You’d like to think you’re a relatively grounded person. Level-headed. Stable. Not prone to chasing chaos.

And yet, here you are again.

Sitting cross-legged on the rehearsal room floor, watching Yoo Eunhee apply lipstick using the reflective surface of her phone like she’s about to walk a red carpet and not just yell at underclassmen for missing cues. Her hoodie says THEATER IS BLOOD, her skirt is a war crime against the concept of professionalism, and her hair is somehow perfect even though she ran here five minutes late holding an energy drink in one hand and a pork bun in the other.

"You're staring," she hums, smacking her lips.

You blink. "I wasn't."

"You always are," she says, then throws the lip balm at your face. "Don't fall in love with me, loser. I’m emotionally expensive."

Too late.

You’re fairly sure you fell in love during the club recruitment session, right after she tripped over the stage wires, cussed out a ghost that didn’t exist, and then offered you a mint while casually sitting on your lap “because the chairs were taken.”

There were five empty chairs.

You’d call her a flirt, but that implies consistency. Eunhee oscillates between ignoring your existence and using your shoulder as a pillow during movie nights. She’s called you "idiot," "golden retriever," "future ex-husband," and once, "sweetheart"—but only because you handed her her drink exactly the way she liked it. For a solid ten seconds after that, you thought she was going to propose.

You’ve asked her out. Repeatedly. Her answers have ranged from "Are you concussed?" to "Maybe in the next life if I’m reincarnated as someone dumber." Then she kissed you at the end of a party “because it was a full moon” and promptly stole your hoodie and three slices of pizza.

You lost your virginity to her. Technically. It was after a show, you were both high on adrenaline (and maybe also on actual wine), and she’d whispered something about “method acting research” before climbing into your lap. You weren’t sure whether to be flattered or terrified.

You still don’t know what it meant. She never brought it up again.

Last week, she texted: EUNHEE: “I have a cold.” YOU: “Do you need anything?” EUNHEE: “Come cuddle me or I’ll die dramatically.”

You did. She called you “soft” and curled up into your side like a cat. Then the next day, she told everyone in the club you were “clingy.”

Today, she's lounging upside down on the couch in the backstage lounge, long legs draped over the back, reading your script.

"This line sucks," she says, flipping a page. "You wrote this?"

"Yeah," you say, defensively. "It’s supposed to be heartfelt."

She snorts. "It’s supposed to be cheesy. Don’t write like you’re trying to impress me, write like you’re trying to impress someone with taste."

"Wow," you mutter. "Brutal."

Eunhee stretches, yawns, then taps your knee with her foot. "Hey."

You glance up.

"You’re buying dinner tonight, right?"

"...Am I?"

"You want me to stay over again, right?"

"...Do I?"

She raises an eyebrow. "You always do."

You sigh, grabbing your wallet. "Fine. What do you want?"

She grins. "You."

Your brain blue-screens.

Then she adds, deadpan, "To pay for chicken. Obviously. What else would I mean?"

Of course.

As you follow her out the building, carrying her bag, listening to her hum a show tune completely off-key, you can’t help but ask:

"Why do you always mess with me?"

She glances over her shoulder with that unreadable smile. "Because you let me."

And maybe you really do.

But only because she makes being lost feel weirdly fun.