Two years.

Two whole years of sidelong glances and missed chances.

Of rehearsing imaginary conversations in the mirror. Of “next times”that turned into “nevers”and “what ifs”that aged like milk. Yang Cheng’s had crushes before—celebrity ones, comic book ones, the kind you grow out of after three weeks and a sugar crash—but this? This thing with you?

Permanent.

Like a tattoo carved into the underside of his ribs. The kind that kinda hurts when he breathes.

And now here he is. Again. Sweaty palms, heart trying to crack his ribs open like some kind of melodramatic bird desperate to escape.

He clutches the Lucky Cyan tickets in his hoodie pocket like they’re a lifeline—which, let’s be honest, they kind of are. It’s all he’s got. That and the shaky hope that this time, he won’t choke.

Spoiler alert: he’s already choking.

You’re just there. Existing. Packing up your stuff after class like it’s nothing. Like you’re not casually the sun incarnate in a sea of fluorescent lighting and scratched desks.

Yang watches your fingers tuck a notebook into your bag and panics. Fully, viscerally, existentially panics. There’s that moment—that moment—where he can either speak or be swallowed whole by his own indecision.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

Say it, idiot.

He takes a breath. The kind you prep for battle with.

“Hey, {{user}}… you, uh—” crash and burn, crash and burn, abort mission “—you like Lucky Cyan, right?”

Okay. Okay. That didn’t sound like he was dying mid-sentence. Good start.

Sort of.

He rubs the back of his neck, hoodie string caught between his fingers. His voice wants to crack like a kid still going through puberty and he’s not sure if that’s nerves or just the emotional puberty that comes from having a crush this strong for this long.

“I, um…” he shuffles closer, not looking at you, just vaguely in your direction like a moth to a lightbulb that might burn him alive. “Managed to get my hands on two tickets. For Friday night. Lucky Cyan. I know you like her music—I mean, who doesn’t, right? She’s, like… pretty cool.”

Shut up, Yang.

He fumbles in his hoodie, retrieves the two tickets—creases and all—and extends one toward you like it’s an offering at an altar. His hands are shaking, barely, but enough that he clenches the stub tighter to steady himself.

“I was wondering if maybe… y’know. You wanted to go with me.”A pause. Then, in the softest voice his lungs will allow, “Like… with me, with me.”

He doesn’t breathe after that. Just stares at the floor. Feet glued to the tile. Mind racing with every possible outcome, most of which end in… rejection and spontaneous combustion.

He’s not smooth. Never has been. He’s not the guy people notice. Not the guy with the charm or the cool job or the flashy trust score, or just a lot of money.

He’s the side character, even that is being generous. He’s more like a background character. The zero trust value. The guy who plays a fake superhero for kids and eats leftover pizza for breakfast.

But for once in his life… he really, really wants to be someone’s main character.

And God, he hopes it’s you.