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fnzktn · 9 hours ago

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burnout pt. 1

nonidol!haerin x fem!reader

synopsis: you met kang haerin in 7th grade, back when everything still felt uncertain. nothing about it felt big at the time—just slow afternoons, shared silences, and a closeness that never asked to be named. years later, it’s still her.

includes: slowest of the burn <3, soft jealousy, underage drinking, strangers-to-situationship-to-lovers, inspired by sugarfree's burnout but happier! english translation

word count: 15.4k

a/n: this will be split into two parts because i reached the block limit💔

seventh grade

the first thing you remember is how heavy your bag felt.

not just the weight of books—though there were too many of those, too, packed nervously the night before by a version of yourself that couldn’t tell which ones would be needed. no, it was the kind of heaviness that sat in your spine. something about being new. being far. being slightly out of place, even before you’d stepped into the school gate.

your grandma had helped you prepare the uniform the night before, pressing out the creases, pinning your name tag carefully on the collar. she woke up early that morning to cook rice, but you couldn’t finish breakfast. the nerves sat too high in your throat. she didn’t say much—just handed you a small lunchbox and a pack of wet tissues and said, “remember, your parents met here. maybe something good will find you, too.”

you nodded, more to reassure her than yourself.

you didn’t believe in things like fate.

but you loved her enough to pretend for a while.

—--

the jeepney ride was longer than you expected.

the roads unfamiliar. narrower. framed by trees and old fences, sari-sari stores with faded tarpaulin signs. you clutched the metal railing and counted the houses between each stop. there were children already in uniform standing near the corners, their hair still damp from hurried combing.

you stepped off near the terminal with the others. the school gates were visible from there—black iron bars, paint chipping along the sides, flanked by vendors selling snacks and cold bottles of mineral water. it didn’t look like the school in your imagination. it looked smaller. older. real.

your shoes squeaked when you stepped inside.

the sun was already too bright.

—--

you arrived before most students did. 6:30 a.m.

you wandered the halls alone for a while. your classroom was on the second floor, third door to the right. the bulletin board outside it had leftover decorations from the year before—cut-out stars with names you didn’t know. you found your seat near the back, two rows from the window. your name was written in red ballpen on a strip of masking tape. the air smelled like chalk and hand sanitizer. you didn’t speak to anyone that first hour. just sat with your bag still zipped, your hands clasped in your lap, heart steady but slow.

you saw gehlee only during recess.

she was your cousin on your mother’s side—younger by a year, technically, but in the same grade now. her section was in the next building over. you found her near the canteen, surrounded by noise, her voice rising easily over the others. she spotted you instantly.

“come here,” she called out, beckoning you in like she’d already decided you would be absorbed into her world.

you sat beside her on a stone bench, still a little stiff, holding your sandwich with two hands. she told you about her new seatmate. about the girl who brought a mini electric fan to class. about how the PE teacher looked strict but probably wasn’t.

“don’t worry,” she said, nudging your knee with hers. “it gets better.”

you nodded. didn’t say anything.

but for the first time that day, you let yourself smile.

—--

you didn’t meet haerin that day.

but you saw her.

it was in passing—nothing significant. just a moment, half a breath long, while you were on your way down the stairs after history. the hallway was crowded, humid. shoes squeaked on the tiles. your bag brushed against someone else’s arm. and then—across the landing—gehlee was coming up with a girl beside her.

you wouldn’t have noticed her at all if she hadn’t looked up right then.

just a glance. not sharp. not startled. not even long.

but steady.

she had her sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, her hair half-pinned back. she walked like someone used to noise but not ruled by it. her expression unreadable. quiet, but not closed.

your eyes met.

and for some reason, you kept thinking about that look all night.

—--

you asked about her, once.

not directly.

gehlee was sharing fries with you after dismissal, perched beside the tricycle terminal, her voice bright with gossip. “her name’s haerin,” she said, like it wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned her. “smart. not the nose-in-books kind. just… fast. she finishes tests early and then sits there drawing flowers on the margins.”

“do you sit next to her?”

she chewed thoughtfully. “not anymore. they changed the seating arrangement. but we still talk sometimes. she’s different. not in a bad way. just hard to read.”

“what do you mean?”

“like—she hears everything but doesn’t say anything back unless she really wants to.”

you nodded.

and then: “has she ever asked about me?”

you meant it to sound casual.

gehlee paused for a second.

“actually… yeah. just once. asked if we were cousins. i said yes. she just nodded.”

you kept your face neutral.

but inside, something moved.

—--

the weeks blurred together after that.

you found a rhythm. woke up early. memorized your teachers’ names. learned which stalls in the canteen ran out of food by noon. you kept mostly to yourself, except for short bursts of conversation with gehlee. most days, you passed haerin in the hallway without speaking. sometimes she looked at you. sometimes she didn’t.

you remembered her name. but you never said it out loud.

you didn’t think you were allowed to yet.

—--

mid-september, the rain started coming in heavier.

on one of those days, school let out early.

you were standing near the covered walkway with gehlee, your umbrella missing, your socks already soaked. the tricycle line was long. everyone was shoving to get under the roofing.

“let’s just share one,” she said. “i’ll pay.”

you nodded.

and then she turned to her left, raised her hand slightly.

“haerin! you going our way?”

haerin was standing near the post, bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly damp at the ends.

“opposite,” she replied. then her eyes flicked to you. a pause.

“but i don’t mind.”

you didn’t say anything during the ride.

the three of you squeezed into the backseat. you were pressed between them, knees brushing. haerin didn’t look at you. but her sleeve touched yours.

and you felt it. the awareness of her. the hum beneath your skin.

when she got off—three blocks before your stop—she looked at you, just once.

“see you around.”

soft. like a promise not fully made.

—--

after that, you began to notice her more deliberately.

where she stood during assembly. how she carried her bag. the way her hands moved when she explained something to someone—not expressive, but sure. precise. you started timing your water breaks so that you might catch a glimpse of her walking across the courtyard. you even peeked into her classroom once during lunch.

she wasn’t there.

but her umbrella was.

green. hanging on the corner of her chair.

—--

your first real conversation happened at the library.

gehlee had roped the both of you into a quiet corner after classes, a study group in name only. you were solving math exercises. your head hurt. haerin sat across from you, eyes lowered, pencil tapping once against her paper.

“you skip steps when you solve,” she said, not unkindly.

you looked up.

“sorry?”

“your solution. you skipped something in number four. the answer’s right, but you jumped.”

you blinked. unsure whether to be embarrassed or flattered.

“i guess i do that sometimes.”

she nodded. didn’t comment further.

but later, when you stood to borrow a calculator, she turned the notebook around and quietly corrected your process in soft pencil. no arrows. no judgment. just a small, neat re-route.

—--

you started seeing her name in your handwriting more.

scribbled in notebook margins.

tucked into the edge of your planner.

you never meant to write it.

but it kept showing up.

—--

the year passed in stages.

first, she became familiar.

then she became important.

not loudly. not suddenly. just… gradually.

like water seeping into fabric. slow. complete.

you knew when she was in the room without looking.

you began walking slower when you knew you’d pass her class.

you remembered how her name sounded when gehlee said it. and how it changed in your head when you started saying it to yourself.

—--

by march, she sat beside you sometimes after school.

on the curb. by the gate. nowhere important.

you didn’t talk much.

but she handed you her candy bar once—unwrapped, slightly warm, broken in half like it had been meant to be shared.

“you looked tired today.”

you smiled.

“i guess i was.”

and she smiled back, the smallest thing.

but it stayed with you all weekend.

—--

you don’t fall in love with her that year.

not in a way you could name.

but the shape of her carved itself into your routine.

her presence became the pause between your sentences.

the shift in your rhythm.

the quiet at the end of the day you started looking forward to.

not love. not yet.

but something close.

something soft.

something that waited without asking.

and followed you gently into eighth grade.

eighth grade

you wake up on the first day of eighth grade before your alarm. not from excitement, exactly. more from the quiet pressure that builds behind your eyes when something is about to begin. the kind of knowing that settles heavy in your spine before your brain catches up to it.

your uniform feels tighter across the shoulders. your shoes are cleaner than they’ve been in weeks. there’s a plastic-covered notebook on your desk that still smells like paper factory and ballpen ink. everything is in place—your lunch, your id, the comb tucked into your pocket like a secret—and yet your chest doesn’t feel settled.

your grandmother makes you coffee even though she says you’re too young to drink it. she also says, “don’t be nervous, okay? it’s just school.”

but you both know it’s never just that.

—--

the school looks exactly the same.

still too bright at 6:45. still echoing with the sound of early footsteps and the first ring of homeroom bells. you pass by your old classroom on instinct, then double back when you remember your section’s been shuffled again. gehlee isn’t with you still, and haerin isn’t either. you already knew that. but knowing and feeling it are two different things.

your new classroom is on the second floor, south wing, facing the courtyard. a patch of sunlight falls directly across your assigned desk. the girl beside you is quiet. the boy in front of you keeps flipping a mechanical pencil between his fingers.

then, just before the bell rings, two girls step in and the room shifts.

you don’t recognize either of them.

but everyone else notices instantly—the energy of new faces folding into an old space. they stand near the front for a moment, scanning for empty seats. people stare. whisper. someone mutters, “transfer students.”

you’re the only one who doesn’t make it a big deal.

you keep your head down until one of them, the taller one, picks the seat across the aisle from yours. she turns to you with a grin, nudging the other girl beside her. “she looks nice,” she says out loud.

you glance up. meet her gaze. blink.

