Two weeks.

Two endless, chaotic, suffocating, suspicious weeks.

Not a single message from the unknown number since.

Instead, I find myself caught in this strange rotation of favor requests and girl group antics—minus one girl.

It starts subtly. Chloe flags me down in the quad one afternoon. She's in a sage green knit sweater and those sharp, spotless loafers she wears like she's always on her way to a fashion interview. Her lips are glossed. Her hair's too perfectly curled for a random weekday.

"I swear I pulled something," she says, gesturing dramatically to her shoulder. "Can you carry these for me?"

These are three oversized moving boxes stacked on the pavement like they're waiting to be shipped to the moon. But she lives off-campus, so I guess it makes sense. "What's in here, textbooks or bricks?"

"Textbooks are bricks," she huffs with a grin. "Marketing's evil."

She's not wrong. But also—there's something too... convenient about it all.

Next day, it's Yegi. Twice.

First in the library, where she literally yanks a chair across from me, slams her tablet down, and says, "Okay, let's go through this—what's the key difference between FIFO and LIFO?"

I blink. "This isn't even the course we share."

"I know. But you're the most organized person I know."

That's a lie. But fine. I help — twice.

And Tamara? God, Tamara never even asks. She just talks. She traps me in philosophical debates about whether professors purposely make quizzes trickier after lunch breaks. She waves a half-eaten banana at me while passionately explaining the "emotional burden of pop quizzes."

She's wearing a bright red hoodie with something written in Russian on the back. I don't understand a word, but somehow it fits her — loud, chaotic, hard to ignore.

They're... everywhere.

No Haeri in sight.

Just these three, orbiting me like caffeinated moons.

By the third day, I start to wonder.

Is it a coincidence?

Or a... conspiracy?

I don't say it out loud. That would make me sound crazy. And maybe I am overthinking. But the fact that I haven't gotten another text from the mystery number since that night... it doesn't sit right. It nags beneath the surface like a word stuck on the tip of my tongue.

The days blur into midterms. Not one hell week, but two. Because of course my schedule decided to betray me.

I don't fail anything, but my brain runs half-charged most days. I stare at multiple-choice questions and forget the formulas I practiced the night before. I get back one graded quiz in Microeconomics, and the red ink on the margin reads: "You clearly knew this yesterday. What happened today?"

I don't answer the question. I just slide the paper back into my folder, press my temples, and breathe.

I'm not falling apart. Just distracted — and I don't even know by what.

Haeri is a ghost.

No messages. No appearances. Not even in the background of Chloe's Instagram stories.

She's a name in the group chat who doesn't even turn on the "seen" option.

But she's there. In little ways that mess with my head.

Once, I'm walking past the athletics track at sunset — the sky's that burnt peach color, low clouds like watercolor stains. I see someone in a grey hoodie, dark ponytail, pacing with their phone in hand.

For a second, my heart does something stupid.

But when I glance again, it's just someone else. Not her.

Another time, Tamara's phone lights up while she's ranting about Econ grading curves. She looks at the screen, goes quiet, pockets the phone without a word.

Weird.

And through it all, the girls keep needing things.

One request feels genuine — Yegi legitimately forgets her calculator during a Finance midterm and I run back to the dorm to get it for her.

But still... even when I help, I feel like I'm being watched. Or... studied.

Like I'm being tested on something I never signed up for. I catch myself wondering: Are they just busy? Or are they buying her time? Did something happen? Are they covering for her?

Or are they... watching how I act when she's gone?

It's stupid. I hate how this feels like some strange trial, like the ones in Haeri's fantasy books.

And still no new message from that unknown sender.

Which should make me relieved, right?

Instead, it makes me feel like I've missed something. Like something is happening behind the scenes...

...and I'm not just left out.

I'm the target.

--++*++--

Fall break looms like a quiet promise. No lectures. No pop quizzes. No cafeteria spaghetti that tastes like cardboard guilt. Just air, travel, silence.

And, of course, chaos.

It starts in the group chat. Chloe starts it, naturally, with a voice message. "Guys, reading week's coming!! Should we go somewhere? Any thoughts??"

Yegi jumps in like she's been waiting for this all semester. She sends a whole essay. Bullet points. Google Maps screenshots. Weather forecasts. Potential vlogs. I swear she's already packed.

They're talking about heading to that famous city in the border province. The one where they filmed half the Kdramas people in this major seem obsessed with. It's scenic and autumnal and allegedly aesthetic as hell.

The chat explodes. They want to go for four days five nights!

Chloe: "What about this Airbnb?? So cute!!"

Tamara: sends a meme of a hamster in a tiny suitcase.

Yegi: "YESSS I've saved that one since spring!! It has a hot tub!!"

Chloe (again): "Wait. Did you see the cleaning fee though?"

Yegi: "That's normal!!"

Chloe: "It's like the cost of another night. Capitalism is wild."

Haeri doesn't reply. Her name just sits there in the group member list, unread and unbothered.

Taeho drops one dry: "Depends who's going."

I don't reply either. Not at first. I scroll. I lock my phone. I unlock it again.

It's not that I don't want to go. I do, actually. I always liked traveling. My parents used to drag me along on their work vacations, and even though they were chaotic and tight-scheduled and half-filled with arguments about check-ins and bookings, I kind of loved those trips. New air. New buildings. New chances to reset.

