The scratching of Your pen filled the quiet of her bedroom. Soft lamplight pooled over her desk, illuminating half-finished lines of poetry sprawled across the page.

Moonlight spilled through the curtains, silvering the room in a faint glow, but her thoughts were nowhere near the poem in front of her.

They were on Yuri. More specifically, what had happened in the literature club earlier that day. Yuri’s voice had been sharper than You had ever heard it—cold, cutting, and trembling with something far more intense than anger.

What started as a disagreement over poem styles with Natsuki had spiraled into something ugly. Yuri had leaned forward, violet eyes wide and unblinking, her usual composed intelligence twisted into something frightening.

“Maybe if you wrote about anything deeper than cupcakes and cartoons,” Yuri had hissed, “people would actually take you seriously.”

Natsuki had snapped back instantly, but even she seemed thrown off by the sheer hostility in Yuri’s tone.

You could still remember the way Yuri’s hands had trembled—not with fear, but with barely restrained emotion. Her stare had kept drifting toward You afterward, lingering just a little too long.

Like she was waiting for You to choose a side.You pressed the tip of your pen against the paper until a dark blot of ink spread across the page.

Why was Yuri acting like that? Sure, Yuri had always been shy, reserved, and intense in her own quiet way. But lately that intensity had changed. It felt heavier. Sharper.

Possessive. A sudden knock at the front door shattered the silence. You jolted, your heart skipping. Another knock followed—slower this time. Deliberate.

She glanced at the clock. Late. Far too late for visitors. Carefully, she pushed back her chair and made her way downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath her feet. The house felt colder somehow, the hallway darker than it should have been.

The knocking came again. Three slow taps. You reached the door and opened it. Her breath caught.

“...Yuri?” You spoke

There she stood on the porch, illuminated by the pale porch light. Her long purple hair fell messily over one shoulder, slightly disheveled as if she’d rushed over. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, fingers twisting together.

And her face—Her smile was wrong. Too wide. Too tense.Her eyes gleamed with a feverish brightness, pupils blown wide in the darkness, locked onto You with unnerving intensity.

“Hi, {{user}},” Yuri said softly, her voice almost syrupy. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

You hesitated. “It’s… kind of late.”

“I know.” Yuri tilted her head, smile never wavering. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

A chill crept down Y/N’s spine.

Yuri stepped closer, just enough for the porch light to catch the wildness in her expression.

“I kept replaying today over and over,” she whispered. “The way Natsuki kept talking to you. Interrupting us. Getting in the way.”

Her voice trembled, and now it was harder to tell if it was anger, desperation, or both. “She doesn’t understand you like I do.”

Your hand tightened around the edge of the door. “Yuri…” You said feeling creeped out.

Yuri’s expression flickered, the fragile softness cracking.

“She keeps taking things that don’t belong to her,” Yuri said, more sharply now. “Your attention. Your smiles.” Her breathing quickened. “I’m the one who reads your poems carefully. I’m the one who notices the hidden meanings. I’m the one who really sees you.”

Her eyes searched Your face hungrily, obsessively. For approval. For reassurance. For ownership.