Because how do you stop loving someone who makes even the ordinary feel like magic?
Seoyeon’s newest notebook has Yooyeon’s name written fifteen times on the first page.
She’s written a story. A short one. About two girls and an astronomy club and a kiss under a meteor shower. One of them is always smiling. The other always watching.
She doesn’t know if she’ll ever let anyone read it.
But still, she writes.
The school festival arrives, and Seoyeon’s class does a photo booth. Yooyeon runs around in a silly animal headband, organizing props and dragging classmates into the booth for “memory photos.”
“Come take one with me!” she says, pulling Seoyeon in by the wrist.
Inside the booth, their shoulders brush, cheeks flushed, and the countdown starts.
3… 2… 1…
Yooyeon turns to smile.
Seoyeon turns too late.
The picture captures Seoyeon mid-stare—completely, utterly lovesick.
Yooyeon giggles when the prints come out. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
Seoyeon forces a laugh. “Something like that.”
Nakyoung confesses to Yooyeon the following Monday.
Seoyeon hears it through the hallway. Dahyun confirms it at lunch. “She did it behind the gym. Yooyeon didn’t say anything at first.”
Seoyeon nods like it doesn’t matter.
But it does. Of course it does.
She sees them talking again later. Yooyeon’s expression unreadable. Nakyoung’s eyes hopeful.
Seoyeon doesn’t ask.
She doesn’t want to know.
The next day, Seoyeon avoids her.
She skips homeroom, eats lunch in the library, ignores her phone buzzing with Yooyeon’s name.
Because maybe it’s better this way. Maybe Yooyeon deserves someone bolder, prettier, louder.
Not a girl who writes about love but can’t say it out loud.
That night, Seoyeon lies awake, staring at her ceiling.
She whispers, “I would’ve written a thousand songs for you.”
Thursday morning. Seoyeon opens her locker and finds a note inside.
It’s written on pink stationery with tiny stars in the corners.
“Hey Seoyeon. You’ve been avoiding me. Meet me on the roof after class?”
—Yooyeon
Her heart races the entire day.
When she finally climbs the rooftop stairs, the sun is just beginning to set, casting everything in orange and gold.
Yooyeon stands near the railing, wind tugging gently at her hair.
She turns, eyes bright. “You came.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“I know.” She smiles softly. “But I’m glad you did.”
A pause.
Yooyeon steps closer. “Nakyoung confessed.”
“I heard,” Seoyeon says quietly.
“I told her I didn’t feel the same.”
Seoyeon’s eyes flick up. “Oh.”
“And… I think I know why.”
Yooyeon pulls something from her pocket. A folded piece of paper.
Seoyeon recognizes it. Her story. The one about the meteor shower. She’d left it in her desk last week.
“I read this,” Yooyeon says. “I didn’t know… until I did.”
Seoyeon’s throat tightens. “I didn’t mean for you to see—”
“I’m glad I did.”
Silence.
Then—
“Was it about me?” Yooyeon asks, hopeful.
Seoyeon nods. “It’s always been you.”
Yooyeon smiles like the sky finally opened.
And then she leans in and kisses her—gentle, warm, and real.
Afterward, they sit side by side, pinkies intertwined.
“You know,” Yooyeon says, “you never had to write me a story.”
“I didn’t?”
“Nope.” She leans her head on Seoyeon’s shoulder. “But I’m really glad you did.”