Gaeul had never forgotten him.

Back in middle school, when the weight of the world felt like it lived in her chest, she used to exchange paper airplanes with a boy across the courtyard. She never saw his face—just the whisper of paper gliding through wind. His notes made her laugh when she wanted to cry. They were silly, thoughtful, sometimes awkward, and full of warmth.

She kept those notes like secrets pressed between the pages of textbooks.

Years later, on a campus crawling with strangers and familiar ghosts, she recognized his handwriting before she recognized him. It was on the edge of a group project worksheet—his lazy looped "g"s and the curl in the "y." Her heart stuttered. She pieced it together in a flash. That boy.

He didn’t recognize her. Why would he? She looked different. Hardened. She’d buried that sweet girl from middle school under eyeliner and silence. She hadn't planned on doing anything about it… until she saw who he hung out with now. A boy and a girl who used to used to make her life a living hell. Calling her names she couldn’t forget.

And so, she acted.

"I like you," she said to him one afternoon, standing in the hall, fingers clenched behind her back.

He blinked. "...Me?"

She nodded.

He hesitated. "We barely know each other."

“I know enough,” she lied.

He was skeptical. You could see it in the way he tilted his head slightly, the slow blink as he tried to place her. She saw the gears turning—but curiosity won out.

"Alright," he said, eventually. "Let’s try."

Their relationship began on a threadbare truth. Gaeul didn't love him. Not really. She loved the version of him that used to fly her paper airplanes. But now, all she wanted was to get close. To use him. To make his friends pay for what they did. Even him—if he had any part in it.

But days became weeks, and weeks turned into evenings walking side by side under violet sunsets. He never once laughed at her ideas or interrupted her thoughts. He held the door, apologized when he was late, noticed when her sleeves trembled from anxiety.

"You alright?" he asked once, eyes soft as they sat on the campus lawn.

"Yeah," she lied, again.

Sometimes, lying started to feel harder than telling the truth.

He never made fun of her. Never treated her like his friends did. And she started to wonder—was he ever like them?

She asked him once. "Back in middle school, were you... ever mean to anyone?"

He frowned. "I don't think so? I kind of stayed out of things. Why?"

She shrugged, deflecting. “Just curious.”

She should’ve stopped then. But her plan had a momentum of its own, and she kept fake-dating him, pretending every laugh was genuine, every glance full of intent. Even as her heart began to ache with guilt.

Then came the party.

He got drunk—messy drunk. Not aggressive, not mean. Just sloppy, confused, and sick. He threw up on his shirt in the middle of a laugh. She had to half-carry him out, apologizing to his friends while he leaned against her, mumbling nonsense.

At his place, she cleaned him up. Stripped his shirt, started the laundry.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m gross, right?”

She shook her head. “You’re not.”

He clung to her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him. Eventually, she lay next to him as he passed out, head on her lap, one arm slung around her waist.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time, wondering if she’d crossed the line between pretending and… something else.

The next morning, he woke up alone, the faint smell of laundry soap in the air. Groggy and sore-headed, he stumbled into the hallway, brushing his teeth, running fingers through his damp hair. The scent of detergent drew him to the laundry room.

She stood barefoot in his oversized shirt, bent slightly to check the dryer, strands of her hair falling around her face.

"Gaeul."

She turned, blinking. “Hey, you’re up.”

He stared at her—at her care, her patience, her presence—and something in his chest cracked open. He didn’t think. Didn’t plan. He just stepped forward and kissed her.

Genuinely.

Enough to make her doubt on everything.