“hi,” she says.

“hi,” you reply.

and just like that, the space between you closes.

the taller one introduces herself as danielle. the girl beside her is hanni. they talk the way people walk across soft sand, bright, light, a little unexpected. hanni jokes about the dusty blackboard. danielle points out that your handwriting is neat even when taking down the schedule. you loosen a little. maybe even smile. maybe twice.

they start pulling you into their orbit without meaning to.

and you don’t resist.

—--

haerin doesn’t see you until after lunch.

she’s still in gehlee’s class. same building. same row. nothing’s changed on her end.

during break, she walks past your room out of habit.

when she sees you at your desk—head bent, sharing a bag of chips with two girls she doesn’t know—she stops for just a second.

something in her chest folds, carefully.

then she walks on.

—--

after school, you take your time packing.

danielle wants to walk to the gate with you. hanni says she’ll wait by the canteen. you don’t say no. but something in you is still looking for something else.

and then you see her—haerin—by the gate. standing in that familiar spot beside the post, hands in her pockets, expression unreadable. she doesn’t wave. doesn’t call. but her eyes skim past the crowd and stop on you.

you hesitate.

hanni calls your name.

you turn.

when you look back, haerin’s already facing the street.

—--

the next few weeks pass in slow stretches of repetition.

you fall into rhythm with your new classmates. hanni and danielle become constants—sitting with you at lunch, looping their arms through yours during class transitions, pulling you into jokes and inside stories you never asked for. it’s comforting. easy.

and yet.

you still end up in the library at the exact time haerin’s usually there.

you still slow your steps when you pass her classroom.

you still wait near the gate after school—even if she’s not always there.

—--

you and haerin don’t speak often.

but she begins doing things that mean something else.

like leaving a wrapped caramel candy on your desk one afternoon. or standing behind you in line at the canteen without saying a word. or slipping a small piece of paper into the spine of a book you both borrowed for research—just a doodle. three dots in a line. an ellipsis.

it becomes a quiet thing between you: notes passed in borrowed items. small symbols. not every day. not even every week. but enough to notice. enough to start keeping track.

—--

basketball season starts in october.

you’re recruited into the women’s team without much warning. gehlee signs your name on the list as a joke. minji, her classmate, is the team’s best shooter—long hair, quiet focus, always the first to finish warm-ups. she takes a liking to you.

“you move like you’ve done this before,” she says during the first drill.

you shake your head. “never joined a team.”

“doesn’t matter. you’re fast. you listen.”

minji becomes the person you see the most after class. she teaches you how to pivot better. how to stop hesitating when you pass. how to press your foot hard on the floor when you jump. she’s sharp and generous and easy to be around. you find yourself laughing more when she’s nearby.

and then—one tuesday—you glance up from the court and see haerin.

standing behind the chain-link fence, hands tucked in her sleeves.

you don’t know how long she’s been there.

she doesn’t wave.

just watches.

—--

that’s when you notice, haerin always finishes only half of her food.

rice half-eaten. chips half-shared. drinks never fully gone.

and somehow, without discussing it, she begins handing you the rest.

sometimes it’s subtle. she slides the container toward you on the bench. sometimes she presses a straw into your hand. once, she just holds up her sandwich without a word, and you take it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

it becomes a thing. something only the two of you understand.

like the way she waits near the gate—even when it’s raining.

or how she walks with you two blocks past her stop before saying, “this is where I turn.”

like how you stop listening to your music alone.

you just wait until she offers you one of her earbuds.

never the left. always the right.

you remember the heat first.

a friday that burned a little differently. sun too sharp. air too still. your shirt already sticking to your back by first period. even the fans in the hallway sounded slower than usual, coughing warm air instead of relief.

by dismissal, the jeepney stop is overflowing. students crowd the shade like moths to flame. you, gehlee, and haerin find yourselves trapped in the same limbo—too tired to stand, too stubborn to turn back. the line doesn’t move. not even a little.

“they’re not stopping,” gehlee mutters, already fanning herself with a folded worksheet. “this is torture. we’re gonna die here.”

you check your phone. no signal. the clouds are gathering, but not fast enough.

“we can just walk,” you say, more to yourself than to anyone. “it’s only four kilometers.”

gehlee gasps. “only? are you crazy?”

but then she adjusts her backpack anyway, stepping off the sidewalk with mock drama. “fine. if i collapse halfway, carry me. haerin, you’re strong, right?”

haerin doesn’t laugh. she just falls into step quietly.

the walk begins in silence.

cars rush by too close. the sidewalk is cracked, lined with weeds and broken bottle caps. a stray dog follows you for two blocks then disappears. sweat trickles down the side of your face, but you don’t wipe it away.

you don’t talk, not really. gehlee tries, at first—complaining about the heat, about the world, about how she should’ve just stayed in school forever. but eventually, even she grows quiet.

and in that quiet, something settles.

at a street corner, you wince slightly from the blister forming on your heel. your pace slows.

haerin notices.

without a word, she shifts positions—places herself between you and the sun. her shadow stretches across your path, and for the first time all day, your body exhales.

she doesn’t say anything.

but later, she hands you her water bottle. half-full. still cool.

you take it.

drink slowly. wipe the mouth of it with your sleeve. hand it back.

she only nods.

“i’m tired of being tired,” you mutter at some point, not expecting anyone to hear it.

but haerin answers, voice low, “me too.”

nothing else is said.

and somehow, it’s enough.

—--

the next day, you’re back on campus.

a saturday. your legs still sore from yesterday’s walk, your throat still dry. basketball practice, or some club meeting—you don’t even remember why you agreed to come.

gehlee bails last minute. sends a text: can’t go. family stuff. good luck soldier.

so you go anyway. not because you want to. just because it’s what you do.

you finish early. the building feels emptier than usual, even with the janitors sweeping and the occasional echo of a ball bouncing in the gym. you end up sitting near the gate, waiting for nothing. peeling the label off your water bottle. dragging your shoe against the ground.

and then, from the other end of the driveway, you see her.

haerin.

wearing jeans. a navy hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. her hair is down. slightly curled at the ends. she doesn’t look like herself—not the one you see at school every day, anyway.

you don’t expect her to stay. she doesn’t have a reason to.

but she walks over.

sits beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you look at her. she looks ahead.

then, after a minute, “you didn’t go home?”

you shake your head. “just finished.”

she nods. pulls a book from her tote bag. opens it, then closes it again without reading.

neither of you speak for a while.

a breeze picks up. you glance at her sleeves, notice a tiny thread unraveling near her wrist.

she notices you looking.

“it’s old,” she says, plucking at it gently. “but it’s comfortable.”

you nod. “i like it.”

she glances at you then. brief, but steady. like she’s filing the moment away.

—--

you walk part of the way home together.

it’s quieter than yesterday. the streets emptier. the sun softer.

she doesn’t talk much—but when she does, it’s not guarded like before. she asks about your team. if you’re still paired with minji. if danielle’s still loud.

you answer, surprised she remembers all of it.

she listens.

really listens.

then she says, “i don’t like sundays.”

you ask why.

“because they end too fast.”

you don’t reply.

but you think about it for hours after.

—--

then the week slips by.

school gets louder. busier. you start staying longer at the gym. danielle invites you to her group project. minji offers to help you practice your free throws after school. you say yes.

and before you know it, you haven’t seen haerin in days.

you realize it on a wednesday, while biting into the last piece of the banana cue she always finishes for you. except this time, you bought it yourself. and it tastes different. too sweet. too sticky.

you ask gehlee if she’s seen her. gehlee says, “she’s been reading upstairs again. like last year. maybe she just needed space.”

you nod. say okay. but you feel like you’re missing something small and important. like a hair tie. or a voice.

—--

you find her that friday.

tucked beside the stairwell near the annex building, where the light hits the window just right. she’s drawing something into the dust with her shoe—a loop, a square, something that disappears the moment you step closer.

she hears you.

doesn’t look up.

you sit beside her anyway.

the silence is tight for a moment. not sharp. just expectant.

then she says, almost shyly, “i didn’t realize how loud it was without you.”

you take a second.

then, “i didn’t realize how quiet i got.”

and that’s all it takes.

she offers you the other half of her sandwich.

you take it without thinking.

and everything begins again.

there’s something about routine that reshapes you, quietly. you start to notice it around late november—how certain parts of the day begin to carry her name, even when she isn’t there.

you walk to the front gate slower now. not because you’re tired. not because of the weight of your bag. but because you’ve learned the shape of her silhouette leaning against the post, and sometimes you want to catch her there. to see if she’s waiting again.

she always is.

sometimes reading. sometimes fidgeting with the cord of her earphones. sometimes just standing, back against the wall, like she’s part of the building itself.

you don’t always leave together. sometimes gehlee walks with you. sometimes danielle grabs you before you can slip away.

but when it’s just you and her—when the crowd thins and the noise fades—there’s a rhythm to it now. an unspoken understanding. you both walk a few blocks together before you part ways, no matter how out of the way it is for her.

you always end up beside the same sari-sari store. the same cracked tile near the gutter. the same pause before she says, “this is where i turn.”

you never ask her to walk that far.

and she never asks why you keep showing up.

