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The morning routine for Wonhee was always a rhythmic, unpretentious affair. Unlike many of her peers at the prestigious HYBE Academy, who arrived in chauffeured sedans or sleek foreign cars, Wonhee’s day began with the predictable rattle of the city bus and a brisk ten-minute walk through the residential district. Her family lived in a modest, comfortable apartment sandwiched between a local bakery and a quiet laundromat. Her father worked as an assistant manager at a local logistics firm, and her mother taught at a nearby primary school. They were middle-income, hardworking people who filled their home with loud laughter, leftover food wrapped in foil, and an unconditional warmth that Wonhee carried with her like an invisible shield.
It was this precise upbringing that made Wonhee who she was: the undisputed ball of energy of the sophomore students.
When Wonhee walked through the iron gates of the academy, the atmosphere around her shifted. She didn’t possess the aloof elegance of the old-money students or the sharp, calculating look of the elite scholars. Instead, she had an radiant, ambient warmth that was entirely infectious. Her school uniform—never tailored to fit perfectly, always just slightly loose around the shoulders, and her loafers which had a faint scuff on the left toe from where she constantly tripped over her own enthusiasm—seemed to carry the scent of fresh laundry and morning air. Her bright eyes, wide and perpetually curious, scanned the hallways with an open invitation to the world.
“Good morning, Wonhee!” a group of freshmen who were adjusting their heavy backpacks, giggled as she passed by.
“Morning! Don’t forget you have a quiz in history today, look over page forty-two!” Wonhee called back, offering them a blinding, crinkle-eyed smile that instantly eased their morning anxieties.
As the elected sophomore representative, Wonhee’s responsibilities were vast, but she treated them less like chores and more like opportunities to connect. She made it her goal to know every single thing that is happening and will happen so she can help everyone in the best way possible.
She could slide seamlessly into any social circle. She would spend ten minutes helping the quietest boy in the class untangle his headphones, transition into arguing good-naturedly with the sports team captains about their budget allocations, and then sit with the art students to help them mix paint for the autumn festival posters. She knew everyone’s name, their favorite convenience store snacks, and the exact tone of voice required to cheer them up when a pop quiz or a mock exam went poorly.
She was approachable. She was effortless. She was the gravity that held the fractured, cliquey sophomore class together. She could get close to anyone and everyone.
Well.
Except Iroha.
If Wonhee gave life and warmth to the classroom, Iroha was composed of absolute silence and dense, unyielding gravity. The complete opposite.
Iroha was a fellow sophomore, but she existed on a plane that felt entirely removed from the rest of her year. She was the kind of person who redefined the concept of talent. In a school where students stayed up until the early hours of the morning drinking canned coffee just to maintain a decent GPA, Iroha consistently placed at the absolute top of the sophomore academic rankings without ever carrying a textbook home.
Her talents extended far beyond the classroom. Last year, the dance department had been in a state of absolute crisis. The lead performer for the contemporary segment had twisted her ankle just five minutes before the curtain call, and the audio file for the backing track had somehow become corrupted, leaving nothing but a raw, ambient metronome beat echoing through the auditorium speakers. As the backstage crew panicked, Iroha, who wasn’t even a member of the formal dance club, had calmly stepped out from the wings. She executed a perfect self-made choreography that left everyone speechless.
Last month, when the track team lacked a runner for the final leg of the regional relay, Iroha had filled in, eating up the red clay track with a terrifying, rhythmic grace that left even the school’s track team captain staring in awe.
Recently, the debate club went against a friendly rivalry against a nearby academy. They were missing a member and casually picked Iroha over a ton of other students—even over senior students—to compete.
Iroha excelled in each and every category.
Yet, despite her brilliance, Iroha was utterly isolated.
She possessed a naturally intimidating resting face. Her eyes were almond-shaped—deep, dark, and heavy-lidded—perpetually framed by a fringe of straight, midnight-black hair that fell just past her cheekbones. Her mouth was a clean, straight line that rarely, if ever, curved upward. When she walked down the corridors, her gaze was usually fixed straight ahead, cold and unreadable. Most students wouldn’t dare make eye contact with her; they spoke of her in hushed, reverent whispers, treating her less like a classmate and more like a beautiful, dangerous statue that had somehow come to life.
Her isolation was only deepened by the company she kept. Iroha didn’t interact with the sophomores. Instead, whenever she was seen outside of class, she was flanked by three well-known senior students in the entire academy: the student council president Park Minju, the top-ranked student in the entire school Sakai Moka, and the ruthless prodigy of the debate club Noh Yunah.
To see Iroha walking down the central courtyard with these three was like watching a young monarch being escorted by her personal vanguard. They spoke in low, serious tones, their conversations impenetrable to the average student. No ordinary sophomore would ever dream of interrupting that circle.
Wonhee would watch them sometimes from the second-floor window, her fingers curling tightly against the aluminum frame. She would watch the way Iroha’s dark hair caught the wind, the way her sharp jawline remained set in that permanent, beautiful freeze. The sun could illuminate the entire world, but it could not pierce the atmosphere of the dark star.
