Chapter Text
There were three things everyone at Pledis University knew about Yoon Jeonghan.
First, he had never received a grade below ninety-five in his entire university career. Second, he looked unfairly beautiful while destroying everyone else’s class ranking. And third, if you wanted someone to fall in love with you, you asked Dear Darling to write your confession.
No one knew who ran the anonymous love-letter service. Not even the student council, even though the letters mysteriously appeared in their office every Friday morning, arranged in cream-colored envelopes and sealed with tiny pink hearts.
Students submitted their requests through an anonymous online form.
They explained their feelings, described the person they liked, and chose whether they wanted the letter delivered anonymously or with their name written at the bottom. By the end of the week, a handwritten letter would appear inside the recipient’s locker, tucked underneath their usual coffee preference, or delivered through a trusted friend.
Every letter was different. Some were playful. Some were painfully sincere. Some were written for people who had been loved quietly for years. And every single one of them was written by Yoon Jeonghan.
The same Yoon Jeonghan who could turn a stranger’s clumsy explanation into something beautiful enough to make an entire lecture hall cry.
The same Yoon Jeonghan who had written more than two hundred confessions for other people.
The same Yoon Jeonghan who had been hopelessly in love with his best friend for exactly two years, four months, and eleven days.
Not that he was counting.
“You’re staring again.”
Jeonghan blinked. Across the table, Choi Seungcheol continued highlighting his notes without looking up.
“I’m reading,” Jeonghan said.
“You’ve been on the same page for six minutes.”
“I’m absorbing the material.”
“You’re holding the book upside down.”
Jeonghan looked down. The book was, unfortunately, upside down. He closed it with as much dignity as he could manage.
“I was testing you.”
Seungcheol finally lifted his head, one eyebrow raised. “Testing me?”
“To see whether you were paying attention.”
“We’re supposed to be studying.”
“You can study and pay attention to me at the same time.”
Seungcheol stared at him for a moment. Then his mouth curved into a smile—the soft, fond kind of smile that always made something inside Jeonghan’s chest stumble.
“That’s true,” Seungcheol said. “I’m very talented.”
Jeonghan hated him. He hated his stupid dimples. He hated his broad shoulders, his annoyingly perfect grades, and the way he always remembered to bring an extra bottle of Watermelon juice because Jeonghan never remembered to buy one for himself.
Most of all, Jeonghan hated how easy it was to love him. They had started as rivals during their first year. Their names had been displayed beside each other on every ranking sheet, separated by decimals and occasionally a single point.
Choi Seungcheol.
Yoon Jeonghan.
First and second.
Second and first.
Back and forth until their professors stopped congratulating them individually and began referring to them as a matched set; their rivalry should have made them enemies.
Instead, Seungcheol had approached Jeonghan after their first midterm examination, placed a strawberry milk on his desk, and said, “You beat me by half a point.”
Jeonghan had taken the drink. “Are you here to cry about it?”
“No. I’m here to find out what you got wrong.”
“So you can avoid making the same mistake?”
“So I can prove your score was a typographical error.”
Jeonghan had laughed so loudly that their professor asked them to leave the room. They ate lunch together that afternoon. They have been inseparable ever since.
“Stop smiling at me,” Jeonghan muttered.
“You told me to pay attention to you.”
“I changed my mind.” Seungcheol reached across the library table and tapped the end of Jeonghan’s pen.
“You’re distracted.”
“I’m bored.”
“You’re losing.”
Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“The scholarship evaluation is next week.” Seungcheol leaned back in his chair. “And based on the fact that you haven’t read a single section since we arrived, I’m going to rank first.” Jeonghan sat straighter.
“You ranked first last semester because I had the flu during finals.”
“You had a runny nose.”
“I nearly died.”
“You attended a party the night before the exam.”
“To say goodbye to everyone.” Seungcheol laughed, his entire face brightening. Jeonghan’s heart squeezed.
It was embarrassing, really.
He wore his heart underneath soft pink cardigans, pearl hair clips, and the silver necklace Seungcheol had given him for his last birthday. It followed him everywhere, exposed and vulnerable, despite how carefully Jeonghan pretended otherwise.
