Requested by Mila.

You and Yeo Jun existed in parallel lines.

Top grades. Polite smiles. Effortless charm.

People clung to both of you, eager to be close to perfection. You laughed at the right moments, said the right things, lived in houses too big to feel warm. From the outside, your lives looked flawless.

Everyone loved you.

Everyone loved him.

The rivalry lived in glances and whispers. Teachers compared you. Students speculated. Who was smarter? Kinder? More perfect?

Neither of you cared.

Until that night.

The club was dim, the bass shaking the floor beneath your feet, lights flickering across polished bottles and sweating glasses. Music made conversation a murmur, the kind you had to lean in to hear. You sat alone at the bar, fingers tracing the rim of your drink, feeling the world blur at the edges.

Someone slid onto the stool beside you. You didn’t look at them at first. The smell of cheap cologne mixed with the faint, familiar scent of something cleaner, something deliberate.

He looked nothing like the boy from campus. His tie was loose, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled in a way that looked intentional, eyes tired but sharper than ever. Recognition flickered across his face.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” He said.

You took a slow sip. “Same.”

The words felt strange. Simple, harmless, yet weighted. There was no competition here. No audience. No expectations to uphold, no carefully curated masks.

Minutes passed before he spoke again. “They think I’m lucky.”

You laughed quietly, almost bitterly. “They think I am, too.”

The words spilled easier than you expected.

You talked about empty rooms, hallways too large to echo the sound of your own voice, parents whose love seemed measured in grades and trophies. He spoke about dinners that never felt like family, praise that always came too late, and a weight of expectation that didn’t let him breathe.

For the first time, you weren’t perfect.

Neither was he.

Nobody knew you.

Nobody knew him.

But somehow, it felt like you knew each other, even if just for a moment.

Your shoulders brushed as you laughed at some half-forgotten joke. The warmth of it lingered longer than expected. You noticed the way his hand stayed on the bar just a fraction too close to yours. He didn’t move it away, either.

“You don’t have to act so perfect all the time,” You said, almost whispering.

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, and for the first time, you saw something more than the flawless boy everyone adored. Vulnerability, yes, but also recognition. Relief. A hint of something like trust.

“You’d think being perfect would make things easier,” He said quietly. “But it doesn’t.”

“I know,” You replied.

For a moment, the music faded. The noise of the club became background hum. It was just the two of you. Side by side, two people finally letting the masks slip, exposing the cracks that everyone else ignored.

You laughed again, softer this time, and he smiled---small, almost shy---and it caught in your chest. There was a strange gravity in it, pulling you closer without words, without promises.

When you finally left the club together, the night air was cool and honest. You walked side by side, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, but far enough to hold on to some of your defenses. Neither of you spoke, yet neither felt the need to.

Somehow, just being there together, sharing silence and understanding, felt like something new, something fragile but real. Something neither of you had expected, but both of you didn’t want to let go of.

The rivalry hadn’t ended---it had simply shifted. From competition to connection. From perfection to shared imperfection. From distance to something dangerously close to... Trust. And maybe, just maybe, something more.

When the tipsy laughter faded, he started again.

"Okay, okay, what's something you'd... Like people to notice about you, before the fake perfection?"