The late Tuesday afternoon sun poured through the high windows of the sophomore homeroom, casting long, dusty beams of amber across the desks. The final bell for classes had rung twenty minutes prior, leaving the room in a state of comfortable, post-study chaos. A large group of students had dragged their chairs into a wide semicircle around Wonhee’s desk, seeking the exact brand of chaotic energy only she could provide.
“Come on, Wonhee! You promised you’d show us!” laughed Keonho from the back, tossing a crumpled piece of loose-leaf paper at her.
“Alright, alright, give me room!” Wonhee laughed, her voice booming with a theatrical, comedic tone.
She marched over to the cleaning closet at the back of the classroom and pulled out a standard-issue green plastic broom. The crowd cheered, sensing the ridiculous performance about to take place. Wonhee walked back to the center of the room, took a deep breath, and carefully hoisted the broom upside down. With practiced, absurd precision, she placed the very tip of the wooden handle directly onto the center of her chin.
“Behold,” Wonhee intoned, crossing her eyes dramatically as she looked up at the bristles hovering a few feet above her head. “The ancient art of the cleaning staff. I am the guardian of the broom. None shall pass without submitting their homework.”
The classroom erupted into a chorus of roars and table-thumping laughter. Wonhee began to waddle forward, her knees bent, her arms tucked into her sides, keeping her head perfectly steady as the broom wobbled slightly in the air. She was completely in her element, her cheeks flushed from laughter, her bright eyes scanning her friends’ faces, soaking in the joy she loved to create.
Then, the heavy wooden classroom door slid open with a soft, distinct click.
The laughter didn’t die instantly, but it withered at the edges, tapering off into an awkward, sudden hush. The students at the fringe of the circle immediately stepped back, clearing a path without even thinking.
Iroha stepped across the threshold.
She was carrying a heavy stack of leather-bound reference books from the advanced library, her uniform pristine, her expression as cool and detached as a winter morning. She didn’t look at the students. She didn’t look at the desks. She simply directed her steps toward the teacher’s podium to return the materials.
At the exact moment Iroha’s figure entered her line of sight, Wonhee’s entire body went rigid.
The broom lost its precarious balance. It tilted forward, the plastic bristles clipping the edge of a desk before clattering loudly against the wooden floor, the sound echoing sharply in the quiet room. Wonhee didn’t even flinch at the noise. The goofy, animated expression on her face vanished in an instant, replaced by a sudden, paralyzing shock that drained the breath from her lungs.
Within a fraction of a second, a violent, burning crimson flooded Wonhee’s cheeks. The heat rushed upwards from her collarbone, painting her neck, her cheeks, and the very tips of her ears in a brilliant, unmistakable red. Her hands dropped dead to her sides, her fingers twitching against her skirt. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, looking down at the fallen broom, suddenly and acutely aware of how incredibly ridiculous, how utterly childish she must have looked.
The silence in her chest was deafening. The truth was a heavy, secret weight she had carried in absolute silence:
Lee Wonhee had a massive, overwhelming crush on Hokazono Iroha since the very first day of freshman year.
To Wonhee, that first day of high school didn’t feel like a memory from a year ago; it felt like a physical scar on her heart, preserved in perfect, terrifying detail.
Her alarm clock, an old digital model with a loose wire, had failed to go off. It was the absolute worst possible start to her high school career. Wonhee had awoken a full forty minutes late, her eyes widening in horror as she realized the opening ceremony was scheduled to begin in less than half an hour. She had scrambled into her brand-new, stiff uniform, nearly tearing the zipper in her panic, and bolted out the front door of her apartment with a single piece of unbuttered toast hanging out of her mouth.
She had run through the city streets like a hurricane, her lungs burning against the crisp April air, her heavy school bag bouncing violently against her lower back. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, dropping soft pink petals into her hair as she sprinted, her mind racing with the absolute humiliation of being the only freshman to walk late into the auditorium.
As she rounded the sharp, brick corner leading into HYBE Academy’s main courtyard, her vision was completely obscured by her flying side bangs and the sheer, blinding panic of her pace.
She never saw the girl walking gracefully toward the grand entrance.
The collision was spectacular and loud. Wonhee slammed directly into a tall, slender figure. The impact sent a flurry of printed papers into the air like white confetti. Wonhee hit the gravel path hard, her hands scraping against the sharp stones, her piece of toast tumbling face-down into the dirt.
“Ow, ow, ow...” Wonhee had groaned, rubbing her forehead where she had impacted the other girl’s shoulder. She blinked back the sudden tears of physical pain, her heart hammering against her ribs as she prepared to apologize profusely. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—”
The words withered and died in her throat.
Kneeling on the gravel path directly across from her was Iroha. Even then, as a brand-new freshman, Iroha possessed an aura that was entirely distinct from anyone else. She was brushing the dust off her dark blue skirt, her sharp eyebrows pulled together in a look of profound, icy displeasure. The morning sun was filtering through the cherry blossom branches above, casting a fractured, ethereal glow across her sharp profile, illuminating the sleek, dark strands of her hair.
Iroha looked up, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes locking directly onto Wonhee’s wide, terrified face.