He had fallen in love during their first year. It happened on a rainy evening in April.
Jeonghan had worn new shoes that day—white with a delicate heel—and had insisted they did not hurt despite the blisters forming against his ankles. When the rain began, Seungcheol had taken off his own jacket and held it above Jeonghan’s head.
Then he squatted in front of him.
“Get on.” Jeonghan had started. “You’re not carrying me.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I can walk perfectly fine.”
Jeonghan had taken one step and nearly fallen into a puddle. Seungcheol caught him around the waist. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Then Seungcheol turned around and crouched again.
“Get on, princess.”
Jeonghan should have argued about the nickname. Instead, he had climbed onto Seungcheol’s back, arms looped around his shoulders while Seungcheol carried him through the rain. Jeonghan remembered resting his cheek against the warm feeling of Seungcheol’s neck.
He remembered Seungcheol tightening his grip beneath his knees. He remembered thinking, very clearly, that he was in trouble. Two years later, he was still in trouble. Seungcheol pushed a bottle of Watermelon juice toward him.
“Drink.” Jeonghan accepted it, twisting the cap open.
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
Unfortunately, Jeonghan liked almost everything about him. His phone vibrated against the table. A new request had been submitted through the Dear Darling form. Jeonghan quickly turned his screen face down.
Seungcheol glanced at it. “Secret?”
“Very.”
“Is someone confessing to you?”
Jeonghan gave him a sweet smile. “Would you be jealous?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly. Jeonghan’s smile faded slightly. Seungcheol picked up his highlighter again.
“I’d just need to investigate them,” he added.
“Investigate?”
“Background check. Academic history. Criminal records.”
“I don’t think failing calculus should disqualify someone from dating me.”
“It should.”
“You failed calculus.”
“I got a B.”
“That’s practically a public humiliation.”
Seungcheol kicked him lightly beneath the table. Jeonghan kicked him back. Neither of them noticed the librarian glaring at them from behind the front desk.
Jeonghan checked the new submission after Seungcheol left for a student council meeting. He sat alone within the quiet corner of the library, one leg folded beneath him, the sleeves of his cardigan pulled over his hands. The request was unusually detailed.
Recipient: Anonymous delivery requested.
Relationship to recipient: Best friends. Academic rivals. The person who knows me better than anyone.
Jeonghan paused. There were plenty of best friends at the university. There were fewer academic rivals, but it still wasn’t unusual.
He continued reading.
Describe the person you want the letter written for.
They’re beautiful.
Not just in the obvious way, although anyone with eyes would tell you that. They wear pretty hair clips when they want to feel confident and steal my jackets even though they have more cardigans than anyone should reasonably own.
They’re terrifyingly intelligent and pretend they don’t care about winning, but they check the class rankings before the professor finishes uploading them.
They complain when I buy the wrong brand of Watermelon juice, but they drink it anyway.
They fall asleep during movies and deny it when they wake up.
They know exactly how to make me angry, but they’re also the first person I look for whenever something good happens.
I think I started liking them somewhere between trying to beat them and realizing I wouldn’t mind losing if it meant seeing them smile.
Jeonghan stopped breathing. He read the paragraph again.
Then a third time.
Pretty hair clips. Cardigans. Watermelon juice. Academic rankings.
The world appeared to narrow around him. His heartbeat became so loud that he wondered if the librarian could hear it from the other side of the room.
No. It couldn’t be. There had to be another person who collected hair clips and drank Watermelon juice. There had to be another pair of best friends who competed over their grades. There had to be someone else.
Jeonghan scrolled down.
What do you want the letter to say? That I’m sorry it took me so long to understand what I was feeling. That I don’t know when friendship stopped being enough. That I’m terrified of ruining what we already have. And that I think I’m falling in love with them anyway.
Jeonghan fixed his eyes on the screen until the texts blurred.
His first thought was Seungcheol. His second thought was that he was an idiot for allowing himself to hope.
