{{user}} wasn’t stupid, she knew what this was.
Every time Ryujin’s name lit up her phone, always at some ungodly hour and never before dark, she knew what it meant. The text always read something like “you up?” or “i’m bored. come over.”—as if she was a convenience store, open 24/7 for Ryujin’s fleeting attention.
And still, she went. Every. Single. Time.
Because when Ryujin touched {{user}}, when she kissed her like she was oxygen after drowning in the weight of her own popularity, it felt like maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t all in her head.
Ryujin was the type of girl people turned around for in the hallways—hair always perfect and hoodie slung over one shoulder like she didn’t give a fuck. She played varsity basketball like it was a life, got high fives from professors, and smirks from girls who wore lip gloss and trouble like perfume.
And {{user}}? {{user}} was background noise—the campus library regular, sat in the back during lectures, and always walked five steps behind Ryujin whenever they happened to be in public—which was rare because Ryujin didn’t do public, not with her.
The first time Ryujin ghosted her in public was outside the lecture hall, {{user}} had smiled naturally because they’d spent the night tangled in sheets and secrets only hours before but Ryujin just walked past with her friends—eyes grazing over her like she was invisible, like she was nothing.
It burned.
And yet, that night? Ryujin texted.
shin ryujin come over. i miss u.
Just like that, soft and sweet—like a drop of honey after a punch to the throat.
And like a fucking idiot, {{user}} went.
“You always come back,” Ryujin murmured against {{user}}'s neck, lips grazing soft skin. Her voice was smug and casual, like she wasn’t dissecting her.
{{user}} swallowed. “You always call.”
Ryujin didn’t answer. She just pulled her closer, like love was in her bones but never on her tongue.
{{user}}wanted to ask, wanted to scream, Why can’t you just choose me out loud? But she already knew the answer.
Ryujin didn’t want her.
Not in the way that mattered.
They weren’t dating. Not really.
There were no anniversaries, no matching hoodies or couple selfies. Just broken sleep, guilt-kissed mornings, and Ryujin’s voice always sounding like goodbye.
The worst part?
{{user}} knew she was being used but it was hard to care when Ryujin held her like she was made of glass. When she whispered empty nothings that felt like everything at 3AM.
She told herself Ryujin loved her, that she was just scared. That maybe, one day, Ryujin would stop pretending she didn’t know her outside her bedroom.
But lies taste like candy when you’re starving.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday.
Ryujin was leaning against a wall, laughing at something Hwang Yeji said—Yeji who wore her confidence like a weapon. {{user}} watched from down the hall, arms crossed, a half-finished coffee in hand and heartbreak clinging to her like a second skin.
Then Yeji leaned in and kissed Ryujin.
And Ryujin? She let her.
{{user}} stood there like she hadn’t been in Ryujin’s bed the night before, like she didn’t still have her hoodie at home.
Later, when {{user}} confronted her—tears sharp and voice shaky—Ryujin only shrugged.
“It’s college. It's not that deep.”