For several agonizing seconds, neither of them moved. The distant murmur of the school crowded around them, but to Wonhee, the sound was entirely vacuumed away. She felt a strange, violent jolt deep within her chest—a sudden, dizzying sensation that had absolutely nothing to do with the physical fall. Looking into those fierce, breathtakingly beautiful eyes, Wonhee felt her entire world tilt on its axis. She fell instantly, irrevocably, and helplessly in love.
“Are you alright?” Iroha asked. Her voice wasn’t shrill or panicked; it was surprisingly deep, smooth, and cool, like water flowing over stone.
“I—I’m so sorry! I’m completely fine! I’m so, so sorry!” Wonhee had squeaked, her face instantly exploding into a furious heat.
She dropped to her hands and knees, her hands shaking violently as she began to frantically gather the scattered papers from the gravel. In her utter chaos, her mind spinning from the proximity of the girl before her, Wonhee felt a small, faint snap near the collar of her shirt.
Around her neck, Wonhee had been wearing her lucky necklace—a plain, smooth white ceramic circle attached to a simple, durable black cord. During the violent impact of the collision, the cord had caught on the stiff button of her new uniform collar and snapped, the white ceramic disc slipping quietly into the thick green grass beside the path.
But Wonhee was too consumed by the storm in her chest, too terrified by the intense gaze of the dark-haired girl, to register the loss. She simply gathered the papers into a messy stack and shoved them into Iroha’s hands.
Iroha had quietly accepted the papers, her fingers briefly brushing against Wonhee’s trembling ones. She gave Wonhee one long, unreadable look—a gaze that felt like it was memorizing her face—before she stood up, smoothed her uniform, and walked toward the auditorium without uttering another syllable.
Wonhee had remained on her knees in the gravel for a full minute, her right hand pressed firmly against her racing heart, completely forgetting about her scraped knees, her missed alarm, and the ceremony inside. The sun had met its gravity, and it would never be able to break free.
“Hey. Sun-girl. Are you actually alive right now, or should I call the nurse?”
Wonhee blinked hard, the bright amber light of the present-day classroom rushing back into her vision. The memory faded, leaving her staring at a stack of colorful poster boards on the student council work table. It was the afternoon before her birthday, and her close friend, a sharp-witted, talkative girl named Eunchae, was leaning over the table, holding a black marker and giving her a deeply suspicious, knowing smirk.
“Sorry, sorry!” Wonhee laughed nervously, her hand flying to the back of her neck to rub at the warm skin. “I was just... thinking about the budget for the sports festival. What were you saying?”
“I was saying,” Eunchae sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes as she capped the marker with a loud pop, “that you need to mentally prepare your small apartment for the absolute disaster that is tomorrow. Your birthday is basically a school-wide event for the sophomore class. You’re going to get an absolute mountain of presents, your locker is going to explode with chocolates, and you’ll probably get another sack of love letters from your terrifying army of admirers. Honestly, how do you even plan on carrying it all home on the bus?”
Wonhee offered a small, slightly weary smile. She leaned her chin on her palm, her eyes drifting away from Eunchae and toward the large glass windows that overlooked the inner courtyard. Down below, the badminton team were just starting to warm up for their evening practice. Iroha wasn’t down there today; she was likely tucked away in the entertainment room or sitting in a high-level briefing with her senior friends. Just the thought of her name made Wonhee’s chest ache with a familiar, quiet longing that she never allowed anyone to see.
“I don’t really care about all of that,” Wonhee muttered under her breath, her voice dropping its usual bright, energetic cadence, replaced by a soft, rare vulnerability. “I just... I just hope Iroha gives me something. Even if it’s just a ‘happy birthday’ in the hallway, that would be enough.”
The ambient noise of the room seemed to die instantly.
Wonhee froze, her eyes widening as she realized she had allowed the deepest thought in her head to slip past her lips. She snapped her head back toward Eunchae, her cheeks instantly flushing a light pink.
Eunchae’s jaw had dropped significantly. The marker dropped from her fingers, rolling across the wooden table before hitting the floor. A slow, mischievous, incredibly wicked grin began to spread across her face like a wildfire.
“Oh my god,” Eunchae whispered, her voice trembling with pure, unadulterated excitement. “Iroha? Th-That ice queen? The girl who looks like she could kill a man with her glare? That’s who the legendary sophomore representative has been pining after?”
“Shh! Lower your voice, Eunchae! Please!” Wonhee frantically waved her hands in the air, her face turning a bright, panicked crimson as she leaned across the table. “It’s nothing! It’s just a silly thought! Forget I said anything, seriously!”
“No, wait, hold on, stop spinning,” Eunchae said, her demeanor suddenly shifting from teasing to intense, conspiratorial focus. She leaned across the table until she was inches away from Wonhee’s face, her eyes sparkling with fresh gossip. “Wonhee, I’m being completely serious right now. Don’t freak out, but... I actually kind of heard something about her last week.”
Wonhee’s heart did a violent, painful flip against her ribs. “What? What did you hear?”
“Well, you know how my older cousin, Daniela, is in the debate club? She hangs out in the same lounge as those seniors Iroha is always with,” Eunchae whispered, her eyes darting toward the classroom door to ensure no one was listening. “She told me that she overheard the student council president teasing Iroha during their break. Apparently, Iroha has been quietly, majorly into another sophomore for a really long time. And the rumors among the seniors say... it’s you.”