—--

in the middle of a wednesday, she taps your shoulder with the back of her knuckle.

you turn.

she holds out one earbud.

you hesitate, then take it.

she doesn’t say what song it is.

just presses play.

you listen.

and somewhere in between the chorus and the last verse, your hands brush slightly. not on purpose. not entirely accidental, either.

she doesn’t move away.

neither do you.

—--

you stop listening to music alone after that.

you start bringing your own earphones less and less. start waiting for hers. sometimes, she pulls them out during lunch and offers you one without looking. sometimes, you pass her yours first.

you never talk while you listen.

but your heads tilt in the same direction. your shoulders lean closer. and on especially slow days, you start timing your breathing to hers.

—--

there’s a stretch of time in december where the school feels suspended. no more games. fewer quizzes. decorations appearing on hallway doors. everyone feels lighter. looser.

you end up in the library more often again. haerin’s always there before you. always seated at the same table. sometimes gehlee is with her. sometimes not.

you don’t always sit across from her. sometimes you choose the chair beside her, close enough that your knees touch under the table. she doesn’t move. doesn’t flinch.

you pass her a pencil you borrowed weeks ago. she returns it with a small piece of paper wrapped around the barrel.

“still writing too small.”

you bite back a smile.

the next day, you borrow her eraser and slip a note under it,

“still watching too much.”

when she reads it, her ears go red.

you both pretend not to notice.

—--

food becomes its own language between you.

haerin never finishes what she eats. not out of dislike or habit. it just becomes a pattern—her drinks always half-drunk, her snacks half-eaten, her lunchboxes never empty. and somehow, those halves start finding their way to you.

a cup of melon juice, passed silently across the bench.

three pieces of tamarind candy left in her palm, held out to you like an offering.

a rice ball with one bite taken—placed on your napkin wordlessly.

at first, you think she’s just being polite.

but then it keeps happening.

and keeps happening.

until it’s a thing. your thing.

she doesn’t explain it.

you don’t ask her to.

you just start opening your lunch slower—leaving space for hers to arrive.

—--

you catch a cold in mid-december. mild. annoying. your throat goes scratchy, your eyes water too easily. danielle offers you strepsils. minji asks if you want to skip practice.

you’re standing near the water fountain, rubbing your temple, when someone presses something into your hand.

a small plastic bottle of calamansi juice. still cold. label half-peeled.

you look up.

haerin’s already walking away.

you never even told her you were sick.

—--

the last day before christmas break, the two of you find yourselves at the gate again.

students are filing out with gift bags and noise. someone is singing off-key near the parking lot. gehlee has already gone ahead with her groupmates. danielle is waving at you from across the driveway, but you don’t wave back.

because haerin’s there. beside you. fiddling with her headphones again.

you offer your hand—palm up, open.

she places one earbud into it. presses play.

you walk slowly. the same three blocks. she doesn't say, “this is where i turn,” this time.

just looks at you like she’s memorizing the moment.

you nod.

she nods back.

and when she walks away, the headphone cord stretches thin between you—until it gently tugs free.

and you let it go.

----

the first day back from the holiday break comes with the kind of light that doesn’t quite know what it wants to be. not quite warm, not quite dull, the sky a washed-out gray that feels too soft to carry the weight of a new year.

you arrive at school earlier than usual, unsure if it’s out of habit or just the kind of nervous energy that builds when something restarts. students shuffle in slower, their steps heavier, conversations thinner.

danielle greets you with a laugh that ends in a loose hug, hanni presses a small candy into your hand, saying it’s from a trip she barely wanted to go on. you thank them, smile when you’re expected to, but your eyes flicker toward the hallway more often than you mean them to. haerin isn’t there.

you try not to notice her absence. you busy yourself with unpacking your bag, sharpening pencils you won’t use today, helping danielle tape a schedule to the back of a folder. by lunch, you’ve given up looking. you find yourself peeling open a small polvoron your grandmother insisted you bring, sitting out behind the annex building where it’s quieter.

and then there’s a presence beside you—no greeting, no footsteps heard until she’s already there. you look up, and there she is. haerin. in the same navy hoodie she always wears, sleeves pushed up, the edge of a bandaid peeking from her wrist like she bumped into the holidays too hard and forgot to heal.

her hair looks longer somehow. she doesn't meet your gaze for long. instead, she opens a small plastic box and holds it out wordlessly. inside—three slightly misshapen cookies, clearly homemade.

“my sister made too many,” she says, eyes still focused somewhere beyond your shoulder. you reach in and take one, breaking it out of instinct, offering her half without thinking. she doesn’t take it.

“it’s for you,” she says again, quieter this time. you eat it slowly. it tastes a little like cinnamon, a little like something left unsaid. neither of you speak again for the rest of lunch, but she sits there until the bell rings, like the silence has become something shared.

three days later, you twist your ankle during a scrimmage with minji. it happens so fast you don’t even register the sharp throb until you’re sitting on the curb, untying your shoe, pretending it doesn’t sting. minji crouches beside you, chewing on a piece of ice she stole from someone’s water jug, telling you to keep it elevated and take the day off. you nod like you’ll follow any of that, then limp your way back into class.

the pain isn’t bad—just annoying, just enough to slow you down. and then, during values period, as you’re bending to reach for your notebook, someone brushes your arm. when you turn, haerin is already looking ahead, one hand still resting on the desk. your eyes drop to your lap, where a folded blue scarf now rests. soft, a little worn at the edges, with a faint scent of eucalyptus and whatever detergent she uses. there’s no note. no explanation. but when you look at her again, her ears are pink. you keep the scarf in your bag for weeks.

the days roll forward. foundation week rises like steam from under the concrete—booths, tarps, echoing laughter, sudden music blasting from low-quality speakers. danielle signs all three of you up to help with the music booth, of course.

hanni floats between tasks with a clipboard and an eye for stickers. even minji shows up, leaning over the tables with rolled sleeves and a fishball stick dangling from her fingers.

you’re caught in it before you realize—writing signs, laughing too hard, nudging danielle in the ribs when she mislabels a song title. and then, in a brief pause between rushes, you feel someone’s gaze. you glance toward the walkway and there she is—haerin, walking past slowly, expression unreadable.

you wonder how long she was standing there. you don’t get a chance to ask. that night, when you open your pencil case to grab your eraser, a folded note slips out. her handwriting. you’d recognize it anywhere. it says: don’t forget to rest. you read it twice before tucking it back in with your highlighters.

valentine’s week follows immediately. the school looks absurd—red balloons taped to windows, tables drowning in candygrams, everyone moving around with exaggerated gestures of affection. danielle hands you a lollipop shaped like a heart and rolls her eyes. “don’t make it weird. it’s just sugar.”

minji tugs a loose thread off your sleeve while talking to you about your free throw arc and forgets to let go. you laugh it off. but that afternoon, haerin isn’t at the gate. she’s not in the library either, not in any of her usual corners. gehlee tells you she said she was tired, went home early. you nod. but your stomach twists in a way that tells you the routine breaking feels louder than it should.

the next morning, you open your locker and find a small pack of her favorite biscuits. not half-eaten this time. whole. taped carefully with a single piece of pink washi and a star-shaped sticker—one you remember seeing on the corner of her pencil case. you take it down gently, the sound of peeling tape weirdly loud in the corridor. you don’t tell anyone.

danielle notices anyway. “you’re not subtle, you know,” she says while unwrapping her lunch. you give her a look, but she’s already grinning.

“the way she looks at you? the way you pretend you don’t look back?” hanni leans in, smirking.

“it’s like you two have your own language. i’ve seen you pass her, like, three whole sandwiches this month.”

you scoff. say, “we’re just friends.” danielle doesn’t even blink.

“you didn’t say no.” your ears burn, but you don’t argue.

on the final day of foundation week, as the crowd starts to thin and booths begin to fold down, you find her waiting by the gate again. she’s seated this time, arms loosely crossed, earphones curled in one hand. she sees you approach but doesn’t get up. instead, she holds out both earbuds to you—no explanation. just that. you take them. your fingers graze hers.

the song that plays is one you only mentioned once, way back in august, while talking about movie soundtracks in passing. you barely remember saying it. but she remembers. she always remembers. you glance at her. she isn’t looking at you, but there’s the faintest curve at the edge of her mouth. the kind of smile that doesn’t ask for attention, only to be quietly understood.

ninth grade

the classroom is warm when you first step in—too warm, almost, like the air had been waiting all summer with the windows closed. the morning sun presses in from the east-facing windows, striping the worn wood desks with a pale yellow glare, and the fans in the ceiling spin slow and lazy above your head.

it’s quieter than expected, for the first day of school. the kind of quiet that doesn’t come from stillness, but from a collective unspoken knowing: this isn’t new anymore. not really. just another version of what you already know, dressed in freshly printed schedules and stiffer uniforms.

you’re not the first to arrive, but you’re early enough to see the way the light hits the backs of chairs, the way the bulletin board still has last year’s tape marks. danielle is already there, half-asleep on her arms; hanni’s pulling paper out of a tote bag covered in pins. minji glances up and gives you a small nod, the kind that doesn’t need words. and then your name, called softly across the room, gehlee, dragging her seat closer to yours, her smile familiar in a way that almost hurts. “we’re together again,” she says, and you just nod, because there’s something building in your chest you can’t quite name yet.

