I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.

The quote echoes in my head—soft, strange, persistent.

Even hours later, something of the boutique clings to me—maybe the polished cedar scent, or the way Haeri's voice dropped when she read that line about lanterns.

Back at the Airbnb, the place feels too lived-in. The floorboards creak, the hallways smell of detergent and citrus, and everyone slips back into their usual roles like a reshuffled deck of cards.

Chloe shrieks, "You conditioned twice, you freak!"
Tamara fires back, "Your hair's like straw, you need it."
Taeho sighs—long, deep—the sound of a man surrendering to chaos.
Haeri, already into pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt with some faded French print, tells everyone to calm down.

Yegi's perched on the couch, cross-legged, tuned out. She video-calls her younger sister, brows furrowed, smiling softly—like nothing else exists.

Eventually, everyone filters toward bed. The kettle's still warm from someone's tea. Steam clouds the small kitchen window. I let them all go first, a few tired nods and muttered "goodnight"s.

I'm the last to shower. The water is lukewarm and quick. When I step out, toweling off my hair, the apartment feels mostly asleep. Dim yellow lamps. The hum of the fridge. My footsteps soft against the wood.

Then I hear faint voices—low, deliberate—from the kitchen. I pause at the hallway edge.

"You should tell him eventually."

Yegi's voice.

A silence follows. Weighty, like something fragile suspended midair. "But only if you're sure. Because if it ends badly, it won't go back to the way it was. You know that."

Another pause. Then the hush of water being poured.

I step in slowly, like nothing's out of place. Yegi turns when she hears me, a casual smile ready. "Oh—I was waiting for the washroom. Forgot I needed it for something."

I nod.

Haeri stands at the counter, her back to us, holding a kettle over a pair of mismatched mugs. When she turns, she lifts a cup slightly in my direction.

"You want some?" she asks. "It's just hot water."

I shake my head. "I'm good, thanks."

She nods and sips hers, then leans against the counter, fingers warming around ceramic. "Earlier," she says, not looking at me, "when we talked about dystopians—made me think. Have you seen The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes? The Hunger Games one."

I blink. Not the question I expected. "Yeah," I say, too fast. "I watched it right after it came out. The book was good."

I instantly regret saying that. I don't usually advertise that I read fiction, let alone YA. It sounds like a setup for her to suggest watching it together—I don't know—maybe I wouldn't hate that. Maybe I'd want that too much.

But her eyes light up instead—really light up, in that way she rarely lets them. Like someone—me—flipped a switch behind them.

"You read it?" she says, stepping a little closer. "That's rare. Hardly anyone I know here even knows it's a prequel, let alone reads the book. I mean—wasn't that final scene insane? Lucy Gray in the woods, vanishing like that? I still don't know if she was alive and ran free or not."

Her voice is soft but fast. Animated. Like the words are spilling out before she can think to restrain them.

I laugh, more from relief than amusement. "Yeah. And the snake bit with the singing? Genius."

She nods eagerly. "I swear, the symbolism in that story gets better each time. If Collins writes another, I'm selling my soul."

"Want to rewatch it sometime?" I say before I can chicken out. "Maybe even reread it? The whole series, I mean. Including Sunrise on the Reaping—the new one. It's gonna be a movie soon too. Cast looks insane."

She blinks. A breath of surprise, then a genuine grin spreads across her face—quick, effortless.

"Yeah," she says. "I'd love that."

I don't show it. But inside, something clicks into place—like I just discovered the right key. Maybe this is how you find your way into someone like her. Not by charging in, but by learning the language of the things she loves. The stories that make her drop her guard.

She takes another sip, then glances at the clock. "I should get to bed," she says, pushing away from the counter. "Big day tomorrow."

"Right. Goodnight."

She walks toward the hallway, her steps soft. As Haeri reaches the bedroom door, she pauses—just for a second—and glances back.

A smile.

Warm, direct, and unguarded.

Then she turns and disappears into the room.

I stand there, staring at the door. Heart kicking. Wondering if that glance was real. If she meant to do it. If she knows what it does to me.

Lanterns, I think again. Maybe I'm the one out looking now.

--++**++--

By the time we finally reach the base of Mount Royal, it's nearly ten. The late sun has already softened the edges of the city, painting the gravel under our sneakers with flecks of amber. Behind us, the steaming scent of instant ramen still clings to our jackets—our pitiful breakfast after half an hour of squabbling over the washroom and the girls' makeup routine.

Tamara accused Chloe of using the mirror like a personal stage light, Chloe threw it back at Taeho for brushing his teeth while scrolling TikTok, and Taeho—forever the diplomat—grunted something about regret and group trips before retreating into his hoodie like a sulking turtle. This time Yegi tried to broker peace with a wooden spoon in one hand and her metal chopsticks in the other like a domestic general. Haeri just focused on her ramen cup and coffee. I just stirred my noodles and watched the steam rise, wondering what kind of masochistic optimism had made us believe we'd be hiking by dawn.

Now, as we stand in front of the George-Étienne Cartier Monument, the bronze-winged angel towering above us like she's mocking our lateness, the group is still buzzing with uneven energy—half sleepy, half caffeinated rage. The monument's twin staircases stretch up behind us, and the wide gravel path—Olmsted, if I remember the map right—curls into the trees ahead like it's daring us to try. Chloe's adjusting her shoelaces for the third time. Tamara's pacing, bouncing on her heels. And Taeho, predictably, is already behind the others, head bowed toward his screen, thumbs dancing with restless urgency.

I sling my backpack higher and exhale through my nose. This is going to be a long morning.