The world seemed to stop its rotation. Wonhee stared at the other girl, the blood rushing in her ears, her breath completely catching in her throat. It’s you.
“Me?” Wonhee whispered, her voice small and trembling, entirely devoid of its usual sun-like confidence. “No way. That’s... that’s literally impossible. She doesn’t even look at me. Whenever she enters a room, I turn into a red, stuttering mess. She probably thinks I’m some kind of weird, hyperactive kid.”
“Think about it logically!” Eunchae insisted, reaching over to shove Wonhee’s shoulder playfully. “Why else would someone like Iroha, who ignores everyone, be looking into our year? You’re the sun, Wonhee! Everyone loves you. It makes total sense that even the ice queen would get pulled into your orbit. Just wait until tomorrow. I bet she’s planning something big because she knows it’s your birthday.”
A spark of hope, brilliant, hot, and terrifyingly bright, ignited deep within Wonhee’s chest. Could it be true? Could the massive, icy distance between the sun and the dark star finally be closing? For the rest of that evening, Wonhee walked home on air, the heavy weight of her school bag feeling entirely weightless as her mind painted vivid, beautiful pictures of Iroha approaching her desk, holding a small gift, her cold eyes softening into something warm just for her.
The morning of Wonhee’s birthday arrived in a massive, overwhelming blur of color and sound.
From the very moment her new, shiny—a birthday gift from her parents—loafers stepped through the main school gates, she was completely swarmed. “Happy birthday, Wonhee!” echoed down the concrete walkways. By the time the first morning bell rang, her wooden desk was completely obscured beneath a mountain of affection. There were brightly wrapped boxes of imported chocolates, hand-knitted keychains dangling from small ribbons, stuffed animals from the local arcade, and a literal stack of pastel-colored envelopes filled with heartfelt letters from underclassmen, classmates, and even a few shy members of the sports teams.
Wonhee smiled until her cheeks ached. She thanked every single person, laughed in all the right places, and accepted the gifts with genuine humility. She was deeply, truly grateful for her classmates’ kindness; she knew how lucky she was to be loved.
But inside her chest, a quiet, restless anxiety was eating away at her. Her eyes were constantly, perpetually searching.
Every single time the heavy classroom door slid open with a wooden scrape, Wonhee’s posture would straighten instantly, her heart leaping into her throat, her breath catching. But it was never her. It was a teacher, or a student council member, or another friend delivering a card.
During the noon lunch break, the tension reached a boiling point. Wonhee was walking down the main corridor toward the vending machines when she saw them. Iroha was walking from the opposite direction, joined by her intimidating circle as always. They were discussing something on a clipboard, Iroha’s sharp profile looking as elite and untouchable as ever.
As their paths were about to cross, Wonhee slowed her steps. Her heart hammered against her sternum like a trapped bird. Her hands gripped the fabric of her skirt. She swallowed the lump in her throat, gathered every ounce of her sun-like courage, and tried to catch Iroha’s eye. As they drew parallel, Wonhee offered a small, tentative, incredibly vulnerable smile.
Iroha’s dark eyes flicked over to her.
The gaze was brief—less than a full second. It was cool, entirely unreadable, and completely flat. Then, without a single pause in her stride, without a nod of her head, without a single sign of recognition or awareness that it was Wonhee’s birthday, Iroha looked away, continuing her conversation with the senior beside her as if she had just passed a blank wall.
The brilliant spark of hope that had kept Wonhee warm since the previous afternoon didn’t just flicker; it died completely, replaced by a cold, suffocating chill that spread through her veins.
By the time the afternoon classes ended and the final bell of the day rang, the festive excitement in the air had entirely evaporated. The students slowly trickled out of the room in small, laughing groups, heading off to their respective clubs or walking to the train station. Wonhee remained at her desk, staring blankly at the massive pile of gifts and pastel envelopes.
The sun was beginning to set outside, casting long, dramatic shadows of amber and deep violet across the empty rows of desks. The school grew profoundly quiet, the distant, rhythmic shouts of the soccer team practicing on the field below filtering softly through the open window.
Dismissal time was rapidly approaching. The school building would lock its doors soon.
Wonhee waited.
She sat alone in the quiet, shadowed room, her fingers tracing the smooth, decorative ribbon of a box she hadn’t opened. Ten minutes passed in absolute silence. Then twenty. Then thirty.
The classroom door remained firmly shut.
There was no surprise visit from a quiet sophomore. There was no letter slipped quietly under the door.
There was no Iroha.
The rumor was just a rumor. A fragile, cruel illusion born from the telephone game of school gossip, projected onto a girl who wanted it too much. Why would someone as perfect, as brilliant, and as elevated as Iroha ever care about a loud, goofy, middle-class girl who balanced brooms on her chin to make people laugh? To Iroha, she wasn’t the sun; she was just background noise.
A heavy, suffocating sadness settled over Wonhee’s chest, heavy and dark. The contrast was agonizing—to be surrounded by the love of a hundred people, yet to feel entirely, utterly invisible because the only person who mattered hadn’t looked at her at all.
