The sun is obnoxiously cheerful at 4:45 p.m., casting long shadows on the stairs as we descend from the canteen. One of those late-afternoon slants that makes everything look nicer than it actually is.

I'm halfway down the hill from the canteen when Tamara spots me and waves like she's calling me to war.

"Freshie," she shouts, "you ready for death-by-badminton?"

I give a noncommittal shrug and catch up. She's already turned, leading the descent like a general. I fall into step beside her. "Is that today's official event title?"

She laughs and nudges my arm. "Should be. Come on, I'll brief you on your last rites."

We walk. She's the type who makes it easy — fast talker, fast walker, says things like she's already in the middle of the next sentence.

Haeri walks on my other side, quiet. Her shoulder just barely brushes mine whenever we hit a dip in the path. She doesn't say much, but she's looking. Always looking.

"Classes alright?" she asks, bouncing into the conversation like she's got infinite lives.

"Microeconomics is gonna murder me," I say.

Tamara groans like I slapped her. "Ugh, same. I swear the professor's just messing with you at this point." She launches into a rant about supply curves and price floors, then a full-blown monologue about evil professors and multiple-choice betrayals. Passionate. Animated. She flails her hands a lot when she talks — knocks me lightly in the arm at one point. Doesn't even notice.

I nod along, letting her talk. She's funny. Loud, but funny.

Haeri watches me with that look again. Squinting. Almost smiling. She remembers I already asked her about this. 

It's not much. But it's something. That quiet little click that only happens with her. No fanfare. Just... recognition.

She already gave me advice. I just wanted to hear her voice again.

She gives it anyway.

We reach the gym checkpoint. I trail behind them, copy their sign-in ritual like a seasoned mimic. Haeri floats in first. Tamara flashes her student ID like a VIP pass, somehow already chatting with a stranger. 

Inside smells like rubber soles and old victories. Wood polish, crushed dreams and ego. It's loud.

Taeho finds me before I find him. "Yo, freshie," he grins, clapping me on the shoulder like we've been bros since the womb. "Locker room's this way."

Inside, it's all echo and damp towels. He points across the row. "That one's usually open if you don't wanna wrestle for space."

"Thanks," I say, unzipping my gym bag. Jacket half-off, gym shirt halfway on.

"You play any sports regularly?" he ask, crouching to tie his shoes.

"Fencing, just a bit back in high school. Now it's mostly gym... and games."

He perks up. "What kind?"

"Console stuff. Story-driven games. JRPGs. Sometimes Valorant, PUBG or LoL when I hate myself."

Taeho grins. "Dude. We gotta team up sometime. LoL's evil. But I'll carry you in Valorant."

I glance at him. "That sounds like a challenge."

"Promise," he says, bumping my shoulder.

I chuckle. It's nice. This kind of bro-energy isn't usually my thing, but maybe I've been missing it. Maybe I'm always late to the friendship party. Maybe this time, I'll make it in.

Jacket zipped. Locker closed. I glance at the mirror and think to myself — weird tastes. Console games, political dramas, finance news... and a girl who blends into the background, until I can't stop seeing her.

--++*++--

The courts hum with energy. Chloe and Yegi have a net up and are warming up. Tamara whistles. "Look at that chivalry, Taeho."

Laughter all around.

He's texting his girlfriend. Of course. He gets that soft look. The one that says he misses her even though she texted five minutes ago.

I glance at Haeri instead. She's sitting on the side bench, zoned out, her gaze far away. Her water bottle's barely open, her racket still tucked under one arm.

She doesn't look nervous, but also doesn't look here. Maybe this isn't her thing. Or maybe she's just like this — drifting in and out.

Then she steps onto the court and— 

Okay. She's not bad.

Not amazing either. She's... human. Smaller. A bookgirl playing badminton like she's not entirely sure she belongs here. But something about that makes her more real. Less polished. Less performative.

If she were sporty — flashy, aggressive, sharp — maybe I wouldn't be so gone for her.