Seungcheol had always been attentive. He remembered everything about Jeonghan because they were best friends. He bought him drinks because that was what best friends did.
There could be someone else.
Someone Seungcheol had not told him about. Someone who wore pretty clips and cared about class rankings. Someone who made Seungcheol want to fall in love.
Jeonghan pressed a hand against his chest. He had written letters for people confessing to someone else before. It had never hurt. But he had never needed to write one for the person he loved. The form did not reveal the sender’s name. That was the entire point of Dear Darling.
Still, Jeonghan knew. Or perhaps he only feared that he knew.
He opened a blank document. For the first time since creating the service, he could not think of anything to write.
Seungcheol found him asleep at the library table an hour later. Jeonghan woke to the feeling of fingers carefully brushing his hair away from his face.
“You’ll hurt your neck,” Seungcheol murmured.
Jeonghan lifted his head. Seungcheol was standing beside him, his backpack hanging from one shoulder. His expression was unbearably gentle.
“Meeting finished?” Jeonghan asked.
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“You came back?”
“You left your umbrella in my bag.”
The rain pitter-pattered softly against the library windows. Two years, four months, and eleven days. Jeonghan wondered how many more days he could continue loving Seungcheol like this.
Quietly. Carefully. Always one confession away from losing him.
Seungcheol reached toward his cheek. Jeonghan instinctively leaned back. Seungcheol’s hand froze.
“There was ink,” he said.
“Oh.”
Jeonghan rubbed at his cheek.
“Did I get it?”
“No.”
Seungcheol came closer and wiped the mark away with his thumb. Jeonghan looked everywhere except his eyes.
“You’re acting strange,” Seungcheol said.
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired. This is different.”
“Maybe I’ve finally grown tired of you.”
Seungcheol hummed. “Unlikely.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d miss me.”
The worst part was that Seungcheol said things like that without understanding what they did to him. Jeonghan gathered his things.
“You’re extremely confident.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“You didn’t ask one.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Jeonghan.”
The softness of his name nearly broke him. Jeonghan slipped his laptop into his bag and stood.
“I have letters to write.”
“What letters?”
“None of your business.”
Seungcheol examined him.
For a dangerous moment, Jeonghan wondered whether he knew. But Seungcheol only took off his jacket and draped it over Jeonghan’s shoulders.
“It’s cold outside.”
Jeonghan held the edge of the jacket. It had the scent of Seungcheol’s cologne. Warm cedar and clean laundry.
“I have my cardigan.”
“That thing is thinner than paper.”
“It’s cute.”
“It can be cute while keeping you warm under my jacket.”
Jeonghan looked at him. Seungcheol’s ears were slightly red. That meant nothing. It meant nothing. Jeonghan pulled the jacket closer around himself.
“Fine,” he said. “But only because it matches my outfit.”
Seungcheol smiled.
“Of course, princess.”
The letter took Jeonghan four days to finish. He wrote twelve versions. The first sounded too impersonal. The second sounded too much like him. The third made him cry, which he considered deeply inconvenient.
By the fourth night, he was sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, surrounded by crumpled stationery. His roommate, Joshua, stepped over the discarded drafts and placed a mug of tea beside him.
“You look like the concept of love has personally rejected you.”
Jeonghan glared. “I’m working.”
“On one letter?”
“It’s complicated.”
Joshua picked up one of the drafts. Jeonghan snatched it from him.
“Private.”
“You leave anonymous love letters in public lockers.”
“The requests are confidential.”
Joshua sat on the edge of Jeonghan’s bed.
“Is this about Seungcheol?”
Jeonghan’s silence was an answer.
Joshua sighed. “You know he’s in love with you, right?”
“No, he isn’t.”
“He looks at you like you personally invented sunlight.”
“He looks at everyone like that.”
“He nearly fought Mingyu because Mingyu borrowed your lip balm.”
“That was a hygiene concern.”
“He carries hair ties on his wrist for you.”
“He’s prepared.”
“He knows your skincare routine.”
“I complain about it frequently.”
