I didn't sleep.
Not a single second.
The room was dark, but my thoughts were neon—flashing, loud, impossible to ignore. I stared at the ceiling like it might offer me answers. Like it might tell me why Minho's kiss felt more real than anything I'd experienced in years.
The sheets tangled around my legs like a trap I didn't want to escape from. His touch still echoed along my skin. Not in a dirty way, not even in a romantic way—just in that terrifying, earth-shifting way you feel when something cracks open inside you, and you realize it's never going to be the same again.
The worst part wasn't that he kissed me.
The worst part was that I kissed him back.
I didn't even hesitate.
God. My fingers clenched into the pillow. I pressed my face into it, trying to suffocate the memory—but it was stitched into my veins. His breath. His eyes. That whisper of desperation in his voice when he asked me why I couldn't just let myself feel.
I rolled over and stared at the window. The moonlight slashed through the blinds, striped and cold, like judgment.
What did I just do?
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Minho and I were rivals. We were enemies. We were two different constellations locked in opposition, never meant to orbit each other.
But tonight… the lines blurred.
And I didn't stop it.
Didn't want to.
Why did his lips feel like home?
Why did his voice crawl beneath my skin and stay there?
Why did I want to see him again even when every rational part of me screamed no?
I was losing control. Slowly. Painfully. Like holding water in cupped hands and watching it spill through the cracks.
Was I supposed to feel this exposed?
This… raw?
I curled into myself, burying my face into my knees. I hated that I could still feel the ghost of his thumb on my jaw, gentle and possessive at once. I hated that I wanted more of it.
More of him.
A quiet truth settled in my chest, heavier than guilt.
I didn't want to go back to before.
Not really.
But I didn't know how to move forward either.
Morning didn't bring peace.
It brought clarity I didn't ask for.
The sunlight slipped through my blinds like a blade, and I felt cut open before I even left my bed. My feet hit the floor, but my heart stayed behind—still tangled in everything Minho left behind.
I dressed without thinking. Brushed my teeth on autopilot. Splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would erase the heat in my cheeks.
It didn't.
The mirror didn't lie. I looked like hell. Eyes ringed in red. Hair messy. Skin too pale. I looked like someone who had kissed their worst enemy and regretted nothing except the reality that came after.
I stepped outside, and the campus greeted me like it always did.
Same students. Same paths. Same background noise.
But everything felt different.
Because I was different.
Something in me had changed—and no one could see it but me.
Or so I thought.
"Haru-sunbae! Good morning!"
I glanced toward the group of girls by the garden stairs. They smiled brightly, like I hadn't imploded last night. Like I wasn't holding myself together with willpower and guilt.
I forced a polite nod and kept walking.
It was exhausting, pretending like I was fine.
I just wanted to disappear into the noise.
But fate never liked making things easy for me.
"Haru-sunbae!"
His voice again.
That stupid, warm, annoying, addictive voice.
I froze. My breath hitched. My spine stiffened.
Don't look.
Don't react.
But of course, I did.
Minho was jogging toward me, breathless but grinning. His hair was wind-tousled. His bag slung casually over one shoulder. He wore that stupid black bomber jacket like it was part of him—and somehow, it made him look even more irresistible.
He wasn't fair.
He wasn't supposed to look at me like that.
Like last night meant something.
I turned, face blank. "Minho."
"You didn't block me. That's a start."
His words were playful, but there was tension behind them. A thread of hope tangled in sarcasm.
"Don't tempt me," I said, walking fast.
But he matched my pace easily.
"Did you sleep?"
"No."
"Me neither."
His voice softened at that, but I ignored it.
"Don't say things like that here," I said under my breath.
He tilted his head. "Why not?"
I stopped. "Because people are watching."
"So? We're just talking."
"We're not just anything," I snapped, and then immediately regretted how harsh I sounded.
Minho's smile faded a little. "Is it really that bad? That I like you?"
The words made me flinch.
Not because they were cruel.
But because they were true.
And because he said them like it was the simplest thing in the world.
