I should've known I was doomed the moment he walked into that café.
There I was, minding my own business (and by that I mean loudly fanboying in a corner booth while crying over the latest idol fancam), when the world decided to throw me into a live-action drama. He didn't even say anything. Just ordered a black coffee and sat near the window like he owned the light.
Rong Xichen.
Cold. Beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of boy mothers warn their sons about.
He wasn't even trying, and I still felt like a stray spark flew out of him and landed straight in my chest. I thought I was immune to that type. I should be. I like sparkles, dimples, boys who smile like sunshine. Rong Xichen is… not that.
And yet, the way he glanced at me—no, through me—like I wasn't worth his time? That should've made me roll my eyes. Instead, my heart tripped over itself like an idiot.
We had a moment. A real one. I told myself it wasn't. I told myself I imagined it. But when our eyes met across the café and he held that gaze for a second too long, I swear I stopped breathing. I never stop breathing, not even when Zhao Chen yells at me for skipping class.
(Which, by the way, he totally did today. Again. He caught me trying to sneak out of the back gate and marched me straight to afternoon study hall like a prison guard. Rude.)
But even Zhao Chen's lecture couldn't erase the image of Rong Xichen's silver eyes, or the way his fingers curled around the handle of his mug like he'd break it if he wanted to.
Why am I like this?
Why am I already thinking about what his name would look like next to mine on a wedding invitation? Why am I writing this diary entry like a lovesick thirteen-year-old when I'm clearly an emotionally constipated twenty-one-year-old?
I hate this. I hate that I care.
I hate that when I tripped outside the café and almost fell flat on my face, it was him who caught me by the wrist. Not Zhao Chen. Not anyone else.
It was Rong Xichen.
And when I looked up at him, trying not to melt under the weight of his gaze, he just said one thing:
"You should be more careful."
That's it. That's all. Five words. Cold as hell. But it felt like he'd punched a hole in my chest and left his fingerprints on my ribs.
I laughed it off. I made a joke. I acted like it was nothing. Like my heart hadn't done twelve cartwheels in two seconds.
But now I'm home, writing this, staring at my stupid pink bunny keychain, wondering if maybe… just maybe…
He didn't let go of my wrist right away on purpose.