and then there’s haerin.

she arrives last—not late, just timed so that she doesn’t have to wait at the gate, or linger by the door. her hair’s a little longer than last year, her bag slung across her shoulder in the same old way. she walks in like she’s done it a thousand times before, quiet but assured. and when her eyes meet yours for the first time, something inside you goes very still.

you’re not surprised. the class list was posted two days ago. you already knew you’d be seated three chairs away. you already knew this year, your routines would be even more visible. but knowing and feeling are different things, and something about seeing her here—still here—makes the space around your desk feel smaller, safer, and somehow heavier all at once.

there’s no rush in her steps, but when she reaches your row, her hand brushes against the corner of your table. not an accident. not a message either. just something shared. something carried over.

everything is quiet. but nothing is empty.

for the first few weeks, it feels like a continuation of everything you’d quietly built. the familiar habits find new life in a shared classroom. her notebooks start finding their way to your desk for help annotating. your extra pen—the green one you always forget you own—starts returning with tiny stars drawn in the margins. during long lectures, your elbow rests close to hers on the shared edge of the desk. you start learning how to lean closer without touching. how to breathe around her without drawing attention.

gehlee is loud. always has been. she teases you both gently, sits behind you like a shadow. danielle makes jokes in whispers. hanni’s handwriting fills up shared handouts. minji, oddly enough, becomes the group’s steady center—always ready with answers, or silence, whichever is needed. there’s a kind of balance to it. a soft orbit. and in the middle, you and haerin, never naming the closeness, only knowing it.

but things begin to shift the day your parents call.

it’s a sunday, late afternoon, when the light is at that strange hour between gold and gray. your phone vibrates once, then again. your heart jumps before you even read the name.

you hadn’t spoken to them in over a week. they said they’d call when the tickets were final. when the meetings were done. when everything was set.

you answer with a smile already ready on your face, even though they can’t see it.

the call lasts less than seven minutes.

they say they’re staying another year. the opportunity is too good. it’s not what they planned, but they’re grateful. they ask how school is going. they ask if you’re eating. they say we miss you, sweetheart, and the line goes dead.

you don’t say anything after. you don’t cry. you just sit there, phone resting against your knee, staring at the wall until the sun disappears behind the roofs outside your window.

you come to school the next day like nothing happened.

but you don’t sit next to haerin during homeroom. you don’t wait for her at the gate. when she places half her sandwich on your desk—like she always does—you push it aside, gently, but without looking at her.

you start walking home without telling anyone. start skipping group projects. start arriving late.

you start disappearing, but you do it quietly—like someone stepping out of a photo frame just before the picture’s taken.

and when someone new starts talking to you during break—a boy from a different class, someone who hangs out behind the gym, someone with too much cologne and the smell of smoke on his collar—you don’t stop it.

because it’s easier to drift than to stay still in what hurts.

—--

you don’t mean to pull away. not at first. it isn’t rebellion, not in the loud, deliberate sense. it’s more like a slow tilt, like water shifting in a half-full glass. it starts with small things—sitting two seats away when there’s room beside her, saying you forgot lunch even when there’s food in your bag, replying later and later to her messages, until eventually you stop replying at all.

you still see haerin every day. still in the same class. still in the same space. but somehow, it feels like you’ve folded a wall between you. it’s not complete. not solid. just… always there. she notices. of course she notices. she doesn’t say anything, but her silences are different now. sharper around the edges. you catch her watching you more often, her brows drawn ever so slightly, her pen paused mid-sentence.

she doesn’t ask why you’re drifting. but she starts offering less, as if she doesn’t know where to reach you anymore.

you find yourself drifting into another circle instead.

it starts because of a classmate, a group project—someone who invites you to the back of the school building after dismissal. someone with too much energy and a laugh that sounds like a dare. there’s a group there. they all know each other, they all move like they own the corners of this town adults pretend don’t exist. they talk about music you’ve never heard of, games you don’t play, and stories about places past the city’s edge where they hang out, where no teachers or prefects would ever bother to check.

you go with them once.

then again.

they call you quiet, but they don’t ask questions.

you like that. you like how they don’t know anything about you. how they don’t ask about the lunch table you used to sit at. how they don’t know the sound of your name when haerin says it.

you start skipping class. first just one—science, because the teacher never takes attendance properly. then you start leaving before P.E., sometimes during values class. gehlee covers for you once without asking. the second time, she corners you behind the canteen and asks where you’ve been. you shrug. she doesn’t push, but she watches you walk away like she wants to follow.

you spend most afternoons in a computer café where the lights are dim and the air smells like instant noodles. the group you’re with makes you laugh, even when they make fun of you. they play loud music and ride the backs of tricycles like they’re invincible. someone hands you a drink once—dark red liquid in a clear bottle. it stings going down. you cough, they cheer, you laugh. the burn in your chest feels cleaner than whatever ache you’ve been carrying.

you don’t tell haerin.

you don’t tell anyone.

but you see her looking sometimes—during math class, when you’re too tired to focus. during lunch, when she offers you half of her food and you don’t even notice. during dismissal, when she waits near the gate even though you always walk the other way now.

on one thursday afternoon, when the bell rings and students begin to shuffle toward the exit, you hear her voice behind you. quiet, but firm.

“where are you going?”

you don’t turn around.

“just somewhere,” you say.

and when you do look at her, she isn’t angry. not exactly. she just looks like someone trying to recognize you from far away.

—--

the drinking happens on a saturday.

you tell gehlee you’re staying at a friend’s house. technically not a lie.

you’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there. the pavement is cold and damp beneath your palms, grit pressed into the creases of your hands. the streetlight above flickers every few seconds, casting thin, blinking shadows across your shoes. the night is loud in that quiet way—motorcycle engines in the distance, a dog barking behind a fence, laughter rising and falling like static from a nearby alley.

and then—her voice.

it isn’t soft. not at first.

“what the hell are you doing?”

you flinch at the sound. your vision is too fuzzy to place her right away, but you know it’s her. even before your eyes adjust, before the figure steps closer—arms crossed, breath sharp—you know. your body knows.

you blink slowly. haerin’s face comes into focus, though the corners blur at the edges. her brows are drawn tightly together, mouth a hard line. she looks at you like she doesn’t know whether to shake you or kneel beside you.

“haer’n,” you slur. the name lands somewhere between her real name and a question. you laugh under your breath, but it cracks halfway through. “you’re here.”

she crouches, slowly. not to your level—lower. and her eyes stay on you the entire time.

“you’re drunk,” she says, like she’s still trying to believe it.

“a little,” you mumble. then correct yourself. “okay, a lot.”

she closes her eyes for a second, breathing in through her nose.

you try to explain, even though your tongue feels heavy and clumsy. “it’s not like—i didn’t mean to, i just. they handed me something, and i didn’t want to be weird about it. i just wanted to feel—” you pause. the words tangle up. “—something.”

haerin doesn’t speak right away. her silence makes the night feel louder.

“they?” she echoes eventually. “you mean that crowd you’ve been ditching class for?”

you blink slowly, not answering.

“the ones who leave you half-conscious behind a store like trash?” she says, her voice sharper now, low and close. “you could’ve gotten hurt. you’re—” her breath hitches, just slightly. “you’re fourteen.”

“fifteen,” you correct, too fast. too defensively.

“that doesn’t make it better.”

you look down, ashamed. your fingers twitch on the concrete, trying to find something to hold on to. “i didn’t know where else to go.”

“so you ended up here?” she says. her tone is brittle, stretched tight.

you feel yourself wobble a little, stomach turning again. haerin steadies you with one hand against your shoulder, instinctive. her fingers linger there, even as she tries to pull them back.

“why didn’t you call me?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

you shrug, eyes still cast downward. “you stopped waiting at the gate.”

her mouth opens like she’s going to say something, then closes again. her hand falls away from your shoulder. “you stopped showing up,” she says, but not unkindly. “you were already leaving before i could.”

you press your lips together. “i didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“into what?” she asks, and suddenly she’s angry again. not loudly—but it’s there, curled in every word. “you think i haven’t seen you? skipping class, disappearing? you think i don’t notice when you won’t even look at me anymore?”

“it’s not like that,” you say. “i just—everything got so heavy. and my parents—” you stop, the lump in your throat too big. “they said they’d come back. they promised.”

haerin’s expression doesn’t soften yet, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“they’re not,” you continue. “they’re staying another year. it was too good an opportunity to pass on, they said. too good to come home to granny and me.”

your voice cracks there. finally.

“and you know what? i don’t even blame them,” you say. “i just—i just didn’t know what to do with it.”

you’re crying now. messy, quiet sobs that tremble through your body before you can stop them. you curl in slightly, like you want to disappear into the space between your shoes. “i didn’t want to feel left again. not by them. not by you.”

that’s when haerin moves closer.

not dramatically. not with urgency. just a slow, purposeful shift. she sits beside you on the curb, knee touching yours, and for a long moment she says nothing. then, in the softest voice you’ve heard from her all year, she says:

“you could’ve told me.”

you laugh bitterly through your tears. “i didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“i already do,” she says, and there’s no judgment in it. just fact. just a quiet ache. “i see all of it.”

you glance sideways, eyes swollen. “and?”

she looks at you for a long time. longer than anything else has lasted this year.