Slowly, her movements sluggish and devoid of their usual bright energy, Wonhee began packing her bag. She didn’t have the emotional strength to carry the heavy boxes today; she left the mountains of chocolates and gifts neatly stacked on the side counter of the classroom, only sliding the paper letters and a few small tokens into her backpack.
She zipped the heavy nylon JanSport bag, hoisted the straps over her shoulders, and cast one final, lingering look at the empty, darkened classroom.
She walked out into the long, silent corridor, the hollow echo of her own footsteps matching the empty ache in her heart. As she passed through the heavy iron gates of the academy and stepped out into the cool, darkening evening, the sun had officially set, leaving Wonhee alone in the cold.
The asphalt outside HYBE Academy was cool under the soles of Wonhee’s loafers. The streetlights had just flickered to life, casting a sequence of pale, amber halos along the sidewalk that ran parallel to the school’s high stone perimeter wall. The evening air carried the faint, crisp scent of upcoming rain and the distant, low hum of commuter trains passing through the district.
Wonhee pulled the straps of her backpack tighter against her shoulders. The bag felt entirely too heavy, packed with nothing but pastel-colored envelopes and the hollow, deflating ache of a hope that had blown up in her face. Her head was bowed, her usually bright, unruly bangs falling over her eyes to shield her from a world she usually greeted with open arms. She felt small. For someone who spent every single day projecting warmth, the sudden absence of it left her shivering inside her uniform jacket.
I should have known better, she thought, her fingers tightening into fists around the canvas straps. School gossip is just noise. Why would someone like her ever notice someone like me?
She took another slow, heavy step forward, her eyes tracking a loose pebble on the pavement.
Suddenly, the suffocating downward pull on her shoulders vanished.
Before Wonhee could even register what was happening, a long, slender hand with pale skin and neatly trimmed nails glided under the top loop of her backpack. With a fluid, deceptively effortless motion, the immense weight of the bag was lifted clean off her back.
Wonhee stumbled slightly, her balance disrupted by the sudden lightness. She spun around, her heart jumping into her throat, a defensive, startled exclamation rising to her lips.
“You really shouldn’t carry something this heavy when you’re already slouched over,” a smooth, deep voice observed quietly.
Wonhee’s voice died in her throat. Her breath caught, her lungs freezing as her eyes widened to the size of saucers.
Standing right beside her, matching her slow stride with an effortless, rhythmic grace, was Iroha.
The intimidating sophomore was holding Wonhee’s heavy bag by its top handle with a single hand, her arm relaxed, as if the mountain of paper letters inside weighed absolutely nothing. Iroha’s uniform jacket was unbuttoned, her sleek, midnight-black hair shifting softly against her collarbone as she turned her head to look straight ahead. Her legendary resting face was still intact—sharp jawline, unreadable mouth, heavy-lidded eyes—but up close, beneath the pale amber of the streetlights, she didn’t look terrifying at all. She looked breathtaking.
“I—Iroha?” Wonhee finally managed to squeak out, her face instantly flickering with a light pink warmth. “What... what are you doing?”
“Walking,” Iroha replied casually, her gaze remaining fixed on the path ahead. She adjusted her grip on Wonhee’s bag, shifting her own sleek leather satchel to her opposite shoulder so she could walk closer to Wonhee’s side. “And assisting a classmate who looks like she’s about to be crushed by her own belongings.”
“I can carry it!” Wonhee stammered, her arms flailing slightly in her panic as she reached for the straps. “It’s my bag! It’s fine, really! You don’t have to do this, you’re always so busy with the seniors and—”
“I want to do it,” Iroha interrupted gently, her voice low and steady, carrying a strange, unyielding weight that immediately made Wonhee’s hands drop back to her sides. Iroha didn’t slow down, forcing Wonhee to keep walking beside her, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they navigated the narrow sidewalk. “Besides, you’re going home incredibly early today, Lee Wonhee. It’s highly uncommon for you.”
Wonhee blinked, her mind scrambling to process the words. And to process how her name suddenly sound so good once it rolled out the other girl’s lips. “Early? It’s past five-thirty. The school is practically locking up.”
Iroha’s head turned slightly, her dark, intense eyes locking onto Wonhee’s flustered face for a brief, agonizing second.
“Exactly,” Iroha murmured, a subtle inflection in her tone that made Wonhee’s heart skip a beat. “It’s barely past five-thirty. Usually, you don’t even think about leaving until at least six.”
Wonhee felt the heat in her cheeks intensify, the light pink rapidly deepening into a more dangerous, noticeable shade of rose. She looked away, staring frantically at the brick wall beside them. “I... I don’t know what you mean. I have a lot of paperwork as the representative, so sometimes I stay late in the council room, but today I finished early because—”
“You don’t stay in the council room on Tuesdays,” Iroha stated flatly, though there wasn’t a single drop of malice or coldness in her voice. It was just an observation of fact. “On Tuesdays, you usually go to the advanced library lounge. You choose the third desk in the history aisle.”
