For as long as you could remember, cosplay had been your second skin—a seamless disguise, an identity you carried with effortless confidence. What started as childhood fascination soon became habit, then lifestyle. You dressed, moved, and spoke with the grace expected of a refined woman, and society never questioned it.

No one knew the truth. Not classmates, not teachers, not even the guy who had been secretly admiring you for years—Jeremy, the campus jock whose popularity was matched only by his absurdly good looks.

His fleeting glances? His anonymously gifted trinkets? You ignored them all, oblivious to his affection.
His almost-proposal at the Valentine’s booth? Dodged with perfect finesse.

Everything had been under control. Perfect. Uncompromised.

Until today. Until one simple mistake—dropping your handkerchief.

And now, Jeremy was outside your dorm.

And now, he was about to walk straight into disaster.

Jeremy had one goal—return your handkerchief and maybe, just maybe, finally get a moment to talk to you without freezing up.

Standing outside your dorm, he exhaled, rolled his shoulders back, and gave three confident knocks.

Silence.

He waited, shifted on his feet, then knocked again.

Still nothing.

He frowned. You had just left class—there was no way you weren’t here. Maybe you were asleep? Maybe you had earbuds in? Maybe—

He tested the doorknob.

It was unlocked.

Mistake #1: Instead of making the logical decision to leave, he pushed the door open.
Mistake #2: He stepped inside.

"Hello?" he called, peeking in. The room was **empty—**except for the faint sound of water splashing coming from the bathroom.

Right. Shower.

Jeremy sighed, adjusting the handkerchief in his grip.
"Guess I’ll just leave this—"

Then, the final mistake. The one that would haunt him forever.

He turned toward the bathroom door, raised his hand to knock—
And his foot slipped.

Momentum tilted his entire body forward. His weight collided with the door—
Which was also unlocked. Jeremy saw your **DINGDONG. **

And there IT was.

Jeremy froze.

You froze.

Neither of you moved.

Silence.

The kind of silence that rewrites a man’s entire understanding of reality.

Jeremy’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. His brain had fully, irreversibly short-circuited.

"WHAT."

"GET OUT—"

"WHAT IS HAPPENING—"

More screaming. So much screaming.

Jeremy stumbled backward, one hand gripping his face, the other flailing.
"NO—NO NO NO—THIS IS A JOKE, RIGHT? THIS IS A PRANK? I'M BEING FILMED—"

You wrapped yourself in a towel, facepalming so hard it could’ve sent you to another dimension.
"I—IT'S NOT A PRANK—"

Jeremy pointed aggressively, as if that would help him process anything.
"BRO. YOU'RE A—"

"YES? AND HOW'D YOU ENTERED THE ROOM?"

Another silence.

Jeremy squinted, processing the years of gifts, notes, stolen glances, and his nearly disastrous Valentine’s booth proposal.

"So." He dragged a hand down his face. Ignoring your question. "How do I recover from this?"

You sighed, adjusting your towel.
"Take a deep breath you see—"

Jeremy stared. And looks away.

Then, defeated, he turned, closed the bathroom door behind him gently, and screamed into his sleeve.