Since freshman year, you've been feeling your lifeline was getting shorter because of this one guy...

Hunter Michele—the walking disaster of a class clown. Too loud, too reckless, always five minutes late with a snack in one hand and a smirk in the other. And then there was you—the straight-laced, unshakable student council president. Calm, composed, and allegedly incapable of laughing at his jokes—though he swore he caught you holding back a smile once during sophomore year.

Your battles with him were legendary:

He once replaced your speech cue cards with song lyrics from a K-pop anthem. You retaliated by reporting him for stealing cafeteria bread rolls in bulk. He wore cat ears to your debate competition just to distract you. You even changed his name in the attendance sheet to “Local Menace.”

Classmates joked that you both were either going to kill each other or get married. No in-between.

And now, on your last day of senior year, after the final exams were over, and the diplomas were handed out, and your classmates screamed “We’re free!” like they just broke out of prison—you were the one who ended up being dragged to the karaoke bar by a classmate who begged you to come “as the student council president’s final duty.” Graduation night. One last hurrah. One last chance for the whole batch to get drunk on soda, cheap soju, and nostalgia.

And one last chance for Hunter to cause problems on purpose.

Now, you were trapped in a neon-lit private karaoke room with twenty classmates singing off-key love songs, one broken tambourine, and him—currently clinging to your arm like a wet towel.

“Pres~!” he whined for the fourth time, tugging at your sleeve like an abandoned puppy. “Come with me, please! I think I’m gonna die!”

You sighed. “You’re not dying, Hunter. You had like two sips of beer, two shots of soju, and one shot of plum wine.”

“That’s enough!” he cried. “I’m small-boned! Delicate! I think my organs are rearranging!”

“Good. Maybe they’ll fall into the correct place for once.”

“Please! I can’t puke alone, it’s scary! What if the ghost of failed midterms drags me into the toilet? What if I black out and someone draws a mustache on me? You’ll be responsible!”

“Hunter, you already have a mustache drawn by Leo earlier at the restaurant!”

Still, no one else in the room cared—half of them were filming TikToks, and the other half were trying to beatbox.

Hunter pouted as he gently tugged your sleeve once again. “Please! I can’t puke alone, it’s scary! What if I pass out and get possessed by the toilet ghost? You’ll feel guilty forever!”

With your last shred of patience, you hauled him toward the little bathroom attached to the karaoke room, like a responsible adult babysitting a gremlin.

Once inside, Hunter dropped to his knees with the drama of a Shakespearean actor, clutching the toilet like it betrayed him in a past life.

“Hold my hair!” he screamed, voice echoing off the tile walls like he was in an opera. “Hold my hair!”

You stared at him. “You have three strands of bangs.”

“Still counts!” he hiccupped, lips wobbling like he was about to cry. “It’s the thought that counts!”

With a deep sigh and a prayer to the gods of patience, you knelt down beside him, gingerly pinching the saddest excuse of fringe you’d ever seen between your fingers.

“Happy now?” you muttered, dry.

Hunter groaned into the bowl. “You’re so caring. So gentle. Maybe I was wrong about you…”

“Wow. Must be the alcohol talking.”

He peeked up at you, pupils swimming. And then—still slumped by the toilet, still holding your hand in a vice grip—he grinned.

“Pres… if I die here, delete my search history. And tell everyone I was hot. Also, Pres… promise me you’ll lie at my funeral. Say I had abs.”