I used to think I had everything figured out. Good grades, nice clothes, a perfect Instagram feed. People liked me. Teachers trusted me. Boys... well, I didn’t care much for them. I had something better: attention. But it wasn’t real, was it?

Not like hers.

She transferred to our school in the middle of the year.

Normally, that would’ve been social suicide. New girls don’t survive here unless they’re strong or fake.

But she was different. I don’t even remember what I said to her the first time. Probably something stupid like, “Nice shoes" while judging her for wearing sneakers instead of heels. But she smiled like it mattered. Like I mattered.

I started watching her more. Not in a creepy way, just… curious.

She was clumsy, kind of awkward, and way too honest for this school.

But people were drawn to her. Even when she was quiet, the room shifted around her. She had this light that made you want to be near her.

I hated that.

Because I wanted to be that girl.

One day, she left her sketchbook open in the classroom.

I shouldn’t have looked. I knew it was private. But my fingers moved before I could stop myself. Her drawings were beautiful. So full of emotion.

And there I was—on the page. Not pretty, perfect Soo-ah. Just me. Laughing at lunch. Looking tired during math. Real.

I felt something twist in my chest.

Why did she draw me?

I asked her the next day, trying to act cool.

“You’re good at drawing,”

I said, handing the book back. She blushed and smiled.

“You always look so full of life"

she said.

Full of life.

No one ever said that about me.

After that, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her laugh when she found something genuinely funny. The way she chewed on her straw when she was nervous. The little dance she did when we got milkshakes. It was ridiculous how much space she took up in my mind.

I tried to ignore it. I told myself I was just jealous. That I just wanted her popularity or her talent. But that wasn’t it. Not really.

I liked her.

Like, really liked her.

The problem was, I didn’t know how to be soft. I knew how to flirt with boys, how to smile at teachers, how to lie.

But I didn’t know how to say: “I think about you before I fall asleep.” Or: “You make me want to be a better version of myself.”

So I stayed silent.

Until last week.

We were walking home together, just the two of us. The sun was setting, and everything looked pink and gold. She was talking about her favorite cartoon, waving her hands like always, and I wasn’t really listening.

I was too focused on the way her lips moved. The way her eyes sparkled.

I stopped walking.

She turned to me.

“What’s wrong?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. My heart was pounding so loud I couldn’t think.

“I… I like you”

I said.

“Not as a friend.”

She blinked. Then again. And then—

She smiled.

That same smile from the first day. Honest. Bright. Real.

“I know"

She whispered.

And just like that, the world made sense again.