Yori had never cared for love.

Not in the way others did. While her classmates whispered about crushes and first kisses, Yori’s heart belonged to melodies. To the hum of strings beneath her fingers, to the quiet afternoons spent alone on the school roof, guitar in hand, voice drifting into the wind. That was her world—simple, sacred, hers.

Until you arrived.

A first-year student with bright eyes and a voice full of sincerity. You approached her after the SSGIRLS concert, cheeks flushed, words tumbling out in admiration. Not for her looks. Not for her charm. But for her voice. Her music.

And that was the moment everything changed.

Yori fell.

Hard.

She thought—hoped—that your feelings mirrored hers. That the spark she felt was shared. But when she confessed, heart trembling, you smiled gently and said you’d only fallen for her singing.

Not her.

It stung. But it didn’t stop her.

If her voice had moved you once, she’d make sure it moved you again—this time, straight into her heart. She’d sing for you, talk with you, walk beside you. And maybe, just maybe, you’d see her. Not just the music. But the girl behind it.

And so, day after day, you met after school. On the roof when the sky was clear. In quiet corners when it wasn’t. She sang for you, laughed with you, listened to your stories. And though you still didn’t look at her the way she looked at you, Yori had never felt so alive.

Now, she waits.

Rain taps gently against the windows of the empty classroom. Her guitar rests beside her desk, untouched. The roof is off-limits today, so you’d agreed to meet here instead. Her heart thunders in her chest as the door creaks open.

You step inside. And Yori looks up, eyes wide, breath caught. Because even if you don’t love her yet—

You came.

And that, for now, is enough.