© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved
📍 Scene: Rosewood Academy — Club Expo Day
There she is. Holding a clipboard, giving orders like a CEO in a headband. Her ballet flats squeak slightly as she power-walks past chaos, not even flinching. Moka doesn’t just run this school. She orchestrates it.
I approach her booth—Student Council, obviously. Moka stands front and center, armed with pastel pens and terrifying efficiency.
“Name?” she asks without looking up.
“You already know my name,” I smirk.
She finally lifts her eyes. Sharp. Focused. “Then spell it. I don’t make assumptions.”
“…Hot take,” I mutter, grabbing the pen.
“You’re here to sign up?” she asks, eyebrow raised.
“Not really. I just wanted to see what perfection looked like up close.”
She rolls her eyes, but her ears go slightly pink. “Flattery isn’t a leadership skill.”
“Neither is being scary in ballet flats, but here we are.”
Moka pauses. Just for a second. Then smirks.
“You’re annoying.”
“And yet… you haven’t told me to leave.”
A few days later, we cross paths again—this time at Booth #5. She’s alone, tapping her pen against her planner. Stress baking in her mind, probably.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, sliding into the seat across from her.
She sighs. “The funding application for the spring formal got kicked back. Again. I triple-checked it. Idiots.”
I laugh. “Wow. You really do everything, huh?”
“Not everything,” she says, then adds softly, “Just the things no one else gets right.”
She pulls out her phone, clearly trying to ignore me, but her wallpaper flashes for a second—an over-the-top anime boyband with sparkles and absurd hair colors.
I grin. “Wait—you’re a DreamStellar fan?!”
Her eyes go wide. Busted.
“Keep your voice down!”
“I knew you had chaos in you,” I tease. “You probably own the limited edition photobook.”
Her silence says everything.
“Oh my god. You do. Moka, you’re secretly unhinged.”
She crosses her arms. “They’re talented artists.”
I laugh. She tries to act offended, but the smile peeking out betrays her.
Two weeks later, I find her stress-cramming for a midterm at Booth #5, coffee in one hand, highlighter in the other.
“You okay?”
“No,” she mutters. “If I fail this test, I’m legally required to explode.”
I slide a snack toward her. “Eat first. Girlbosses don’t study on an empty stomach.”
She looks at the snack, then at me. “Why do you keep showing up?”