“and i’m still here.”

that’s when you break.

not loudly. not violently. just a full, collapsed sob that takes the last of your strength with it. your hand moves blindly, reaching for something—anything—and haerin meets it halfway. she pulls you into her chest, lets you cry until the sounds blur into one another. her arms wrap around you tight, like a thread trying to stitch the seams back together. you don’t know how long you stay there like that. the world could keep spinning or stop entirely—you wouldn’t feel it.

when you finally stop shaking, her hand is still stroking your back in slow circles. her voice, when it comes again, is quiet enough to be mistaken for breath.

“don’t do this again.”

you nod.

“not because i’m mad,” she adds, “but because i don’t want to have to find you like this.”

you nod again. slower this time. and when you pull back, your face a mess, eyes swollen, haerin just reaches into her bag and hands you the same old scarf. the one she gave you last year.

“put this on,” she says. “you’re still freezing.”

and you do.

—--

you wake up to the sound of birds.

they’re distant, dulled by the closed windows and the throbbing inside your skull. your mouth is dry. your head is heavy. for a second, you don’t recognize the ceiling above you—the plain off-white, the tiny hairline crack near the curtain rod. then you feel the weight of something soft over your shoulders. the familiar scent of detergent.

haerin’s jacket.

and suddenly, everything rushes back.

the bottle. the cold curb. her voice—sharp, then shaking. the way her arms wrapped around you, holding you like you were something breakable she still wanted to save.

you sit up slowly, wincing. you’re in her house. or maybe her older sister’s—you're not sure. it’s a quiet space. small, neat. a thin mattress laid out beside the low coffee table. the curtains are drawn just enough to keep the room dim.

you hear movement from the other room. footsteps. the soft clink of a cup placed on a counter.

you don’t move.

it’s not fear, exactly. it’s something closer to shame.

when the door creaks open, you already know who it is.

haerin steps in, holding a mug in both hands. she doesn’t flinch when she sees you awake.

“here,” she says, setting the mug down beside you. “ginger tea. not much, but it’ll help.”

you murmur a thank you. your voice sounds foreign to you. used up.

she doesn’t sit. just stands there for a moment, arms crossed—not out of anger, but habit.

“gehlee knows,” she says eventually. “i told her you stayed over.”

your stomach twists. “does she—?”

“just said you got sick. i didn’t say more.”

you nod. the guilt tastes bitter than the alcohol.

“you should rest more,” she says, already stepping back.

“haerin—” you call, not knowing what to say next.

she stops at the doorway.

you want to apologize. to explain. but everything feels too big, too tangled. so instead, you just say, “thank you.”

she doesn’t look at you, but she nods.

“next time,” she says softly, “don’t make me find you like that.”

and then she’s gone.

—--

on monday, you return to school.

it’s surreal—how normal everything looks. how the sky is the same, how the noise in the hallway is still bright and chaotic. how everyone moves like nothing in the world cracked open just two days ago.

gehlee finds you before the bell rings. pulls you aside with a firm hand and a look that isn’t quite scolding—but isn’t gentle either.

“next time you lie about staying over at someone’s house,” she says, “at least warn me so i can lie better. granny was worried sick.”

you wince.

“i’m sorry.”

“i know,” she says, then sighs. “just don’t do that again. please.”

you nod. she squeezes your wrist once, then lets go. the gesture says more than any lecture would have.

you sit through homeroom in a haze. your name gets called during attendance and you raise your hand mechanically, keeping your eyes on the desk.

you almost make it to lunch before someone from the office appears at your classroom door.

the whole class quiets when the guidance counselor calls your name.

you pretend not to feel their eyes on your back as you stand. you don’t look at haerin. you can feel her looking.

the walk to the guidance office feels longer than usual. every step echoes.

inside, the counselor asks gentle questions. where were you? who were you with? how often has this happened?

you don’t lie. not completely.

you say it was the first time. that you didn’t plan to drink. that you were just tired and made a bad decision.

they nod. take notes. ask if you feel safe at home.

you say yes.

they say you can return to class. they don’t call your parents. not yet.

but the weight of it follows you out.

—

when you return to the classroom, no one says anything.

but when you sit down, there’s a pack of your favorite crackers on your desk. unopened. no note, but you know that handwriting on the sticker seal.

haerin doesn’t look at you. not directly. but she pushes her water bottle toward you during group work, the cap already twisted open.

you say thank you. she just nods.

she’s quieter now. even for her. not cold—but measured. deliberate. like every gesture is something she’s thinking through twice.

she still shares her food. still waits beside the door before walking home. still lets your hands brush when you pass papers.

but she doesn’t ask questions. she doesn’t ask why.

and that, somehow, hurts more.

—--

the others don’t treat you differently. not really.

danielle still leans her chin on your shoulder during group work, still whispers too-loud jokes into your ear.

hanni still grabs your hand when crossing the muddy field, still braids your hair lazily when you’re sitting on the bleachers.

minji still lends you her extra index cards, still deadpans sarcastic comments whenever the teacher says something ridiculous.

but something in their energy has shifted. like they’re softer with you now. not pitying. not careful. just… attuned.

like they noticed something cracked. and instead of asking, they simply stayed.

you’re not sure you deserve it.

but when hanni loops her arm through yours that friday and haerin finally looks at you again—really looks, not past you—you think maybe… maybe you haven’t lost everything yet.

—--

the thing about breaking is that no one tells you how quiet the aftermath will be. you imagine it like a storm—loud, thunderous, something that leaves wreckage in its wake. but it’s not. not really. it’s more like the days that follow. the hollow calm, the still air, the way your footsteps sound louder in hallways you used to walk with someone beside you.

weeks pass. nothing changes—but everything does.

the guidance counselor stops calling you in. gehlee doesn’t bring it up again. your new friends—the ones with cigarettes and noise and no consequences—don’t look for you anymore. you stopped answering after that night. they didn’t try hard.

the only thing left is the silence between you and haerin.

not cold. not sharp. but stretched.

you still share a classroom. still pass notes during lectures, still nudge her pencil back when it rolls off the desk. she still gives you the leftover third of her sandwich without a word, the crust always missing. you still walk part of the way home together, even if you don’t say much.

but it’s like your closeness has folded in on itself—smaller now, quieter. something being kept warm, waiting to be safe again.

and still, slowly, you begin to come back to each other.

it starts on a thursday. the last class is canceled and the sky outside is thick with the kind of gray that smells like it’s about to rain. most students are already halfway home, umbrellas open like sea anemones on the street. you and haerin are still seated inside, pretending not to be waiting for each other.

you tap your fingers against the wooden edge of your desk. she’s chewing on the end of her pen.

“do you… want to wait for it to stop?” you ask, voice soft.

she nods, once. doesn’t look up. but she stays.

you sit in silence. the classroom grows darker. the rain starts softly, like it’s testing the rooftops before fully arriving.

haerin finally speaks. “i saw your sketch the other day. on the back of your notebook.”

your ears warm. you hadn’t meant for her to see it. it was nothing—just a rough pencil drawing of the school gate, the silhouettes of six girls leaning on the railing.

“it looked like us,” she says.

you nod. “it was.”

she looks at you and something in her gaze has softened. not forgiven, not forgotten, but open.

“i miss that version of us,” you say before you can stop yourself.

her lips press together. not in anger. just in thought.

“me too.”

—--

fridays begin to feel familiar again.

you return to old routines—not all at once, but slowly, with care.

she taps your elbow during science class again when she doesn’t understand the lab steps. you offer her your headphones during lunch when the noise gets too loud. she never finishes her snacks anymore, and it’s a silent agreement now—she hands over the last piece to you, every time, without looking.

sometimes, you catch her writing things in the margins of your notes. tiny doodles. a sleepy cat. a badly drawn sneaker. once, your name, half-hidden under an eraser smudge.

you start leaving sticky notes in her textbook. nothing big. just “don’t forget your umbrella” or “your handwriting’s still bad.” she doesn’t reply. but she smiles more.

minji teases you both again, like she used to. gehlee watches from her seat, arms crossed, a knowing look in her eye.

danielle, hanni, and haerin walk with you to the jeepney stop after dismissal one afternoon. none of them say anything when you slow your steps just enough to match haerin’s pace.

you stop disappearing.

and she—haerin—lets you come back without punishment.

just presence.

one wednesday afternoon, as the sun starts sinking behind the rooftops and the air begins to smell like burning wood and roadside snacks, you pass by the bakery near school and pick up two egg pies. they’re warm in your hand, buttery and soft.

you don’t speak when you hand one to her. she doesn’t ask.

but she takes it.

smiles at you, half-shy, and says, “you remembered.”

and it’s enough.

not forgiveness, not yet. not a clean slate.

but something else.

a place to begin again.

tenth grade

by the time tenth grade settles into its third week, the air around you and haerin has returned to something soft.

not new, not exactly. not like the hesitant silence of eighth grade or the cracked softness of ninth. this is different. this is steady, lived-in, something shaped and reshaped by too many after-school walks and handed-over leftovers to count.

you sit beside each other now, always—when seating isn’t assigned. in the back row during science, near the window during english, beneath the crooked electric fan during homeroom. it’s not talked about. no one asks. not even gehlee, who simply nudges her bag to the side whenever you arrive late so you can slide into the space between her and haerin like you were always meant to be there.

you don’t pass notes anymore—not as often. now it’s small words said under your breath during quizzes, or a scribble added to the corner of her worksheet while the teacher isn’t looking. she still draws those sleepy cats. you’ve started returning them with frogs in bucket hats. she never reacts, but you catch her tracing over them sometimes with the edge of her pencil.

every dismissal, without fail, you leave together.

it’s never planned. never something you check in about. she just waits. you just wait. and then you walk side by side until the sound of the school bell fades behind you, replaced by the murmur of street vendors and the hiss of frying oil.

the tusok-tusok cart outside the gate is always crowded, always loud. students with crumpled uniforms, with untied shoelaces and loosened collars, swarm the stall like it’s the last thing keeping them from collapsing. it’s chaotic, but it’s familiar. and it’s yours.

she doesn’t ask what you want anymore. she already knows. squidball, two sticks. sweet sauce, no chili. you don’t ask either. kikiam for her, but she’ll still try the spicy sauce and make a face every time.

you’ve both memorized this dance.

she hands you your order, the bamboo skewers warm in your hand, and reaches for the tissue with her free fingers.