Wonhee’s entire body went rigid. Her loafers dragged against the concrete, nearly causing her to trip over her own feet. “I... how do you...”
“You sit behind a massive, ridiculously thick stack of ancient historical reference books,” Iroha continued, her voice maintaining that smooth, agonizingly calm cadence. “Books that I know for a fact you aren’t reading, because you keep holding the volume on the foundational laws of the nineteenth century upside down.”
“I do not!” Wonhee gasped, her defense mechanism firing off before her brain could stop it.
Iroha’s lips twitched, a minuscule movement that went completely unnoticed by the panicked girl beside her. “You do. And you position those books precisely so there’s a two-inch gap between the spines. A gap that aligns perfectly with the window seat by the courtyard where I sit to read and work on my literature assignments.”
Wonhee felt as if her entire soul had just been laid bare on the sidewalk. Her hands flew up to cover her face, her fingers pressing hard against her burning cheeks. She could feel the heat radiating off her skin. It was over. She was exposed. Her crush, the Hokazono Iroha, knew she was a certified stalker.
“Oh my god,” Wonhee wailed softly into her palms, her voice muffled and thick with utter mortification. “Please tell me you’re joking. Please tell me you didn’t notice that.”
“I noticed,” Iroha said smoothly. “Every single week.”
“I’m so sorry!” Wonhee turned her head away, her voice cracking slightly as she tried to swallow her embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be weird! I just... I liked the quiet in the library, and you looked so focused, and I didn’t want to disturb you because you’re always so elite and...”
“And then there are Thursdays,” Iroha interrupted, entirely ignoring Wonhee’s frantic apologies as they continued to walk side by side down the quiet street.
Wonhee let out a small, pathetic whimper. “There’s more?”
“Thursdays are the days the sports clubs take over the main gymnasium,” Iroha noted, her eyes reflecting the glowing sign of a nearby convenience store they were passing. “Which means the elective badminton club has to practice on the outdoor courtyard courts. Whenever I’m playing, if I look up at the second-floor homeroom window, I can see a very specific, bright pink hair ribbon peeking out from behind the blue curtains.”
Wonhee’s hands dropped from her face as she stared at Iroha in absolute, unadulterated shock. “But... but the glare on the glass! The sun reflects directly off those windows in the afternoon! I checked!”
“It does,” Iroha agreed, her voice dropping into a slightly softer, lighter register. “But you forget that you possess a very distinct habit, Wonhee. Whenever someone scores a point or does something impressive, you start bouncing on your heels. The glass glare doesn’t hide a shadow that constantly jumps up and down behind the fabric.”
Wonhee’s brain completely short-circuited. She stood frozen on the sidewalk, her arms hanging loosely, her face completely, utterly crimson. The sun, the universally loved sophomore representative who could talk her way into any heart, was entirely defenseless.
“You knew,” Wonhee whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at Iroha’s profile. “The whole time. For a year. You knew I was... that I was watching you.”
Iroha finally stopped walking. She turned around to face Wonhee fully, the heavy backpack still held loosely in her right hand. The shadows of the evening fell across her face, but her dark eyes were brighter than Wonhee had ever seen them.
“Yes,” Iroha said quietly. “I knew.”
“Then why?” Wonhee’s voice was small, vulnerable, and thick with the residual sadness of her afternoon disappointment. She stepped closer, her wide, expressive eyes searching Iroha’s cold features. “Why didn’t you ever say anything? Why did you just let me keep doing it? If you thought I was weird, or annoying, or... or creepy, you could have just told me to stop. Today, in the hallway, you walked right past me. You didn’t even look at me. I thought... I thought I was completely invisible to you.”
The silence that followed was long, dense, and fragile. The distant sound of a car engine faded away, leaving nothing but the sound of their own steady breathing between them.
Iroha stared at Wonhee. For the first time since Wonhee had known her, the unyielding, icy composure on Iroha’s face seemed to flicker. Her sharp eyebrows pulled together slightly, not in anger, but in what looked like a profound, quiet conflict. She looked down at the heavy backpack in her hand, then back up at Wonhee’s flushed, tear-bright eyes.
“In the hallway today,” Iroha began, her voice dropping into a pitch so low it was almost a whisper, “the student council president or rather… my friend Minju was holding a roster of every student who entered the building without their ID card. If I had stopped to speak to you, she would have noticed how flustered I was. And if she noticed, the entire senior board would have spent the rest of the afternoon interrogating me about the sophomore representative.”
Wonhee blinked, her mind struggling to keep up with the shift in narrative. “Flustered? You?”
“And as for why I never said anything in the library or the courtyard,” Iroha continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the remaining distance between them until Wonhee could smell the faint, clean scent of cedarwood and mint that seemed to cling to her uniform.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to focus on a literature essay when the person you’ve been thinking about since the first day of school is staring at you through a two-inch gap in the bookshelves?”
Wonhee’s mouth fell open. “Wait. What?”
“You think you were being subtle,” Iroha said, a strange, unprecedented warmth beginning to bleed into her tone. “But every time I turned a page, I could hear your sneakers squeaking against the floor because you were shifting your weight. And last Thursday, I missed at least three easy drop-shots because I was too busy making sure my posture looked correct from the second-floor window.”
