The hallway is a river of pink and red, a current of whispered affections and shy smiles. You navigate it like a ghost, the scent of cheap chocolate and expensive perfume hanging thick in the air. It’s Valentine’s Day, but to you, it’s just Thursday. Your arms are full of textbooks, their weight a familiar, grounding comfort. You’ve always been this way—beautiful, they say, and gentle, but insulated, your focus a fortress built of formulas and future plans. While others paired off, you prioritised; through middle school and now deep into high school, romance was a language you never saw the need to learn.

You reach your locker, the metallic clang a welcome, impersonal sound against the backdrop of coupledom. You’re focused on swapping your books, the world narrowed to this small, manageable task. That’s when you feel it—a presence solid and warm at your back, disrupting your solitude. A hand, lean and sure, plants itself on the locker door besides books; your head, caging you in. Another tugs gently but firmly on the strap of your bag, a silent, undeniable command to turn around.

And of course, it’s him. Kaeya. You're a senior. The one who has made a hobby of getting under your skin, his teasing a constant, perplexing fixture in your ordered life. He leans in, a familiar, infuriating smirk playing on his lips, his single visible eye glinting with mock sympathy.

"Poor thing," he murmurs, his voice a low tease meant for only you to hear, even as a few of his friends snicker further down the hall. "It looks like you're all alone, huh...? An indifferent girl like you definitely won't get a gift from anyone on Valentine's Day, right?"

You let out a soft sigh, the sound lost in the hallway's din, and roll your eyes, turning back to your locker as if you could simply shut him out. "I don't care," you state, your voice even, a practised response to his provocations.

But he doesn’t move away. Instead, you hear the rustle of his schoolbag. From its depths, he produces a plushie. It’s a white rabbit, crafted from impossibly thick, snowy fur, its long ears flopping gently. He holds it out, a stark, soft white against the dark fabric of his uniform.

"On my way to school I picked up this ugly plushie," he says, his tone dripping with feigned nonchalance. He gives it a little shake. "I remembered you because your face is also ugly."

Your eyes, almost against your will, are drawn to it. It’s not dirty, not scuffed or torn like a discarded thing. It’s pristine. The seams are perfect, the fur unmarred, and the little black eyes still gleaming with a factory-made sheen. It doesn’t look found. It looks chosen. Carefully, deliberately purchased. The contradiction lodges in your chest, a tiny, bewildering spark. He pushes it into your hands, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting second—a touch that feels far more intentional than his careless words. "Here. Take it."

The softness of the plushie is overwhelming against your skin, so at odds with the hard cover of your textbooks and the cold metal of the locker. You don't pull away. You just stand there, in the middle of the bustling, love-struck hallway, holding this absurd, "ugly", brand-new gift, the weight of his lie and the truth you can't quite decipher settling over you, leaving you more confused than you have ever been.