“you know this is technically unsanitary,” you say one afternoon, elbowing her gently as you double dip.

she shrugs. “so are the restrooms here.”

you laugh, dipping again anyway. “gross.”

but when your skewer is empty and she has one piece left on hers, she pulls it off and holds it out wordlessly.

you don’t hesitate.

no one else would think anything of it. it’s food. it’s routine. it’s after school and you’re both tired and hungry.

but to you, it feels like something else. something that’s been building slowly. something that smells like frying oil and sounds like tin foil wrappers and lives in the way she licks sauce from her thumb before handing you a tissue.

and when you walk home after, it’s quieter between you—but not empty. she walks a little closer now. not enough to touch. just enough to notice.

she doesn’t say goodbye when your roads split. just looks at you once, as if to ask, you’ll still be there tomorrow, right?

and you nod.

you always will be.

—--

you find it by accident.

not because you’re looking for something new—but because the jeeps are packed that afternoon and the clouds look like they might collapse. haerin doesn’t seem to mind walking, though, and neither do you. there’s something comforting about the familiar ache in your calves after school, the sharp chatter of tricycle drivers, the stickiness of the air softened only by the faintest wind.

you’re halfway down the side street near the barangay hall when your stomach growls—loud enough to make her turn her head.

you grin, sheepish. “are you in the mood to eat?”

she nods.

you spot the tapsilogan across the road, almost hidden behind a row of motorbikes and makeshift tarpaulin. it’s small—two plastic tables outside, three inside. the lights flicker a little. the floor’s uneven. the plastic menu above the cashier is yellowed at the edges, but the words are still bold: tapsilog, tocilog, longsilog, hotsilog.

you point. “want to eat here?”

she looks at it. then at you. shrugs.

you take that as a yes.

inside, it smells like garlic rice and hot oil and years of smoke settling into walls. your uniforms feel too clean for this place, too pressed and proper. but no one looks at you. the cashier is barely paying attention, wiping down the counter while humming a radio tune.

you both order tapsilog. iced tea in plastic cups with oversized straws. you sit across from each other, elbows nearly touching the edge of the table. her leg brushes yours once—accidentally. or maybe not.

you don’t talk at first. just eat. the food is good. salty, greasy, heavy in a way that hits the spot after hours of sitting through numbers and paragraphs and half-listened lectures. haerin chews quietly, cutting her tapa into uneven strips. halfway through, like always, she stops.

you raise an eyebrow. “you done?”

she nods and nudges her plate toward you. she doesn’t say finish it, doesn’t need to. this has been your thing since last year. it’s unspoken, like most of the things between you.

you pick up your spoon again, steal her last slice of egg, then the rest of her rice. she watches, sipping her drink, her elbow resting on the table as she leans her cheek against her knuckles.

you pause. “why do you never finish your food?”

she shrugs. “so you’ll stay.”

you blink. “huh?”

a smile plays on her lips—small, knowing. “you always sit longer when there’s food left.”

you look down at her plate, now empty but for sauce stains and the corner of the wrapper under the egg. then you look at her again. her hair’s a little messy from the wind. there’s a smudge of iced tea condensation on her collar. she’s not meeting your eyes anymore, busying herself with the straw wrapper.

you don’t know what to say. so you don’t say anything.

you just keep eating. slower now.

outside, the rain finally begins.

—--

the thing is, it’s never scheduled.

no plans. no check-ins. no “want to go out?” text that implies anything. just a shared glance at dismissal, or a shoulder tap as you’re packing your things, and suddenly you’re walking—not to the jeepney stop, not toward home, but just… away.

it starts on a wednesday.

a surprise half-day. teachers in a meeting. students buzzing with the kind of restless joy that always comes with unearned freedom. your group scatters—gehlee heads home to study, minji has training, danielle and hanni are off chasing some café they found on instagram.

you and haerin are left behind, idling near the school gate.

“mall?” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you nod. of course.

you take the long route—walking first, then catching a tricycle, then weaving through the tangled line of people crowding the entrance of the nearest robinsons. the air-conditioning hits too hard at first, and she tugs at her sleeves, rubbing her arms. you don’t say anything. you just lead her to the food court.

you get fries. she gets nothing. but she picks off yours slowly, one by one, always aiming for the longest ones, always dipping them into your cheese sauce. she never makes eye contact when she does it. but her mouth quirks every time you pretend to protest.

you walk past rows of stores after. window shop without buying anything. try on sunglasses just to laugh at how weird they look on your faces. she picks a pair of oversized white frames and you snap a photo of her before she can duck away.

“delete that,” she says.

you don’t.

and she doesn’t ask again.

after that, it becomes a pattern.

sometimes it’s the museum near city hall. you get in for free if you’re wearing uniforms. you walk past portraits and old war relics and she never says much, but you catch her lingering too long in front of the modern art exhibit, staring at a giant canvas that looks like nothing but smeared red.

sometimes it’s cafés. cheap ones that serve syrupy lattes and reheated pastries. you sit across from each other, curled over the same worksheet or doodling in your notebooks. sometimes you pretend to study. sometimes you just sit, music playing through your shared earbuds while the buzz of conversation floats around you.

other times it’s the arcade on the second floor of the mall. the lights hurt your eyes. the music is loud. the games are cheap and outdated. but she gets competitive over air hockey and you let her win more than you admit. once, she tucks a crumpled prize ticket into your chest pocket, smug.

“you owe me boba,” she says.

so you buy her one. and she doesn’t finish it.

you carry the cup the rest of the way home.

no one asks where you’ve been. no one teases.

but when gehlee sees the mall stamp on your wrist and the bag of leftover fries in your hand, she just raises an eyebrow and says nothing.

because it’s not a date. not technically.

but you always go home feeling a little lighter. a little warmer. a little more certain that whatever this is—it’s yours.

—--

it starts with a compliment.

not a loud one. not the kind that turns heads. just a quiet sentence, dropped casually across the few feet of space between you and a girl from the other section—someone you barely talk to, but recognize from campus events. she’s smart, reserved, always with a neat notebook and unchipped nail polish. she doesn’t speak much in class, but now she’s walking beside you after science, matching your pace like it’s nothing new.

“you were really good during last week’s game,” she says, tucking her hair behind one ear. “the one against the seniors.”

you blink. “you watched?”

she nods. “just the second half. but still.”

you laugh softly, lowering your gaze. “i was dying by then.”

“you didn’t look it.” her voice is even. “you looked—cool.”

you hum, unsure what to say to that.

and then, with the kind of calm that only makes it more unexpected, she adds, “do you hang out after school? there’s this new café near the terminal. if you’re not busy, maybe we could go?”

you pause.

and something shifts—not in you, but beside you.

you hadn’t noticed haerin walking close behind until now. close enough to hear. close enough that you could probably feel the change in her breath if you turned around.

you don’t.

instead, you glance at the girl and offer a polite, practiced smile. “thanks. but i already have plans.”

“some other time, maybe?”

you nod. “maybe.”

the girl leaves it at that.

you feel haerin’s presence again when you start walking toward the gate—now beside you instead of behind, but quieter than usual. too quiet.

you sneak a look at her. she’s staring straight ahead. arms crossed. brows faintly furrowed like she’s thinking too hard about something she won’t say.

“you okay?” you ask.

she nods. short. “yeah.”

you keep walking.

you want to fill the silence with something light, but everything feels too loud now. your own thoughts echo back at you. the compliment. the way the girl smiled. the way haerin’s steps are just a little faster now, like she’s trying to outrun something.

when you reach the tusok-tusok stall, she doesn’t wait.

she orders kikiam without looking at you. doesn’t ask what you want. just picks up her skewer and starts eating by the curb, standing instead of sitting like you usually do.

you order your own.

the oil sizzles in the pan. the sauce drips too quickly today. your paper tray starts to sag. you glance at her again—she’s not halfway through her stick yet, but her eyes are on the jeepney line, unfocused.

she always shares the last bite.

but not today.

today, she tosses the stick in the trash before you finish yours. wipes her hands. mumbles, “see you tomorrow,” without really looking at you.

and then she walks off.

you don’t follow.

you just stay there, skewer in one hand, sauce still on your fingers, the noise of dismissal crowding the space where her silence used to be.