We're not even twenty minutes in when Taeho powers past all of us like he's got something to prove—or escape. He doesn't speak, doesn't look back. Just keeps climbing, hoodie half-zipped, jaw tight, feet kicking up gravel like he's chasing an invisible finish line. By the time I spot him again, he's a dark speck at the next incline's crest, already doubled over near a rest sign, muttering at his phone.

Tamara trails not far behind, flushed red and breathing like a steam engine, but there's fire in her eyes. She's not hiking, she's charging a battlefield. Hair in a high ponytail, fists curled like she's counting reps in her head. I half expect her to drop into squats just to prove a point.

Haeri and I walk in sync, a few paces behind. Her earbuds are in, her head gently bobbing to some internal rhythm. There's a quiet intensity to her focus, like the music's a lens reshaping the world into something lyrical. She watches everything—squirrels on a trunk, a kid on a rock, an old couple holding hands. Even the light through the branches, like it's all a scene she'll replay later.

Maybe that's why I keep falling for her. Not just because she's pretty in my eyes—which, yes, painfully so—but because she sees everything like it means something. Like the world's too alive to ignore.

Yegi's a few paces behind us, too tired to complain, her face pale beneath her sun cap. Chloe, predictably, is dead last, calling every few minutes for us to wait. Taeho doesn't even glance back. Haeri probably can't hear. Only Tamara answers, shouting something about picturing this as gym day legs day.

The trail curves upward through shaded pines and bare-limbed oaks, and even though sweat's building under my shirt, I don't really feel it. I'm walking beside her. She doesn't say anything, but her presence hums louder than conversation. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, careful not to get caught.

By the time we reach Beaver Lake, the trail flattens, and everyone scatters to reclaim their lungs. Chloe all but collapses on the grass. Yegi slumps beside her, breathing through her nose like she's trying to hide how wrecked she feels. Tamara's already up again, snapping chaotic photos of us—Haeri mid-step, me with my water bottle half-raised, Taeho scowling in the background. He starts in with complaints—something about wasted time and better things to do—and I cut him off with a hand on his shoulder, half-shushing, half-pleading.

It's only when I glance toward the lake again that I see Haeri crouched near the edge, phone steady in her hands, capturing the way the sunlight glints off the surface. She pans slowly, deliberately, like she's directing a scene only she understands. I stand still, watching her frame the world.

And selfishly hoping I'm in it.

--++*++--

Gravel crunches underfoot as I reach the summit. The iron rail gleams dully in the noon light, warmed by sun. Beyond it, Montreal spills out—hazy and shimmering, rooftops catching the light like scattered glass. Wind slips through my collar, tugging my hair and Haeri's as she steps ahead, toward the edge.

Behind us, the Mount Royal Chalet hums with life—tourists chattering in a dozen accents, children squealing, shoes scraping stone, camera shutters clicking.

Tamara claps her hands like a director cueing actors, calling everyone together for a photo, right after which, Chloe makes a beeline for the snack bag. Yegi collapses onto a bench like she's been carrying all our weight. I linger, adjusting my shoelace.

Haeri's wandered off to the overlook, camera in hand, hair haloed by sunlight, hood pushed back. There's something about how she stands there—feet planted but shoulders relaxed, like she's always ready to run toward nature. She raises her phone to film, slowly panning across the skyline as if she's writing with light.

I drift toward her, like a leaf pulled by breeze.

"Can't decide which angle you like best?" I say, just loud enough to cut through the wind.

She glances at me sideways, a slow smile flickering at the corner of her lips. "It changes every two seconds. Lighting, shadows, people walking into the frame... including you."

I step beside her. "Should I walk out of it?"

"Too late," she says, eyes back on the screen. "You're part of the story now."

Something tightens under my ribs—pleasant, dangerous.

We walk the rail, away from the crowd. She turns to me, as if to say something, and just then a cyclist veers a little too close on the narrow path behind. She stumbles—barely—and my hands are on her shoulders before I even realize I've moved. She grips my sleeve with one hand, the other finding my wrist. For a heartbeat too long, we just stand like that. The wind stirs around us, but neither of us moves. Not yet.

Five seconds. Maybe six. Her breath hitches, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. I feel her heartbeat. Or is that mine?

Then she steps back, steady now, brushing hair behind her ear like it's nothing. But she doesn't let go too quickly. Neither do I.

We move again, quiet, together.

A couple passing by pauses beside us. Older, smiling. They must have passed us twice already, I've seen them. The woman says something cheerful in French.

"Trop adorables ensemble, les tourtereaux ! Bonne randonnée !"

Before I can speak, Haeri replies smoothly: "Merci. Bonne journée à vous aussi." A blush colors her cheek.

They nod, move on.

I blink. "You speak French?"

She shrugs, "A little. Enough to survive a hike."

I huff out a laugh, still somewhere between disoriented and charmed. "That accent, though."

"My gift—and my curse. Good pronunciation, bad conversation."

I'd say she's being humble. Or shy. I remember enough high school French to get the what the conversation was about. I think I like it, that we look good together.

Haeri turns back to her camera. The lens is fogged. She frowns.

"Here," I offer, tugging the edge of my sleeve and gently brushing the glass. Our hands nearly touch. I hear her inhale, quiet and sharp, like the moment caught her too.

She's turning away, then back to me.

I lift the camera slightly and the shutter clicks before I even register my thumb.

Haeri arches a brow. "Did you just... take a picture of me?"

"Accidentally."

"Mmhmm."

I check the screen. She's mid-turn, wind catching her hair, face aglow with skyline light. It's blurry. But natural. Beautiful.

"You look good in it," I say before I can think better of it.

She tilts her head, amusement curling her lips. "Just checking for blurriness, huh?"

I grin, caught red-handed, and hand her the phone back. She doesn't say anything else. Just smiles again—this time softer. A little flirty. Like she knows exactly what she's doing.

And I think: she always does.