“He has a folder on his phone called ‘Hannie’ with more than eight hundred pictures.”
Jeonghan looked up. “How do you know that?”
“He showed me a picture of your cat and accidentally opened it.”
Jeonghan’s heart skipped. Then he shook his head.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
Joshua stared at him.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen someone work this hard to misunderstand obvious affection.”
Jeonghan folded the unfinished letter.
“If he liked me, he would say something.”
“Maybe he’s afraid.”
“Seungcheol isn’t afraid of anything.”
“He’s afraid of losing you.”
Jeonghan looked down at his hands. That was the problem. They were both afraid of the same thing. The safest choice was to remain exactly as they were.
Best friends. Rivals. Almost something. Almost, but never enough.
Joshua picked up his tea again.
“Whose request is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Is it Seungcheol’s?”
Jeonghan’s fingers clenched around the paper. Joshua went quiet.
“Oh.”
“There are no names,” Jeonghan whispered. “But the description…”
“It’s you.”
“It sounds like me.”
“It is you.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Hannie.”
“There could be someone else.”
“Who else steals Seungcheol’s jackets and drinks Watermelon juice?” Jeonghan frowned.
“Maybe he has a type.” Joshua closed his eyes briefly, as if asking the universe for patience.
“What are you going to write?” Jeonghan looked at the unfinished draft.
“The truth,” he said. “Just not mine.”
The letter was delivered on Friday.
Jeonghan placed it inside the student council office before sunrise, under the stack of attendance reports on Seungcheol’s desk.
He did not stay to see Seungcheol find it. He spent the rest of the morning avoiding him.
Unfortunately, avoiding Choi Seungcheol was difficult when Choi Seungcheol had apparently decided to search the entire university.
Jeonghan saw him outside his first lecture. Then near the vending machines. Then through the window of the campus café. Each time, Jeonghan turned in the opposite direction.
By lunch, he had hidden inside the fine arts building, despite not taking a single art class. His phone buzzed repeatedly.
cheol: Where are you?
cheol: You skipped lunch.
cheol: Are you still mad at me?
cheol: I bought Watermelon juice.
cheol: The correct brand.
Jeonghan stared at the messages. A fifth one appeared.
cheol: I got a letter today.
Jeonghan’s stomach twisted. He typed three different replies before settling on one.
jeonghan: Congratulations. Did someone finally file a formal complaint?
Seungcheol responded immediately.
cheol: It was a confession.
Jeonghan pressed his lips together.
jeonghan: Oh.
cheol: Just “oh”?
jeonghan: What do you want me to say?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
cheol: I want to know what you think.
Jeonghan wanted to throw his phone out the window.
Instead, he typed:
jeonghan: i think you should reply honestly.
cheol: What if I don’t know who wrote it?
Jeonghan swallowed.
jeonghan: then maybe it wasn’t meant to be answered.
Several minutes passed.
cheol: Do you believe that?
Jeonghan locked his phone. He did not reply.
The next week was unbearable. Seungcheol carried the letter everywhere. Jeonghan knew because he saw it tucked inside Seungcheol’s notebook during class. The cream envelope was slightly bent at the corners, as if Seungcheol had opened and closed it too many times.
Jeonghan recognized every line. He had written them while trying not to imagine himself as the recipient. Some people enter your life quietly and become part of everything before you realize it.
You became the person I wanted beside me when I succeeded and the person I searched for whenever I failed. I don’t know when my admiration became affection, or when affection became something I could no longer hide.
I only know that somewhere between competing with you and learning you, I fell. And now I’m afraid that loving you has become the most honest thing about me.
Seungcheol reread the letter during their seminar. Their professor called his name twice before he responded.
Jeonghan tried not to notice.
After class, Seungcheol caught his wrist before he could leave.
“Dinner.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’ve been busy for seven days.”
“I have a life outside of you.”
“Since when?”
Jeonghan pulled his wrist free, ignoring the warmth left behind.
“Since always.” Seungcheol followed him into the hallway.
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Are you jealous?” Jeonghan nearly tripped. He turned sharply.