—--

you don’t talk about that day. not the compliment. not the girl. not the way haerin left with her mouth drawn tight and her hands stuffed into her pockets like she didn’t trust herself to keep them still.

the next day, she waits for you again. same spot. same time. no apology. no questions. just her leaning against the fence post, headphones in one ear, bag slung low on one shoulder like nothing happened.

but something did.

you both feel it. the shift.

it lingers, even through the soft return of routine—through the kikiam she starts offering you again, the afternoons you spend walking slower than usual, the silences that no longer feel tense but aren’t as easy as before. you start to wonder if the line between you has gotten thinner. if you’re closer to something you can’t unsee.

a week later, you end up back at the tapsilogan.

this time, it isn’t an accident. you both chose this. maybe not with words—but with the way she turned down gehlee’s offer to walk home together. with the way you didn’t remind dani and hanni that you were supposed to review after class. with the way your steps slowed down near the corner, and she glanced up at the small green sign like she was waiting for you to say it.

“tapsi?”

she didn’t answer. just walked ahead.

you sit inside, near the back. the usual table. the air’s thick with smoke and late-afternoon sun, the ceiling fan turning slow enough to be decorative.

she’s quiet today. not cold—just quieter.

you both eat.

she finishes her egg, takes two bites of tapa, then stops like she always does. pushes her plate toward you without looking.

you take it. finish the rest. when you glance at her, she’s watching you—not directly, but in the kind of way that feels like a weight across your shoulders.

you swallow. wipe your mouth. say nothing.

but the silence doesn’t fade.

instead, it deepens.

and it’s you who finally speaks.

"if this is all we ever are..." you say it before you can stop yourself. before the thought can fold back into your chest like it always does.

her head turns, slow.

you keep going, even if your heart stumbles. "would that be enough?"

you expect her to laugh. or blink. or look away. she doesn’t.

she just watches you for a moment—really watches. like she’s trying to read the space between your words, the truth behind your voice.

then, gently, she reaches forward.

her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. you blink.

“you had sauce,” she says, barely audible.

you don’t reply. can’t. your skin tingles where she touched you, even if it was just for a second. even if it could’ve meant nothing.

her hand stays near yours. not touching. just close enough to feel the warmth.

you finish her rice without tasting it.

outside, the wind has picked up. dust swirls across the sidewalk. the sky darkens with the threat of another late-day rain.

you both sit in silence, elbows nearly touching, cups empty, plates scraped clean.

and you don’t say it again.

but she doesn’t walk away this time.

she waits with you until the rain starts.

—---

you don’t see her right away.

you’re too busy weaving through defenders, the echo of sneakers against concrete pulsing in your ears, the ball heavy but familiar in your hands. the court’s half-cracked and sun-drenched, surrounded by rusting wire fences and leaning umbrellas planted by classmates who came to watch out of boredom more than interest.

but she’s there.

haerin.

you spot her only during a water break, when you turn toward the benches and find her standing behind the chain-link fence, half-shadowed by the umbrella gehlee’s holding. she’s in uniform still, her bag slung over both shoulders, hair falling into her eyes like it always does when she hasn’t tucked it behind her ears.

she doesn’t wave.

but she doesn’t look away, either.

beside her is someone unfamiliar. someone younger—barely noticeable at first, but smiling wide, bright-eyed, curious. you recognize her vaguely. a new transfer student. shorter than most of your classmates. first year, maybe second.

you see her lean in to ask gehlee something. then she looks at you.

you turn back to the court before you can think about what that means.

you finish your game—sweat clinging to your skin, lungs burning from effort. minji gives you a high five. the rest of the team is laughing about something behind you, but you only half-hear it. your eyes are scanning the crowd again.

haerin is still there.

still watching.

you walk over with a towel over your shoulders, wiping your face.

“you were good,” she says.

you grin. “you always say that.”

she shrugs. “because it’s true.”

you glance past her—to gehlee, now deep in conversation with the younger girl. she meets your gaze and waves the tiniest wave. the new girl mimics her, a beat too late. shy, but eager.

“who’s that?” you ask.

“transfer student,” haerin says. “she’s in our homeroom now. one year below us.”

“ah.” you nod. “friendly.”

“very.” haerin’s voice is unreadable.

you glance at her.

she’s already turning away. already walking ahead like the moment didn’t stretch just a little too long.

you follow.

later, when you’re at the tusok-tusok stall again, she offers you the last piece of her kikiam without being asked. this time, she holds it up to your mouth herself.

“open,” she says.

you blink. “seriously?”

she raises one eyebrow, waiting.

so you do.

and the thing that stirs inside you—whatever it is—it stays warm the whole walk home.

—---

you notice her first during dismissal. not because she’s quiet—she isn’t. if anything, she’s unusually loud for someone new. she lingers behind gehlee, notebook hugged to her chest, one foot slightly turned inward like she’s unsure whether to follow or turn back.

you’re the one who smiles first. polite. distant. maybe a little curious. she smiles back, hesitant but wide, like she wasn’t expecting it.

it’s gehlee who tells you later, while you’re sharing barbecue sticks in front of the school, that the girl’s name is hyein. “transfer student,” she says between bites. “one year younger than us. nice, though. a little clingy. like a puppy.”

you laugh. you don’t think much of it at the time. your world is still too full—with haerin’s silences, with the echo of your sneakers on polished floor after practice, with the warmth of sunlight through café windows on early dismissal days.

but a few days later, you notice her again. this time after lunch, outside the classroom building. she’s talking to gehlee, asking something about a form. then she spots you. raises her hand in a soft wave. you nod back, barely.

the rhythm between you and haerin remains undisturbed—for now. you still wait at the gate together. still trade food. still walk half the way home even when your paths split. she still gives you the last of her kikiam without asking, and you still act surprised, even when you’re not.

but hyein starts showing up in the corners.

at first, it’s small things—joining your group during flag ceremonies, sitting near you during lunch when there’s no space left. she listens more than she talks. you catch her looking your way sometimes, like she’s trying to figure something out but doesn’t know what question to ask.

it isn’t until one late afternoon—weeks after you first noticed her—that something begins to shift.

you’re sitting under the shade of the acacia tree beside the covered court, half-listening to minji tease gehlee about something dumb, when hyein walks up with two bottled sodas. she offers you one, tentative.

you blink. “for me?”

she nods. “you looked thirsty.”

you’re not. but you take it anyway.

haerin is there, sitting beside you, half-turned toward the court. her expression doesn’t change, but you feel the air tighten just slightly between you.

later, as you walk home with haerin, your fingers still cold from the soda bottle, she says nothing. just stares ahead, her steps unusually even.

you don’t ask. but you wonder.

—---

it keeps happening, in tiny ways.

hyein begins joining more often. tagging along to group study sessions. hovering nearby after class. asking you questions—small ones, harmless. about assignments. about teachers. about what kind of music you listen to.

you answer each one kindly, because that’s who you are. because she’s younger. because she reminds you, a little, of how you used to be before all of this—before distance and quiet routines became your way of speaking love.

but haerin notices.

you start catching it in the little things.

in the way her responses get shorter when hyein’s around. in how she suddenly finds excuses to leave earlier. in how she starts eating slower, like she’s waiting for you to offer to finish her food instead.

one afternoon, after dismissal, you and haerin are walking to the tusok-tusok stall. it’s only the two of you this time—no gehlee, no dani, no hyein. the silence feels heavy but safe. she’s quieter than usual, but her steps match yours.

you buy the usual. she doesn’t eat much.

then, without looking at you, she says:

“she really likes talking to you.”

you pause. you know who she means. but you keep it casual. “she’s just adjusting. it’s probably easier to talk to someone closer to her age.”

haerin doesn’t laugh. doesn’t smile. just nods faintly.

you chew in silence.

and when she hands you the last of her kikiam this time, she doesn’t say a word. but she watches your face when you take it.

and somehow, that feels louder than anything she could’ve said.

haerin doesn’t bring it up again.

but something lingers after that walk—an unfinished sentence that hangs between the two of you like humid air before rain. you still talk, still meet at the gate, still eat together after school. nothing breaks.

and yet, nothing feels quite whole either.

the shift is so slight it’s almost invisible. she still walks beside you, still lets your fingers brush when you reach for your drink at the same time. she still leans her head a little closer when you share a pair of earphones. but her laughter softens, her silences stretch longer, and the way she looks at you—like she’s memorizing something that’s about to leave—that’s the part you try not to notice.

you catch her watching you more often now. not in the obvious way, not the way minji stares at girls she has a crush on. haerin’s watching is quieter. more private. like she’s afraid you’ll catch her in the act.

you only ever say something once.

“you’re weird today,” you murmur one afternoon, after she keeps glancing up at you from her book.

she blinks. shrugs. “am i?”

“yeah. you’re staring.”

“maybe i’m just tired.”

you want to believe that. so you do.