“No way,” Wonhee breathed, her hands flying to her chest. “No, no, no. That’s impossible. You’re Iroha. You hang out with the elite seniors. You’re good at everything. You don’t get... you don’t look at ordinary people like me.”
“I don’t look at ordinary people,” Iroha agreed softly. “I look at you.”
Wonhee stared at her, her heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. The world felt entirely surreal, like a dream born from too many birthday sweets and a lack of sleep. She was so overwhelmed, so completely out of her depth, that her natural, goofy defense mechanism instantly took over.
“But... but I balanced a broom on my chin today!” Wonhee burst out frantically, her arms gesturing wildly in the air as her voice cracked. “A green plastic broom! I waddled like a penguin! I looked like an absolute, total idiot! If you liked me, you wouldn’t have walked in right when I was being a supreme clown!”
Iroha froze.
Wonhee watched her, terrified that she had finally said something so ridiculous that the other would turn around and walk away. She held her breath, her face still burning a bright crimson.
Then, a miracle happened.
Iroha’s shoulders gave a small, sudden jerk. A low, soft sound escaped her throat—a sound that HYBE Academy had never, in its entire history, recorded.
Iroha was laughing.
It started as a quiet, breathless chuckle, but then it broke through her defenses entirely. Iroha threw her head back slightly, her straight black hair falling away from her face as a genuine, clear, and beautiful laugh rang out into the quiet evening air. Her cold, unreadable mouth curved into a wide, breathtaking smile, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners into brilliant, soft crescents. The permanent freeze on her face dissolved instantly, revealing a warmth that was so blinding, so incredibly radiant, that it made Wonhee’s breath entirely vanish.
The environment around them seemed to transform. The intimidating, untouchable prodigy was gone; in her place stood a beautiful, young girl whose laughter sounded like silver bells striking glass.
Wonhee stood entirely spellbound, her jaw slightly slack, her eyes drinking in the sight like a desert absorbing rain. She’s laughing, her mind screamed in pure, unadulterated awe. I made her laugh. And she looks... oh my god, she looks like an angel.
“A penguin?” Iroha finally managed to say, her laughter tapering off into a soft, lingering smile that remained fixed on her lips. She wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye with her free hand, her gaze locking back onto Wonhee with an intensity that was now entirely warm. “Wonhee, the entire sophomore wing was standing outside the door just to watch you. You aren’t an idiot. You’re... you’re like the sun. Everyone wants to be near you when you do things like that. Including me.”
“Really?” Wonhee whispered, her voice incredibly small, all her representative confidence completely dissolved.
“Really,” Iroha murmured softly.
Iroha took a deep breath, her expression shifting into something slightly more serious, though the warmth in her eyes never faded. She set Wonhee’s heavy backpack down onto the clean concrete pavement beside her own leather satchel, freeing her hands.
She reached into the deep pocket of her tailored uniform jacket. Her fingers searched for a moment before she pulled out a small, delicate object wrapped carefully in a clean, white handkerchief.
Wonhee watched her movements with a quiet, breathless curiosity.
Slowly, with a reverence that felt almost sacred, Iroha unfolded the edges of the handkerchief. Resting in the center of the soft fabric was a familiar, simple item.
It was a plain black cord, slightly frayed at the knot, attached to a smooth, flat circle of white ceramic.
Wonhee’s breath hitched. Her hand automatically flew to her own bare collarbone, her mind instantly violently pulled back to the gravel path of the freshman courtyard, the smell of cherry blossoms, and the sudden, chaotic collision of their first meeting.
“My... my lucky necklace,” Wonhee whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the object. “You... you had it? This whole time?”
“You dropped it when you crashed into me,” Iroha said softly, her fingers gently lifting the black cord from the cloth. “You were in such a frantic rush, gathering my papers and apologizing over and over, that you didn’t even notice it snap. By the time I realized what it was and came back to pick it up, you had already run into the auditorium.”
“I looked everywhere for it the next day,” Wonhee said, her voice thick with a sudden wave of emotion. “My grandmother gave it to me before she passed away. She said it would bring me to the place I belonged. When I lost it, I thought I had ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Iroha murmured. She turned the white ceramic circle over in her palm, presenting it to Wonhee beneath the warm glow of the streetlamp.
Wonhee leaned closer, her eyes scanning the smooth surface of the porcelain. The breath completely left her lungs for the second time that night.
The circle was no longer entirely plain. In the absolute center of the clean, white ceramic, someone had taken an incredibly fine brush and painted a small, perfect, glossy red heart. The red paint had been sealed with a clear, professional lacquer, making it gleam brilliantly against the white background under the amber streetlights. It was precise, meticulous, and beautiful—the work of someone who had spent hours ensuring it was absolutely flawless.
“I wanted to give it back to you immediately,” Iroha said, her pale cheeks suddenly flushing with a faint, rare tint of pink as she looked down at the necklace. “But... everyone was always around you. Every time I saw you in the hallway, you were surrounded by ten different people, laughing and talking. You were so popular, so universally loved. And I... people told me I looked terrifying. I didn’t know how to just walk up to the sophomore representative and hand her a broken necklace without looking strange.”