...Great. I think that thought, and now it's real. I can't unsay it to myself.

I look away, try to focus on the game. On the lines, the plays, the awkward fumbles from the other courts. My brain slips into analysis mode. Movement. Footwork. Racket angles. Match rhythms.

It doesn't last long.

They're done with their match now. Haeri's team hits 21 first.

Not because of her, I know that. But because Chloe's a monster on the court — fast, precise, focused — and somehow, the two of them moved like they were synced.

Like they'd trained for this. Like they could read each other's minds.

I raise an eyebrow. So... she can do teamwork.

At least in some activities.

The thought lingers longer than it should. Some activities.

And suddenly my brain short-circuits with ideas that have nothing to do with badminton.

Activities that involve hands. Breath. Timing. Trust. Obsession. I swallow hard.

She doesn't even know what she's doing to me.

Tamara calls me in like I'm some secret weapon.

"Alright, Yujin, time to suffer with me."

Haeri and Yegi step off the court. I catch Haeri's gaze briefly — unreadable. She gives me a small nod as she hands over the racket. Her fingers brush mine. Barely.

Not intentional.

Still matters.

Tamara claps once. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," I say, stretching my arms out. My shoulder pops. I pretend it didn't.

Our makeshift game begins.

Chloe's fast. The kind of fast that doesn't waste energy. She doesn't smile much, but she plays like she's been waiting all day for this.

Taeho's chaotic — lunging for every shot, muttering fake insults mid-air, half serious, half dumb.

Tamara's dramatic but weirdly focused. She curses like a sailor and hits like she's aiming to murder the shuttlecock.

Me? I try to stay alive.

A few random guys watch — Chloe attracts them. Not surprising.Not to me though. I'm... blind. Haeri-blind.

I only care when I catch Haeri watching me. Maybe not. My skin buzzes anyway.

A few minutes in, and sweat's already crawling down my spine. I keep up. Just barely.

We trade points. There's yelling. Chloe's laughing now, which is weirdly intimidating. Tamara throws me a high-five and calls us "team redemption arc."

I glance at the edge of the court. Yegi has gone somewhere. Haeri's sitting again. Cross-legged. Elbows on her knees. That usual faraway look.

She's not watching the game. Not really. Just staring into the middle of things like she's trying to find something that doesn't exist.

I mess up the next serve. Tamara groans. "That's your girl watching, Yujin. Focus."

My ears burn.

"I don't—" I start.

"Sure, sure," she says, winking.

I force out a laugh. Casual. Just enough air to make it sound normal. But something twists under my ribs.

Tamara's not dumb. She's sharp — too sharp sometimes. Always reading the room a second faster than the rest of us.

Did she see something? Am I being that obvious?

I look back toward Haeri. But she isn't even looking. She slips her phone out. Stands and just walks away. Maybe for some air. Still, I shake my head, try to push the heat out of my cheeks, try to push her out of my head. I'm fine. I'm careful. I don't talk too much.

Except maybe today.

"Dude, did you see that shot?" Taeho slams the shuttlecock down again. It bounces off Chloe's foot.

I force a grin. "Insane."

But my eyes are still on the spot she left behind.

We win, somehow. Tamara flops to the floor, breathless. "I'm sweating like a pig in a sauna. Someone bring water. Or wine. Or that muscle god over there."

I blink at her. "What?"

She points toward the entrance. I follow her gaze.

Some guy — tall, slicked back hair, forearms that scream gym membership. Not my problem. Not yet.

Taeho checks his phone. Grins like a schoolboy. "Gotta bail. Girlfriend's calling."

"Must be nice," I mutter, pulling at my damp collar.

"Later, lover boy," he says, clapping me on the back. He jogs off.

Lover boy.

I blink. My stomach dips. Did he—?

No. No way.

That was just... a joke. Taeho's always joking.