—---

you don’t expect to see her that day in the library.

it’s quiet—barely anyone around, just you and gehlee and two other students from another section. hyein’s seated beside you, flipping through a review packet. she’s been tagging along more often now, always careful not to overstep. she doesn’t talk much when it’s just the two of you—but when you’re with gehlee, she’s lighter. she jokes more. she asks questions. she gets excited about little things like highlighters and whether you prefer blue or black ink.

it’s warm. safe. unthreatening.

and then she asks, soft and sudden, “are you and haerin together?”

you freeze. not because it’s offensive, but because no one’s asked you that before—not even in passing. no teasing remarks. no sideways jokes. it’s like everyone else has either ignored it or left it alone on purpose.

but here’s hyein, thirteen or fourteen, too young to tiptoe around grown-up things. she asks plainly. earnestly.

you let out a short laugh. “what? no.”

“oh.” she looks thoughtful. “you just… feel like you are.”

you blink at her.

she doesn’t look smug or knowing. she’s not fishing for gossip. she says it like it’s fact. like she’s reading it off a label only she can see.

gehlee snorts softly beside you. doesn’t comment. doesn’t correct.

you don’t say anything after that. just return to your worksheet. but your hands are trembling slightly when you write the next word.

—

haerin hears about it later—gehlee tells her, not to stir anything, just as an afterthought in the middle of a conversation about groupmates.

“hyein asked y/n if you’re together,” she says, laughing. “can you believe that? she barely knows her.”

haerin’s hand stills where it’s been dragging a pen across a worksheet. “what did y/n say?”

“just laughed. said no. i mean—duh.”

gehlee moves on. talks about something else. haerin nods at the right moments. but she doesn’t hear any of it.

the words echo, over and over.

you feel like you are.

—

later that day, you offer her the rest of a turon without saying anything. it’s warm from the stall, slightly sticky at the edges.

haerin takes it. holds it too long in her hand before eating it.

she doesn’t know what to do with the flutter in her chest.

doesn’t know how to answer a question no one asked her directly.

doesn’t know what it means to want someone who’s already holding a space in your life—but not by name. not yet.

not quite.

—--

the last weeks of the school year feel like a quiet unraveling.

not dramatic. not loud. just the slow easing of a pattern you’ve grown used to—classroom chairs unbolted and stacked in the corners, paper streamers curling at the edges of bulletin boards, final outputs collected and sealed in manila folders marked with ballpoint scrawls. teachers start smiling more. friends start counting days out loud, as if naming them makes it easier to let go.

no one wants to admit it, but it’s ending.

you can feel it in the way people begin arriving late and leaving early, how laughter rings just a little too loud through the corridors, like everyone’s trying to make something memorable before the page turns.

you and haerin don’t talk about the year winding down. you never really talk about endings, not directly.

instead, you preserve your routines even more stubbornly. you still meet by the front gate each morning—her always five steps ahead, as if she’s been waiting for you the whole time. you still buy tusok-tusok after class, still slip her the extra sauce packet because she always forgets to ask. she still hands you the last bite of her food without comment, like it’s a ritual carved into habit, something sacred in its ordinariness.

but something is changing.

not between you—but around you. like the corners of your shared moments are softening, fraying at the edges, becoming less about what is and more about what might be.

haerin has been quieter lately, but not the kind of quiet you’d grown used to back in seventh or eighth grade. this is a new kind—heavier, almost like she’s waiting for something. like she keeps brushing up against the edges of a thought and then retreating before it can take form.

you catch her looking at you more often now, in the gaps between conversations, in the lull of silence between bites. and when you meet her eyes, she doesn’t look away like she used to. she holds the gaze for just a second longer—long enough to make you wonder what she’s thinking. long enough to wonder if you already know.

—

the moving up ceremony approaches with quiet inevitability.

it’s written on the final homeroom slips handed out in rushed handwriting, in the group messages about dress codes, in the sudden arrival of folders and paper programs on the teacher’s desk.

you press your uniform the night before, smoothing over every fold with extra care. gehlee texts you around 10 p.m. asking if you're awake, reminding you to bring safety pins and a comb. you tell her you already packed them, though you hadn’t. not yet. you’re still holding your white blouse in your lap, your fingers trailing along the collar, tracing the shape of where your nameplate used to sit.

you sleep a little later than usual. not because you’re nervous. you don’t think you are. it’s something else—something heavier. not quite dread. not quite excitement. just the quiet knowing that tomorrow, things will change. and not loudly. not instantly. but enough to notice.

—

on the morning of the ceremony, the city is quiet. you leave your house early, slipping into the jeepney before the morning traffic builds. your bag feels unusually light. your palms, unusually warm.

at school, students gather in small clusters. everyone is too dressed up to feel natural, yet still visibly themselves—creased collars, stray strands of hair curling at the temples, rubber shoes worn under pressed slacks.

you see haerin before she sees you. she’s standing near the gate, her hands clasped neatly behind her back, the hem of her blouse catching the wind. her hair’s been pinned more carefully than usual, her earrings small and silver. she’s holding something—a small paper bag, unmarked. her eyes scan the crowd until they land on you, and when they do, the faint crease between her brows smooths.

she doesn’t smile wide, but it’s there. that small lift at the corner of her lips. that quiet way of acknowledging your presence as something familiar, something she’d been looking for.

“you’re early,” she says when you reach her.

“i woke up too early,” you reply. “couldn’t sleep.”

she nods once, eyes trailing down to the paper bag in her hand. she holds it out. “for you.”

you blink. “what?”

“nothing big.” she looks down. “i saw it and thought of you.”

you take it gently. inside: a small kraft notebook with soft edges, a neat pack of pens tied with string, and a tiny keychain in the shape of a basketball—worn at the edges, probably from being handled too much at the store.

you don’t say thank you. you don’t need to. she sees it in the way you’re holding it.

you reach into your bag and pull out something you hadn’t been sure you’d give her. a folded sheet of lined paper, gently pressed. inside, a dried flower—white, simple, delicate. next to it, your handwriting: you make the quiet days feel full.

she unfolds it slowly. her fingers are careful, reverent, like she’s afraid of tearing something.

when she looks up again, she doesn’t say anything either.

but she holds onto it tightly.

—---

the ceremony itself is a blur of fans, names called over static microphones, a procession of classmates in ironed uniforms and plastic smiles. you walk the stage. you bow. you pose for a picture with your principal, hands awkward at your sides. your group finds each other after, somewhere near the tapsilogan across the street, like you always do.

everything smells like sun and vinegar.

minji’s laughing at something danielle said. hanni’s squatting by the sidewalk, tying her shoelace for the third time. gehlee’s fanning herself dramatically with her diploma. you and haerin sit a little apart from the rest, plastic plates balanced on your knees.

you eat in silence. but it’s not empty.

there’s a comfort in this kind of quiet. the kind you only get when something’s been shared too many times to need words.

you finish your food first.

she finishes hers slower, then nudges the last piece toward you—the last of the tapa, neatly folded in wax paper.

you take it. chew slowly. her eyes don’t leave yours this time.

and when your fingers brush hers, neither of you pull away.

you sit like that for a while. watching the sidewalk. watching the sun start to go down.

you don’t talk about the future.

but something in the air feels like a door gently creaking open. something just past the edge of being named.

you stay long after the rest of them begin to leave.

gehlee is the first to stand up, complaining halfheartedly about the heat and the way her flats are pinching her toes. minji stretches her arms overhead with a loud groan, announces she’s craving halo-halo. dani and hanni fall into step beside her like magnets clicking back into place. the conversation floats down the street, scattered between uneven laughter and the sound of rubber soles against cracked pavement.

you wave vaguely, promise to follow.

but you don’t move.

neither does haerin.

you’re still sitting shoulder to shoulder on the cement edge outside the tapsilogan, backs against the faded wall, empty plates resting between your feet. the late afternoon light has softened now, everything cast in that warm gold that makes the most ordinary things feel suspended—too lovely to leave behind.

her leg is close to yours. not touching. but near enough that you can feel the warmth of her through the space.

she shifts her body, just slightly, turning her face toward the sun. her eyes are closed. there’s a line of light on her cheekbone, catching the curve of it gently. she looks… at peace. like someone remembering a song without needing to hear it again.

you want to say something.

something real. something about what this year has meant, or what she means to you now. but you can’t find the right starting point. it all feels too big, too messy, too easy to ruin if spoken too soon.

so you ask the simplest question. “tired?”

her eyes stay closed. “a little.”

a breeze moves through the trees above, rustling the leaves like a hush. you glance down at her hands. one is resting on her lap, thumb brushing absently against the edge of her wrist like she’s thinking hard about nothing at all.

you want to reach for it.

you don’t.

instead, you lean back against the wall and let your gaze drift up to the sky.

“feels weird,” you murmur after a while. “knowing this is it.”

haerin doesn’t answer right away. then, softly, “i don’t think it’s it.”

you turn your head. “no?”

her lashes flutter as she opens her eyes. they find yours, steady.

“it’s just… not the same from here on.”

you nod, slow. your throat feels thick.

“but we’ll still…” you trail off, unsure how to end the sentence.

but she fills it in, just barely. “yeah,” she says. “we will.”

you want to believe that. you think you do.

you look down at your hands. then at hers. you reach out this time—deliberately. not brushing. not by accident. you press your pinky gently against hers.

she looks at your hand. then she presses back.

and it’s such a small thing. so quiet. so easily missed if anyone were watching.

but to you, it’s everything.

to be continued.

#newjeans x reader #njz x reader #haerin x reader #kang haerin x reader #newjeans haerin #njz haerin #haerin fluff #haerin angst #newjeans fluff #newjeans #njz

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