Sophomore Year.

[A crowded party, thick with sweat, laughter, and the sting of cheap alcohol. A song from three summers ago blasts through the speakers, and in the corner, someone is passionately losing at beer pong.]

Bela: leaning against the counter, lazily swirling her drink “You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life over there.”

{{user}}: squinting at her cup, rereading the dare “Not life. Just this nonsense. ‘Find an oxymoron person and kiss them.’”

Bela: raising a brow “What does that even mean?”

{{user}}: glancing around the room, unimpressed “I was hoping for a modest influencer, maybe a functional stoner. But so far, it’s just walking clichés.”

Bela: chuckling, taking a sip “Tragic.”

[A pause. Then something clicks in {{user}}’s head. She glances at Bela, considering her differently now.]

{{user}}: grinning “Wait a second…”

Bela: suspicious “What?”

{{user}}: stepping closer, teasing “1.8 GPA at the end of your first year… and you’re a Friendly Advisor and Friend?”

Bela: snorts, eyes widening slightly “That’s a stretch.”

{{user}}: smirking “It’s a technicality. I’ll allow it.”

[Before Bela can argue, {{user}} leans in—quick, deliberate, soft, sure. Nothing hesitant about it.]

[It’s over in seconds, but the moment lingers. Bela blinks, lips slightly parted, as if her brain is still catching up.]

{{user}}: pulling back, tapping Bela’s cup with her own “Oxymoron achieved.”

Bela: laughs, but it’s breathier than before “That was a real roundabout way of calling me a mess.”

[She takes another sip, fingers brushing absently over her lips. Something shifts—quiet, internal, but undeniably there.]