“Jealous?”
“Because of the letter.”
“Why would I be jealous?”
“That’s what I’m asking.” Jeonghan laughed, but the sound appeared too thin.
“You’re imagining things.”
Seungcheol came closer. Students moved around them, but Jeonghan barely noticed. Seungcheol’s gaze lowered briefly to his lips. Then back to his eyes.
“Maybe,” Seungcheol said quietly. “But you’ve barely looked at me since I received it.”
Jeonghan’s heartbeat sped up.
“You should focus on finding your secret admirer.”
“I think I already know who it is.”
The hallway seemed to disappear. Jeonghan forced himself to smile.
“Then why are you following me?”
“Because I need to be sure.”
Jeonghan could not breathe. He moved the pearl clip near his temple, giving his hands something to do.
“And how are you planning to do that?”
Seungcheol’s expression softened.
“My birthday is next week.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’ve reminded me every day since July.”
“Because you’re getting old.”
“I’m turning twenty-three.”
“Practically ancient.”
Seungcheol ignored him.
“Come to the student council room after the party.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you then.”
Jeonghan’s stomach fluttered.
“What if I have plans?”
“You don’t.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I know you.”
That was the problem. Seungcheol knew him better than anyone. But perhaps he did not know the most important thing.
Seungcheol’s birthday arrived on August 8th. Jeonghan had been preparing for it for weeks.
He ordered a custom cake decorated with tiny cherries and a fondant version of Seungcheol wearing a crown. He collected video greetings from their friends. He bought Seungcheol a silver bracelet engraved with the date they first met.
And, folded inside the smallest pocket of his bag, he carried one final letter.
Not a Dear Darling request. Not someone else’s confession.
His own. He had rewritten it seventeen times. The final version was sealed inside a pale pink envelope.
On the front, he had written only:
For Choi Seungcheol. Open when the party ends.
He planned to leave it on Seungcheol’s desk and disappear. He would transfer responsibility to the universe.
If Seungcheol wanted to pretend the letter never existed, Jeonghan would let him. If Seungcheol rejected him, Jeonghan would smile and say it had only been an experiment. If Seungcheol loved someone else—Jeonghan refused to finish the thought.
The party began at seven.
By seven fifteen, the student council room was filled with balloons, food, and far too many people singing the birthday song in different keys.
Jeonghan stood near the cake, clapping as Seungcheol blew out the candles. He had chosen his outfit carefully. A white blouse with a ribbon tied at the collar. A soft pink pleated skirt falling just above his knees. White socks and black loafers. Two pearl clips held back one side of his hair, and a thin layer of strawberry gloss shone across his lips.
When Seungcheol first saw him, he had gone completely silent. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice.
“Do you like the cake?” Jeonghan asked after everyone finished singing. Seungcheol looked at the fondant crown.
“Why do I look angry?”
“You always look angry.”
“I don’t.”
“You frightened the bakery staff through a photograph.”
Seungcheol laughed. His gaze moved over Jeonghan’s outfit again, slower this time.
“You look…” Jeonghan arched an eyebrow.
“Pretty?” Seungcheol’s ears turned red.
“Very.” Jeonghan’s confidence abandoned him. He looked down, smoothing the front of his skirt.
“I know.” Seungcheol smiled.
“Of course you do.”
Someone called Seungcheol from across the room. Before leaving, he reached up and adjusted the ribbon at Jeonghan’s collar. His fingers caressed the skin beneath Jeonghan’s chin.
“There,” he uttered.
Jeonghan remained frozen long after Seungcheol walked away. Joshua came beside him carrying two paper plates.
“You’re both ridiculous.”
“Be quiet.”
“He looks like he wants to eat you instead of the cake.”
“Joshua.”
“I’m only observing.” Jeonghan took one of the plates.
“You observe too much.”
“You should give him the letter.”
“I will.”
“Tonight?” Jeonghan touched the pocket of his bag.
“After everyone leaves.”
Joshua smirked softly.
“You’ll be okay.” Jeonghan wished he believed him.
