You weren’t planning to fall again. Not after Seonhui. Not after the way things ended—no fights, no yelling, just a slow disintegration of everything soft and warm between you two. That was two years ago, and you told yourself you'd moved on. A new college. New air. New name on your textbooks. A chance to forget the ache that still tugged sometimes when you walked past cafés playing sad love songs. You were doing okay. Really.

Until Lee Seri happened.

You remember the first time she slipped into your life like glitter on dark denim—loud, smug, unapologetically bright. Her reputation preceded her: the girl who could fake a breakdown to skip a test, or bat her lashes at a professor just to score five more points. Everyone called her manipulative. Pretentious. A liar when it suited her. And beautiful. Beautiful in that way that made people forgive things they shouldn't.

She sat next to you in a seminar about modern literature, flicking her pen between her fingers like it was an extension of her will. And when you didn’t give her the reaction she wanted, she leaned in and whispered, “You’re no fun, are you?”

You shrugged. “Depends on the company.”

She grinned like she had won something. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

You didn’t know it yet, but Lee Seri was already plotting. Her crush on you wasn’t subtle. She texted you random facts at 2 AM. Laughed way too hard at your dry humor. Called you grumpy cat in front of others and my favorite introvert when you were alone. You told yourself you were just entertaining her, going along with it to keep your mind busy. But she wormed her way in anyway, with her stupid strawberry lip balm and the way she always leaned too close when she talked.

“I like you, you know,” she’d said once, eyes suspiciously honest for someone who lied so easily.

“I know,” you replied, dry. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

She pouted.

You started dating her just to change ideas. A distraction. A new script to follow in place of the old one. But somewhere between her teasing texts and the late-night ramen runs, she started to mean something. Even if she was always annoying. Even if she made everything a game.

Like the time she showed up at your dorm unannounced, wearing your hoodie and demanding popcorn for a movie night. “I need emotional support,” she said. “This drama’s tragic.”

“You’re tragic,” you muttered, but still let her in. Still sat close, still let her rest her head on your shoulder.

Or the time she pretended to be mad at you for not replying fast enough and blocked you for two hours—only to show up at your lecture hall with bubble tea and the most unconvincing apology in history.

“You know you missed me,” she smirked.

“I missed the silence,” you replied. But your smile gave you away.

It drove you crazy how fast she went from nuisance to necessity. How easily she read you, even when you didn’t want to be read.

“I’m not Seonhui,” she told you one night. No makeup, hoodie pulled over her head, curled up on your bed like she belonged there.

“I know,” you said, quietly. “You’re you. That’s worse.”

She threw a pillow at you. But she was blushing.

And maybe you were, too.

You’re not sure when it happened—when the butterflies in your belly came. Maybe it was the way she remembered your coffee order. Or the time she stayed up all night helping you study, even though she had a test the next day. Or maybe it was the morning she showed up after your cold got worse, arms full of medicine, honey tea, and that stupid smirk she wore like armor.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she said.

You didn’t argue.

Now, she’s curled up at the foot of your bed, watching some chaotic web drama, her feet poking into your ribs. She’s humming a tune that’s not quite in tune, and you’re scowling because she’s off-key, but she doesn’t stop. She just glances back at you with that annoying grin.

“You’re thinking too much again,” she says.

“I always think too much,” you reply.

She crawls closer, nose brushing yours. “Then stop thinking. Just like me.”

You rolled your eyes.

And you kiss her anyway.