I looked away, scanning the crowd even though I knew no one was paying attention. It still felt dangerous. Every second spent standing next to him felt like walking a tightrope strung over rumors and truths I wasn't ready to admit.
"You shouldn't say things like that," I muttered.
"Why not?" he asked again, quieter this time. "Because you don't want to hear it, or because you're scared someone else will?"
I didn't answer.
Because both were true.
He stepped closer. Just enough that I could feel his presence, heat and gravity, drawing me in. "You didn't stop me last night."
"That doesn't mean it should've happened."
"Maybe not. But it did." His voice was calm now, too calm. "And you didn't pull away, Haru. You kissed me back. You felt it too."
"I didn't—"
"You did."
I clenched my fists. My throat felt tight. The part of me that spent years building walls around my heart wanted to run, to deny, to destroy any softness before it became vulnerability.
But the part that remembered his fingers trembling slightly against my jaw… wanted to stay.
"What do you want from me, Minho?"
He looked at me like I was being stupid. "Isn't it obvious?"
"No," I whispered. "It's not. You're Minho. You hate me. You compete with me. You mock me in front of everyone. So tell me—when did that turn into this?"
Minho didn't speak for a long second.
Then, quietly: "I don't know. Maybe it was always there. I just didn't know what to call it."
My heart twisted.
That confession—it didn't feel like a line. It felt like the kind of truth people say only when they're not trying to win.
I hated that it softened me.
I hated that it made my pulse stutter.
I hated that I believed him.
"I can't do this," I said, turning away.
But before I could walk, he caught my wrist. Not tightly. Just enough to make me pause.
"You can," he said, his voice steadier than mine. "You just won't. Because you think liking me is wrong."
"It is wrong."
"Then why does it feel like the only thing that's right when I'm with you?"
I pulled my wrist free, trembling.
"This isn't some fantasy, Minho. This is real life. We're rivals. We fight all the time. Everyone expects us to hate each other."
"So let them."
His words hit me like wind against fire—fuel and threat.
"Let them think what they want. I don't care."
"Well, I do!" I hissed, stepping back. "I care, okay? I care about what people think. I care about my future. About everything I've worked for. And I won't throw it all away just because you decided you suddenly like me."
His face dropped.
And then he said something that shattered me.
"I've always liked you."
Silence.
Louder than any scream.
I felt the world tilt. The hallway around us blurred into nothing.
"You were so sure of yourself," he said, voice tight now, like he was holding himself together with frayed threads. "Back when we first met. You acted like I didn't matter. But every time you looked at me, it felt like you saw me."
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know. You never meant to. But you did. And it drove me crazy. I hated you for making me feel like I wasn't enough. And then I hated myself for wanting you anyway."
His voice cracked on the last word.
And that broke me more than anything else could've.
I wanted to say something.
Anything.
But I couldn't.
Because his pain mirrored mine.
Because I saw myself in him.
And maybe… that was the scariest part.
Lunch period came like a lifeline.
I needed to breathe. To think. To escape.
I slipped into the drama room, hoping no one else would be there.
It was empty. Thank God.
I sat on the edge of the stage, fingers tugging at the hem of my sleeve, heartbeat still erratic from earlier.
Why did everything with him feel like a storm?
A door creaked.
I looked up, expecting a junior or maybe one of the stagehands.
But it was Minho.
Again.
Of course it was.
He closed the door behind him quietly.
"I figured you'd be here."
I didn't respond. Just looked at him with exhausted eyes.
He walked over and sat beside me, but didn't touch me.
Silence stretched again.
Then he said, almost shyly, "You used to smile a lot more before you met me."
My head whipped toward him.
He wasn't teasing.
He looked genuinely… sad.
"You ruined me," I said quietly, half-joking, half-honest.
He laughed under his breath. "I think we ruined each other."
We sat in silence for another long stretch.
"I don't know what we're doing," I admitted finally. "I don't know what this is."
"Me neither," he said. "But I don't want to stop."
"That's selfish."
"I know."
And yet, I didn't move.
Didn't run.
Didn't scream or push him away.
Because maybe I didn't want to stop either.
Even if it meant losing everything else.