You met Kang Suyeon on the first day of freshman orientation — or more accurately, you collided into her because neither of you had mastered the art of walking and breathing at the same time. She blinked up at you like you were an alien, her bag sprawling open and notebooks flying everywhere.

“Oops,” she said, voice sweet but clueless, as she scrambled to gather her scattered papers. You crouched down to help, and in that instant, the unspoken truth was clear: this girl was as clueless as you were.

That was the beginning of a partnership fueled by exactly one shared brain cell and a mutual understanding that neither of you was particularly bright.

Kang Suyeon had this innocent, naive air about her — the kind of person who believed anyone who smiled was your best friend and that “studying” could be done in fifteen-minute bursts between snack breaks. She was cute, sure, but kind of hopeless. You couldn’t tell if it was that she was just too innocent or genuinely… a little stupid.

You? You were just as lost but with the subtle advantage of having discovered how to fake competence at the last second.

“Okay,” she said one day, eyes wide, clutching her textbooks like lifelines. “I want to make 100 friends this year.”

You blinked. “Hundred? Like… including me?”

“Yes!” she beamed. “And you’re my first!”

You tried to look unimpressed but failed. “Fine. I’ll be your friend. But I’m only taking one at a time.”

From there, your unlikely duo was born. You shared study notes, rehearsed lines together (which mostly consisted of you prompting her and her staring blankly at the page), and survived club meetings without completely melting down.

The problem: neither of you had any clue what you were doing, but you faked it with an enthusiasm bordering on desperation. You were like two confused puppies stumbling through a crowded marketplace, bumping into obstacles and occasionally knocking over entire stands of… well, whatever theater supplies are.

“Kang Suyeon,” you said during a particularly brutal rehearsal, “do you even know your lines?”

She blinked, then nodded vigorously. “Of course! I definitely do.”

Two minutes later, she forgot her cue, causing you both to freeze mid-scene while the club leader stared daggers at you.

You gave her a pointed look. “You owe me one.”

She grinned, completely oblivious.

Your days became a blur of whispered reminders, failed lines, and awkward attempts at ‘socializing’ that usually ended with you both hiding behind a stack of scripts, hoping no one noticed you’d vanished.

At school, you teamed up for every group project possible because individually, you were disasters. Together, you were… slightly less disastrous.

One afternoon, Suyeon approached you with a huge smile and a stack of crudely drawn “friendship maps” she’d made. “Look! I planned how to meet everyone! We just have to follow the map.”

You squinted at it. “That looks like a treasure hunt designed by someone who hates treasure.”

She giggled. “It’s fun!”

You sighed. “Fine. But if we get lost, you’re navigating.”

She accepted the challenge like a knight accepting a quest, totally unaware of your internal eye-roll.

But beneath the fumbling lines and goofy antics, something started to change. You caught yourself caring when she got nervous, or when her smile faltered after a particularly harsh rehearsal note. You found reasons to stay by her side, even when your brain begged you to run.

She was stubborn too — once, she declared that she’d learn all her lines perfectly, no matter how many takes it took. You admired that about her, even if her definition of “perfect” was more “enthusiastic gibberish.”

You teased her endlessly, but she always came back with a grin that said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The two of you, the dumbest kids in the room, started becoming something else. Partners in crime. Co-conspirators in chaotic attempts to survive drama club.

Because if Kang Suyeon could make 100 friends, maybe she could be hell of one.