The party ended shortly before ten.
One by one, their friends left the student council room. Joshua squeezed Jeonghan’s shoulder on his way out. Soon, only Jeonghan and Seungcheol remained.
The room was unusually quiet after hours of chuckling. Half-deflated balloons drifted near the ceiling. Paper plates covered the tables. The remains of Seungcheol’s cake was beside a pile of unopened gifts. Jeonghan placed the pink envelope on Seungcheol’s desk.
“I forgot something downstairs,” he said.
Seungcheol was collecting cups near the window.
“You just got here.”
“I’ll come back.”
“You’re lying.”
Jeonghan tightened his grip on his bag. Seungcheol set the cups down.
“Don’t leave.”
There was something in his voice that made Jeonghan stop. Seungcheol approached the desk. His eyes fell to the envelope. The color drained from Jeonghan’s face.
“What’s that?” Seungcheol asked.
“Your birthday gift.”
“You already gave me a bracelet.”
“It’s an additional gift.”
Seungcheol reached for the envelope. Jeonghan held his wrist.
“Open it later.”
“You wrote me a letter?”
“No.” Seungcheol looked at the envelope, then at him.
“Your handwriting is on the front.” Jeonghan released him.
“Lots of people write like that.”
“No one writes like you.”
The fondness in Seungcheol’s voice hurt more than suspicion would have. Jeonghan stepped backward.
“Open it after I leave.” Seungcheol picked up the envelope.
“Why?”
“Because I asked you to.”
“Hannie.”
“Please.”
Seungcheol froze. Jeonghan rarely said please. Not to him. Not like that.
Seungcheol’s expression changed. The teasing disappeared. He gently opened the envelope. Jeonghan’s heart fell into his stomach.
“Seungcheol—”
But Seungcheol was already unfolding the letter. Jeonghan turned away. He stared at the birthday decorations taped against the wall while Seungcheol read.
Seconds passed. Then a minute. The quietness became unbearable. Jeonghan imagined every phrase passing beneath Seungcheol’s eyes.
Dear Seungcheol,
I have spent the past two years writing love letters for strangers.
I have helped people confess feelings they were too afraid to say aloud. I have written about first meetings, missed chances, secret hopes, and the terrifying possibility of being loved in return.
But whenever I tried to write about you, every beautiful word I knew suddenly felt too small.
Jeonghan closed his eyes.
I think I loved you before I understood what loving someone meant.
I loved you when you carried me through the rain and pretended my shoes were the problem, even though we both knew I was too stubborn to admit I was hurting.
I loved you when you stayed awake with me before examinations, when you brought me Watermelon juice, and when you celebrated my victories even when they meant you had lost.
I loved you in every argument, every shared lunch, every jacket you placed around my shoulders.
I loved you first.
Quietly.
Hopelessly.
And for longer than I know how to admit.
Jeonghan’s eyes burned. He heard the faint sound of paper moving behind him.
You are my best friend, my favorite rival, and the person I look for in every room.
I know I may be risking the most important relationship in my life by telling you this.
But it is your birthday, and you deserve at least one gift made entirely of the truth.
So here it is.
I am in love with you, Choi Seungcheol.
I have been for a long time.
You do not have to answer. You do not have to feel the same.
Just allow me love you for tonight, honestly, before I learn how to become only your best friend again.
Happy birthday.
Signed, your certified lover.
The room remained silent. Jeonghan could hear his own breathing. He curled his hands into fists. Then Seungcheol spoke.
“You wrote the other letter too.”
Jeonghan’s eyes opened. He turned slowly. Seungcheol held the birthday letter in one hand. With the other, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the cream envelope Jeonghan had delivered the previous week.
“You’re Dear Darling,” Seungcheol said. It was not a question. Jeonghan looked at the floor.
“How long have you known?”
“I suspected after the first letter.”
“How?”
“You used a semicolon.” Jeonghan stared at him.
“A semicolon?”
“You’re the only person I know who gets excited about semicolons.”
“That is not enough evidence.”