I glance around like someone might've overheard, even though no one's paying attention. Chloe's tying her laces. Tamara's stretching her legs and drinking water, eyes boring into the muscles of that "god" of hers.

Still, the heat creeps up the back of my neck.

Why would he say that?

I replay the past ten minutes. Did I say something weird? Look too long? Was it the serve I messed up when she looked at me? The way I laughed too easily around her earlier?

God.

Or worse—is this already a thing to them?

Some unspoken inside joke I'm not even in on?

I shake it off, roll my shoulders like it's nothing. Like I'm just tired. Like that word didn't burrow under my ribs and settle there with terrifying ease.

Lover boy.

Maybe it's a joke now. Maybe it won't be forever.

Tamara's now somehow revived by gym guy's presence.

I'm about to grab my water bottle when the door swings open again.

Haeri and Yegi return with two girls I haven't seen before. Tall. Sharp. Matching gym outfits, hair in perfect ponytails.

Victoria and Tina, I think. They look like they belong in a varsity tournament, not a uni club meetup.

Tamara whistles, joking, "Damn, Haeri. Where've you been hiding the pros?" Victoria speeds up and wraps her arms around Tamara. "Are you still good for another match? We just got here." Victoria - the taller one - says. Chloe waves them onto the court, but she's withdrawing for a break.

Tamara fans herself like she's in a drama. Victoria's stretching like this is Olympic prep now. And Yegi volunteers to play in the next round with Tamara and the other two pros. They move in right away, before any other Indian guys take over the court.

Haeri's walking again. This time upstairs.

"Balcony track," Tamara mutters before joining the others. "She goes there when she's done socializing."

--++*++--

The gym is buzzing behind me—Tamara yelling something at Chloe, someone laughing near the water cooler, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

I spot her—up on the balcony track. Alone. Walking slow laps with her earbuds in, arms folded, head down like she's thinking through the entire universe.

Of course she slipped away again.

I grab my jacket and follow.

Up the stairs. Past the vending machines. Onto the track, where the buzz of voices fades, and it's just the soft thud of my steps against the rubber floor.

She doesn't notice me at first. She's mouthing something—song lyrics maybe—or just caught in her own rhythm. I match her pace beside her.

When she finally turns, her eyes go a little wide.

"You're not playing?" she asks, smile curling at the corner of her mouth. Her voice is soft. Breath warm.

"Thought I'd try walking up here. Clear my head."

She nods, pulls out one earbud but keeps the other in.

We fall into step, side by side. No pressure. No performance. Just the steady hum of whatever's playing through her half-worn earbuds, the flickering gym lights below, and the air between us stretching out like something we both understand but never name. Below us, our friends blur like a noisy dream.

She talks. Quietly, like the balcony gives her permission.

There's a couple on the court below. She explains their feud — stolen teammates, public fights, whispered threats. She doesn't embellish. Just facts. The way she speaks — like it costs something. Like I should pay attention.

She's calm, but there's a warning buried in her words. I nod along. She's not dramatic. If she says there's tension, there's probably fire under the smoke.

"I just don't like him," she finishes.

"Thanks for telling me."

She blinks. "What?"

"You don't open up like that often. It means something, I think."

She doesn't answer. Just looks ahead, one earbud still in, her gaze drifting back to the game below. Silence stretches. Not awkward. Just... delicate.

I wonder what she hears in that remaining earbud. Music? White noise? Her own thoughts? I want to know if she ever thinks about me—just sometimes—the way I—

A buzz.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Unknown number: Careful who you think she is. Not everything she told you was true.

My stomach drops. My breath stalls. My face hardens, all the warmth bleeding out like someone turned off a switch inside me.

"Something wrong?" she asks.

I lock the screen. I swallow, force a shrug. "Just a stupid ad."

She watches me for a beat too long. But she buys it. I think.

I shift the topic. Anything else. Doesn't matter what.

But I'm not okay.

Because someone out there knows.

And maybe I don't know her as well as I think.