Wonhee stared from the painted heart to Iroha’s flustered face, a profound, sweet understanding finally breaking through her mind. “So you kept it?”
“I kept it,” Iroha admitted softly. “And last night, because I knew today was your birthday, I stayed up late. I’m not an artist, but... I wanted to add something to it. To show you that it wasn’t just a lost object anymore. I wanted it to be a real gift.”
“Iroha...” Wonhee’s voice was completely choked up, a mixture of immense joy and residual tears making her throat tight.
“May I?” Iroha asked, raising the black cord slightly between her hands.
Wonhee couldn’t speak; she simply nodded her head rapidly, her bright pink ribbon bouncing with the movement. She stepped closer, closing the final inch of distance, her head bowing slightly to allow Iroha access.
Iroha stepped into her space. The proximity was intoxicating. Wonhee could feel the gentle, rhythmic warmth of Iroha’s breath against her forehead as Iroha reached around her neck. Her long, slender fingers were incredibly gentle, carefully tying the frayed ends of the black cord into a secure, tight knot at the back of Wonhee’s neck. For a brief second, the tips of Iroha’s fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of Wonhee’s nape, sending a violent, pleasant shiver straight down her spine.
Iroha stepped back, her hands dropping, her eyes tracking the way the white ceramic circle with the glossy red heart now rested perfectly against the center of Wonhee’s collarbone.
“Happy birthday, Wonhee,” Iroha said, her voice dropping into a register that was purely, beautifully tender.
Wonhee reached up, her trembling fingers wrapping gently around the smooth, lacquered ceramic circle. The surface was warm from Iroha’s pocket, a physical manifestation of the care that had been poured into it. The cold, empty space that had occupied her chest all afternoon was completely gone, replaced by a roaring, brilliant fire that felt warmer than a thousand summer suns.
“It’s the best present I’ve ever received,” Wonhee whispered, her wide eyes locking onto Iroha’s with an intensity that finally matched the dark star’s gravity. “By far. Out of all of them.”
Iroha’s smile returned, smaller this time, but incredibly deep and lingering. “Even better than the mountain of chocolates on your desk?”
“Those don’t matter at all,” Wonhee said fiercely, taking a bold step forward and reaching down to boldly grab the sleeve of Iroha’s uniform jacket. “I told Eunchae yesterday... I didn’t care about any of those things. I just wanted something from you. Even just a word.”
“The rumors among the seniors weren’t wrong,” Iroha murmured, her eyes dropping briefly to where Wonhee’s hand was gripping her sleeve, her expression softening even further. “They were just impatient. I told them that I was waiting for the crowd to clear. I didn’t want to give you something private while fifty other people were shouting your name.”
Wonhee let out a small, breathless laugh, her face still incredibly red but her heart completely unburdened. “So Eunchae’s cousin actually heard the truth?”
“Regrettably, yes,” Iroha chuckled softly, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand. “The seniors have entirely too much free time. They’ve been teasing me about the ‘sunny sophomore rep’ for the last three months.”
The two of them stood there under the amber streetlight, the quiet residential street completely empty around them. The initial fear, the intimidation, and the massive, icy distance that had separated them for an entire year had completely evaporated, leaving nothing but a profound, sweet clarity.
Slowly, Iroha reached down. Her movements were deliberate, giving Wonhee every opportunity to pull away. Her slender fingers slid down Wonhee’s arm, passing the fabric of her sleeve, until her palm met Wonhee’s open hand.
With a gentle, firm pressure, Iroha laced her fingers through Wonhee’s.
Their hands fit together perfectly—Iroha’s fingers long and cool, Wonhee’s slightly smaller and burning with a natural, sun-like heat. The contrast was exquisite, a perfect equilibrium achieved on a quiet sidewalk at dusk.
“Wonhee,” Iroha said quietly, her dark eyes locking onto Wonhee’s with a clarity that made the universe stop spinning.
“Yes?” Wonhee breathed, her heart doing another spectacular flip.
“The weather forecast says this Saturday is going to be completely clear. There’s a new botanical greenhouse opening in the central district, and they have an entire section dedicated to sun-loving flora. Would you... would you let me take you there? Just the two of us. As a real birthday date?”
Wonhee stared at their intertwined fingers, then up at the girl who had been the center of her quiet universe since the very first day of freshman year. A brilliant, radiant smile—the genuine, blindingly beautiful smile that the entire school loved, but this time entirely reserved for a single person—broke across Wonhee’s face.
“I would love to,” Wonhee said, her voice ringing out with total, joyous certainty. “But only if you promise to let me carry my own bag on the way there.”
Iroha let out another soft, melodic chuckle, her fingers tightening securely around Wonhee’s hand as she reached down with her other hand to hoist both of their backpacks onto her shoulder anyway.
“We’ll negotiate the terms of the bag on Saturday,” Iroha smiled down at her. “For now, let’s just walk.”
Side by side, their hands tightly locked, their footsteps falling into a perfect, synchronous rhythm, the sun and the dark star walked down the amber-lit street together, leaving the darkness of the evening far behind them.
Best birthday ever.