“You also wrote that I wanted to lose if it meant seeing them smile.” Jeonghan swallowed.
“You said something similar to me freshman year.”
“I did?”
“After I lost the debate competition.” Seungcheol came closer. “You told me you didn’t mind winning, but you hated seeing me disappointed.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I remember everything you say to me.” Jeonghan’s heart hurt. He looked at the cream envelope.
“The request,” he spoke quietly. “Was it yours?”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate. Jeonghan’s breath stopped. Seungcheol moved closer until only a small space remained between them.
“It was about you.”
“But—”
“Pretty hair clips,” Seungcheol whispered. His fingers caressed the pearl clip near Jeonghan’s temple.
“Too many cardigans.” His hand lowered, lightly touching Jeonghan’s sleeve.
“Watermelon juice.”
“I thought there might be someone else.”
“There has never been anyone else.”
Jeonghan looked up. Seungcheol’s eyes were shining.
“When?” Jeonghan asked.
“When what?”
“When did you start liking me?” Seungcheol smiled subtly.
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t a satisfying answer.”
“I know.”
“You wrote an entire request saying you were falling in love with someone, and you don’t know when it happened?”
“I know when I realized.” Jeonghan waited.
“The night you fell asleep on my shoulder in the library,” Seungcheol said. “You were wearing my jacket. Your hair was in my face, my arm had gone numb, and I stayed there for two hours because I didn’t want to wake you.”
“That was three months ago.”
“I know.” Jeonghan’s chest tightened.
“I’ve loved you for two years.”
“I know that now too.”
“That means I fell first.” Seungcheol folded both letters carefully and placed them on the desk. Then he reached for Jeonghan’s hands.
“You fell first,” he agreed. His thumbs ran over Jeonghan’s knuckles.
“But Hannie…” Seungcheol bent closer. His voice became softer.
“I think I fell harder.”
Jeonghan stopped breathing. Seungcheol lifted one of Jeonghan’s hands and pressed a kiss against his fingers.
“I submitted the request because I didn’t know how to tell you,” he continued. “I thought receiving a letter might help me understand what I wanted to say.”
“So you asked me to write your confession to me.”
“I didn’t know you were the writer.”
“That’s humiliating.”
“I thought it was romantic.”
“It was emotional torture.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?”
Seungcheol’s gaze lowered to Jeonghan’s lips. The room appeared warmer. Jeonghan’s heart rate increased.
“You said I didn’t have to answer your letter,” Seungcheol whispered. Jeonghan nodded.
“I want to answer anyway.” Seungcheol lifted one hand to Jeonghan’s cheek.
He gave him enough time to move away. Jeonghan stayed exactly where he was.
“I love you,” Seungcheol said.
The words were simple. No poetic metaphors. No carefully chosen phrases.
But Seungcheol said them as if it were a promise.
“I love how competitive you are. I love that you pretend not to care while caring more deeply than anyone I know. I love your ribbons, your lip gloss, your cardigans, and every pretty thing you wear.”
Jeonghan’s eyes welled with tears. Seungcheol wiped one away with his thumb.
“I love that you steal my jackets. I love that you fall asleep beside me. I love that you make me want to win and make losing feel worthwhile.”
“Cheol…”
“I love my best friend,” Seungcheol said. “And I don’t want you to become only my best friend again.” Jeonghan laughed shakily.
“That was a good answer.”
“I practiced.”
“With the letter I wrote for you?”
“I read it twenty-three times.”
“I noticed.”
“You were watching me?”
“I always watch you.” Seungcheol smiled.
“Then you should know I’m going to kiss you.” Jeonghan’s cheeks warmed.
“That sounds confident.”
“I know you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Am I wrong?”
Jeonghan pretended to consider it. Then he curled his fingers around the front of Seungcheol’s shirt and pulled him closer.
“You have five seconds before I change my mind.”
Seungcheol did not need five. He kissed Jeonghan gently. Softly. Like he had been waiting for permission for far longer than three months.
Jeonghan’s eyes fluttered shut. Seungcheol’s hand settled against his waist, careful and warm, while Jeonghan reached up and held the back of his neck.