But this — this is different. This is a group vacation. With girls who confuse me and one girl who haunts me.

When I meet Chloe later that day — in a white puffer vest over a slate blue long-sleeve, all sharp cheekbones and passive-aggressive optimism — I know she's about to pitch the whole thing again. Her nails are pink. Her perfume smells like vanilla over ice, too strong for me.

"You're coming, right?" she asks, adjusting her tote. "We need another guy. And you're chill."

"I'm not really feeling it," I say, scratching the back of my neck. "I think I'm gonna use the time to catch up on... stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Projects. Assignments. Sleep."

She stares like she knows I'm lying. "You're going to regret not coming when you see the pics."

Maybe. But I doubt it. At least, that's what I tell myself.

Later that day, I run into Tamara. She's sitting on the grass outside the arts building, drawing something abstract in a sketchpad while chewing gum like it's the only thing keeping her from screaming.

"Hey, can you help me carry this?" she says before I can speak, holding out a bag of snacks and textbooks. "They're too heavy and I refuse to develop muscle mass this semester."

She's in an oversized purple hoodie that says DON'T LOOK FOR ME in bold letters, mismatched socks peeking out from chunky sneakers. She looks like someone who just stole her personality from a Tumblr mood board titled 'anarchy in pastels'.

I take the bag. "Thanks, you're the best. You'd make such a good assistant-slash-boyfriend."

I raise an eyebrow. "You mean like an unpaid intern who listens to all your tangents?"

"Exactly."

Something slips out before I can stop myself. My voice is low. "You seen Haeri around?" I ask too casually. I instantly regret it.

Tamara raises an eyebrow. "Why? Did you text her?"

"No, I just—she's been quiet lately."

"She's probably fine. Probably reading some tragic romance novel in a blanket cocoon somewhere. You know her. She only emerges for caffeine and capitalism."

I try not to flinch.

The thing is, I've been thinking about texting her. A dozen times. But every time I open the phone, I keep thinking about that weird message from an unknown person — the one I never figured out.

Or I'm waiting for her to text me first. Or I'm just overthinking and underreacting at the same time.

So I do nothing.

Later that night, I finally cave and drop a message in the group: "Sorry guys, I think I'll stay back. Gotta finish some team projects. Can't tag along."

Ten seconds pass.

Then Yegi sends a crying emoji and three sad GIFs.

Chloe replies: "lame. but okay."

Tamara posts a photo of a duck in a business suit, typing furiously.

Then Haeri replies. One sentence. Simple. "You should come. Everyone's going."

My heart stutters.

That means she's going.

But before I can respond, Taeho beats me to it: "Can't go. Sorry."

No reason. Just that. A flat no.

Shit.

It's like the air gets stuck in my lungs.

Because here's the thing — I want to go. I want to see her. I want to be in whatever Airbnb she's in, drink whatever overpriced seasonal latte she orders, sit next to her in some random tourist bus with the autumn sun in our eyes.

But I can't be the only guy. Not with this energy. Not with this...

God, I don't even know what to call it. This ridiculous ache in my chest. This constant restlessness. It's not l—. I'm not calling it that.

But it's something. And it's making me stupid.

So the next day, I wait outside Taeho's lecture hall.

He steps out in a navy windbreaker, earbuds still in, staring down at his phone like the world doesn't exist unless it vibrates. His hair is messy in the calculated way. His face is unreadable.

I fall in step beside him without a word.

He glances over. "You following me now?"

"Walking the same way. Chill."

"To my bus stop?"

"I'm working on being more environmentally conscious."

He snorts.

We pass the library. It's cool out, mid-morning light slicing between campus buildings like pale gold wires. Trees rustle. Bikes click past.

When we reach his bus stop, he turns to me. "You're really gonna ride the bus just to guilt-trip me?"

"I'm not guilt-tripping anyone," I say. Badly.

He pauses for a short while, "You know, when a guy acts like this, it's usually because there's a girl involved."

I shrug. "Maybe I just want the squad together."

"The squad?" he laughs. "Dude. You've never said that word."

"She said everyone's going," I say, which is not a denial. Taeho tucks his earbuds into his hoodie pocket, leans back against the shelter pole.

I groan, rub my temples. "Look, I just... I don't want to be the only guy there."

"Ah," he says, and he gets it. Of course he gets it. He's been there. He has a girlfriend now, but he knows this territory well. The desperation. The strategy. The pretense of chill.

He looks at me a second longer, eyes narrowing like he's weighing something.

Finally, he sighs. "Fine. I'll go."

I blink. "Seriously?"

"Whatever I had planned wasn't that important," he says, and kicks at a leaf. "But if you make me play group therapist, I'm billing you in ramen."

I grin. "Deal."

"Plus, sounds like you need backup for this whole quest-to-impress-the-princess thing you've got going."

"Don't call it that."

"It is that."

The bus rolls in. He steps on, nods once like some knight accepting a suicidal mission.

I don't say it out loud, but something inside me exhales.

Thank God.

Because whatever this messy feeling is — not yet — it's real enough to make me do dumb things.

Like trailing a guy to his bus stop, or chasing a girl who hasn't spoken to me in weeks.

And maybe, just maybe, spend Fall Break pretending I'm not falling.

Even if gravity doesn't care how ready I am.