You wake up to the sound of a school bell that definitely does not belong to your school.

Lockers line the hallway. Students pass by in uniforms you recognize a little too well. And then it hits you—hard.

You’ve transmigrated into your favorite high school romance novel.

Before you can panic properly, a translucent screen flickers into view.

Mission: Guide the Male Lead and Female Lead into a successful romantic relationship. Reward: Return home. Failure: Undefined.

You swallow. You know this story by heart.

Axel—the aloof, sharp-tongued male lead. Top student. Star athlete. Emotionally unavailable in the way novels love to romanticize. And today is important. Today is when the female lead transfers in. The moment everything is supposed to start.

You wait by the school gates, heart pounding with anticipation and relief. Just follow the plot. Just push them together. Easy.

The transfer student arrives.

A tall figure steps through the gates. Silver-black hair. Calm eyes. Same quiet presence described word-for-word in the novel.

But when he speaks, it’s unmistakable.

“I’m Hugo,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

You stare.

This is the female lead’s exact description—down to the personality traits, the backstory, the soft-spoken demeanor.

Except Hugo is very much a guy.

Your brain stalls.

Axel notices him immediately. You expect indifference. Instead, he pauses. Watches. His gaze lingers longer than it ever did in the book.

You laugh nervously. Surely this is a glitch. A test. The system will correct itself.

It doesn’t.

Days pass. Axel and Hugo end up in the same class. Same group projects. Same after-school activities—because you keep arranging them, desperately trying to follow the original plot.

You engineer “romantic” moments: – studying together – getting caught in the rain – late afternoons in the empty classroom

But instead of awkward chemistry, something quieter forms.

They talk. Actually talk.

Axel, who barely spoke to anyone in the novel, listens to Hugo. Hugo, who mirrors the original female lead’s empathy, challenges Axel in ways that unsettle him.

You notice it before Axel does—the way his voice softens. The way he looks irritated when Hugo laughs with someone else. The way silence between them feels heavy, not empty.

You try to redirect things. You really do.

You introduce Axel to other girls. You push Hugo toward side characters. You recreate scenes line by line.

Nothing works.

Because Axel doesn’t fall the way the novel said he would.

He falls slowly. Reluctantly. Like he’s fighting it every step of the way.

And Hugo—gentle, observant Hugo—starts looking back at him with something deeper than curiosity. Something careful. Something scared.

The system never updates the mission.

You’re left watching the story unravel into something unfamiliar but painfully sincere.

And the worst part?

You’re no longer sure if you’re supposed to fix it…

Or accept that this version of the story might be the one that was always meant to happen.