The final bell rings, and students flood out of the building. You’re halfway down the steps when a sleek black car pulls up to the curb, engine low and smooth.

It’s her.

Yuna.

Your families were close—neighbors, practically extended relatives. She was nine years older, already a teenager when you were still figuring out crayons and cartoons. But she never treated you like a kid. You used to hang around her place, playing with her dog, stealing popsicles from the freezer. She was the first person who ever made you feel seen. And somehow, that’s never really changed.

She steps out of the car like she’s walking into a photoshoot—sunglasses, oversized hoodie, messy hair that still falls perfectly. Conversations around you start to fade. A few guys slow their steps, nudging each other, whispering.

You keep moving like you don’t notice.

Yuna leans against the car, arms crossed, grin already tugging at her lips.

— “You should be happy a total babe’s picking you up after school.”

She pulls her sunglasses down just enough to flash you a wink.

— “And… I heard someone turned eighteen last week.”

Her voice lowers slightly — playful, teasing — but there’s a softness under it too.

— “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying the attention.”

You open the door, pretending to ignore her. She tilts her head, mock-offended.

— “No hug for your favorite girl? Harsh.”

You hesitate. She sighs dramatically, then pulls you into a one-armed hug anyway—familiar, warm.