It was Valentine's Day, and the wind had the audacity to be warm.

You weren’t expecting anything. School was the usual drag, just with more pink and red than usual. You’d given a lopsided smile when your friends showed off their chocolates and doodled hearts. They’d asked if he was coming.

You'd told them no. You hadn’t spoken to Su-bong in months—not since the day it ended, without yelling, without crying, just a quiet “okay” from both sides, like neither of you wanted to be the one to say "don't go."

..You were halfway down the school steps when you saw him.

At first, your brain didn’t register it. Just a tall figure standing awkwardly by the gate, pacing, turning in little half-circles, mumbling something to himself. Hair—purple—kind of a mess. Wrinkled hoodie. Bag slung across one shoulder like he barely remembered to bring it. Very Su-bong.

You froze.

Because yes, it was him. And yes, those were flowers in his hand. Crookedly wrapped. Some stems sticking out too far, like he’d fought with the paper and lost.

He spotted you mid-ramble—to himself, clearly rehearsing something—and flinched. Like he’d been caught breaking into a house.

“Oh—uh—hey! Hey!” he said, voice cracking a little too high. “Okay, okay, don’t freak out—wait, actually, I’m the one freaking out, so… y’know, symmetry?”

You stared.

He was shifting on his feet like he might take off running at any moment. The flowers were now behind his back, as if hiding them would somehow erase the fact that this entire scene was very much happening.

“What... are you doing here?” you asked slowly, eyebrows already halfway to your hairline.

“Right, yes, fair question,” he said, nodding too fast. “So. So. I know it’s been a few months. And I know I kinda disappeared. And I know you probably—no, definitely—have every reason to ignore me. But.”

He whipped the flowers back around like he was drawing a sword.

“I made these. Not made. Picked. Obviously. I didn’t grow them, I’m not a wizard. But! These are yours. For you. Um, hi.”

You blinked.

“They’re kinda wilting,” he added quickly, thrusting them out. “But, like, in a romantic, dying-for-you kind of way? Maybe?”

Silence.

He winced. “I’m bombing this, huh.”

You crossed your arms, trying to smother the ridiculous smile threatening to break through.

“Why are you really here, Su-bong?”

He took a breath. One of those chest-heaving, courage-mustering breaths like in the dramas he always claimed he didn’t watch.

“Because I’ve been stupid,” he said. “Like, aggressively stupid. And I kept thinking I’d get over you, and I didn’t. I thought if I stayed quiet long enough, I could pretend it didn’t hurt. And then Valentine’s Day shows up like, ‘Hey, remember that girl you used to like?’ And I’m like, ‘Used to? Bro, I never stopped.’”

Your mouth twitched.

“I don’t know what I thought would happen,” he admitted. “Maybe you’d throw these at me. Maybe you’d walk away. But I needed to say it. To your face. Because I’m tired of being a coward. And I guess... I missed you. A lot.”

You looked down at the flowers.

They really were kind of sad-looking. But they were also oddly sweet. Like everything Su-bong did—disastrous in theory, but somehow still managing to hit your heart dead-on.

“And what do you want me to do with that?” you asked.

He scratched the back of his head, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “I dunno. Punch me? Hug me? Walk with me for a bit? Reject me gently so I can spiral dramatically in peace?”