The kiss carried the taste of a slight birthday cake and strawberry lip gloss. Jeonghan had written hundreds of descriptions of first kisses. None of them had come close.
When they separated, Seungcheol rested his forehead pressed against Jeonghan’s. Jeonghan smiled.
“Happy birthday.” Seungcheol’s arms held tightly around his waist.
“Best gift I’ve ever received.”
“The bracelet was expensive.”
“I like this one more.”
“You’re returning the bracelet, then.”
“No.”
“Greedy.”
“It’s my birthday.”
“That excuse expires at midnight.” Seungcheol looked at the clock. They had eleven minutes left.
“Then I should use the remaining time wisely.”
He kissed Jeonghan again. The second kiss was less careful. Jeonghan laughed against his mouth, fingers clenching in Seungcheol’s shirt as Seungcheol pulled him closer.
When they finally separated, both of them were smiling. Seungcheol picked up the pink envelope.
“I’m keeping this.”
“You keep everything.”
“I keep everything you give me.”
Jeonghan’s expression eased. Seungcheol placed the letter back inside its envelope and held it against his chest.
“So,” he said, “does being a certified lover come with official responsibilities?” Jeonghan hummed.
“I expect flowers.”
“Done.”
“Weekly dates.”
“Daily.”
“My Watermelon juice should always be the correct brand.”
“I already learned that lesson.”
“You have to allow me to win sometimes.” Seungcheol frowned.
“That seems unreasonable.” Jeonghan stepped away.
“Then the relationship is canceled.” Seungcheol caught him around the waist before he could take another step.
“No cancellations.”
“We’ve been dating for less than ten minutes.”
“And I’m already committed.” Jeonghan laughed as Seungcheol pulled him back against his chest.
“You really did fall harder.”
“I warned you.”
Seungcheol kissed his temple, careful not to disturb the pearl clips. Jeonghan relaxed in his arms.
For years, he had believed love needed to be hidden inside beautiful sentences.
He had folded his feelings into envelopes, tucked them between pages, and given every confession away except his own. But standing beneath half-deflated balloons, held by the boy he had loved first, Jeonghan finally understood something.
The right person would read every unwritten word. And once they grasped the truth, they would not run. They would hold on tighter.
The following Monday, a new notice appeared on the Dear Darling submission page.
Dear students,
Due to recent personal developments, anonymous love-letter requests may require additional processing time.
The writer is currently experiencing a severe case of being adored by his boyfriend.
Beneath the announcement was a handwritten note added in bold. He also ranked second in the scholarship evaluation.
Jeonghan looked at the screen. Then he turned toward Seungcheol, who was sitting beside him in the library with an unbearably smug expression.
“You hacked my account.”
“You left it open.”
“You wrote on my official page.”
“I provided important context.” Jeonghan narrowed his eyes.
“You beat me by 0.2 points.”
“A win is a win.”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?” Jeonghan leaned closer until their noses nearly touched.
“By my boyfriend.”
Seungcheol’s smug expression disappeared. His ears turned red. Even after everything, Jeonghan discovered, it was still remarkably easy to fluster him. Jeonghan smiled sweetly.
“Maybe I’ll submit a letter request.”
“To whom?”
“My handsome academic rival.” Seungcheol reached for his hand beneath the table.
“What would it say?” Jeonghan laced their fingers together.
“That I’m proud of him.” Seungcheol’s thumb brushed over his knuckles.
“And?”
“That he should enjoy winning while it lasts.” Seungcheol laughed.
The librarian shushed them from across the room. Neither of them listened. Jeonghan rested his head against Seungcheol’s shoulder, their joined hands covered beneath the table.
“Cheol?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
Seungcheol turned and gently kissed the top of his head.
“I love you more.”
Jeonghan smiled. He had fallen first. Quietly. Hopelessly.
But Choi Seungcheol loved like he did everything else—with his entire heart, stubborn determination, and absolutely no intention of losing.
For once, Jeonghan was happy to let him win.
Signed, his certified lover.