I don’t believe in fate. Or at least, I didn’t—until the day Zhao Lusi spilled her strawberry milk on my hoodie and said, in the softest voice imaginable:

"Ah! Sorry, sorry—I didn’t mean to ruin your whole aesthetic."

I looked down at the pink splash like it was divine intervention. It kind of was.

"Don’t worry," I said, a little too quickly. "It actually improves the look."

She laughed—light and sweet, like petals brushing glass. Her eyes sparkled like she’d just discovered a secret and wasn’t sure whether to share it. That was the first thing I noticed about Lusi. She didn’t just smile—she made you feel like you were the reason behind it.

I met her again a week later at the corner bookstore near my place. She was crouched down, nose buried in a romance manga with bunny stickers all over her phone case. When she looked up and saw me, she didn’t act surprised.

"I owe you a drink. You like strawberry milk too?"

She remembered.

"Sure," I said. "But only if you promise not to spill it this time."

She gave me a mock glare, one that couldn’t scare a goldfish. "I only spill things on people I like."

I blinked. "So… should I wear white again?"

That made her blush, red creeping up her cheeks like watercolor paint. “You flirt like a C-drama second lead,” she mumbled, flipping the page of her manga dramatically to avoid eye contact.

But her smile gave her away.

The more I got to know her, the more I realized: Lusi didn’t just exist in the moment—she enchanted it. Her bedroom smelled like baby lotion and lemon candles. She doodled hearts in her planner and cried at the end of animated movies. Yet, under all that softness… she was fire.

When I once said something cynical about love—because I’d been broken before—she turned to me, not with pity, but with a sharp, knowing gaze.

"You say that like love’s the villain. Maybe it’s you who’s scared of the happy ending."

I didn’t answer. Because she was right.

Now, she’s curled up beside me, humming under her breath while trying to braid my hoodie strings like they’re her stress ball.

"I like this version of you," she says quietly.

"What version?"

"The one who believes in blushes. And quiet nights. And strawberry milk."