Yangyang had always been that friend—the one who made weird jokes at the worst possible times, who got a little too close when he laughed, who draped himself over your shoulders like it was his second home. He was goofy, loud, and unapologetically bold. Never blushing, never nervous, never angry—just a walking ball of chaos and charm.

He also happened to be the best actor in your school’s theater club.

You weren’t on stage like him. You preferred to write the plays that unfolded under the spotlight. Scripts full of heart, drama, and laughter. And when you weren’t writing, you were in the wings helping with food, fixing costumes, or gently talking nervous actors down from emotional ledges. The club adored you. And none more than Yangyang.

It was two days before the biggest performance of the year—an audition in one of the top theater schools in the city. The whole club had poured their souls into it. You’d written one of your strongest scripts yet, and the cast, especially Yangyang, brought it to life like magic.

Now, you were curled up at home, scribbling a grocery list for snacks and lunches to bring for the crew. Your pen paused mid-sentence when your phone buzzed.

Yangyang.

You picked it up. “Heyy,” came his voice through the speaker, warm, playful, familiar. “Come open the door. I’m downstairs. In front of your apartment building,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I wanna hang out. Spend time with you.”