The lights I strung up during orientation week are still taped above my bed, a little crooked and flickering at the corners, but they make the dorm room feel less like a shoebox and more like... a memory. A warm one. My roommate's out for the weekend, so I've got the whole space to myself—quiet, for once. Just the soft hum of my laptop in sleep mode and some random lo-fi playlist drifting from the speaker.

I stretch out, limbs loose, head sinking into the pillow. The lights glow soft and amber across the ceiling. For the first time all week, the silence isn't suffocating—it's something close to peace.

My phone buzzes next to me on the blanket. I don't think much of it—probably Taeho sending some dumb meme or a group project reminder from that one kid who's always ten steps ahead.

But then I see her name.

Haeri.

I sit up too fast. Nearly knock over my water bottle. My thumb fumbles as I unlock the screen. "so you're really going too?"

My heart does this little trampoline bounce.

I blink. Reread it. She's texting me. Like normal. Like nothing happened. Like the last two weeks of silence didn't exist.

I reply quickly. Too quickly. Then delete. Rewrite. Make it sound chill. "yeah, figured I'd check it out. you know, nature n stuff"

She sends a laughing emoji. Then: "everyone's being sooo dramatic about the trip. like calm down it's 4 days of eating and playing not hunger games" 

"unless you're volunteering as tribute? 🤔"

I grin like an idiot. My head sinks back into the pillow.

We keep texting. Her typing bubbles keep popping up, disappearing, reappearing. Like a heartbeat.

She shifts to talking about the midterm. How she's unsure about a couple short answers. "there was this one abt assimilation theory??? idk i made stuff up kkkk"

I tell her I winged half of mine too. She doesn't even seem stressed. It's so her, the way she bounces between topics, graceful in a way that doesn't try.

Somehow we end up talking about Stranger Things. She's rewatching from season one. "forgot how obsessed i used to be w steve harrington's hair kk" 

"understandable. man's hair defies gravity and logic lol"

And then we're just...talking. Like we used to. Like all those study sessions and hallway run-ins and inside jokes never paused. Like we aren't some awkward, not-quite-friends, not-quite-nothing situation anymore.

She sends a GIF of Dustin dancing. I laugh out loud. Alone. In an empty dorm room.

The dining hall's closing chime goes off in the background. My stomach grumbles. I'd completely forgotten.

So I head out, hoodie half-zipped, and walk under the orange campus lamps toward the convenience store. Grab a cup ramen, an egg, and a banana that looks like it's given up on life. The store clerk barely looks up. He scans without a word, earbuds in. I hand over cash. He doesn't say thank you, and I pretend not to care. The doors wheeze open behind me as someone else shuffles in, hoodie up, head down. We're all ghosts here, floating on caffeine and microwave food.

Back in the dorm, I'm crouched over my desk, waiting for the kettle to boil, scrolling our chat again. Smiling like a fool.

She hasn't replied in the past three minutes. I flip back to her profile. Not stalking, just... checking.

Her highlighted stories are mostly about books. Quotes, annotations, occasional photos of her favorite tea mugs. But there's one circle I've never noticed before. Titled in lowercase: "tearsonmyphone."

My thumb hovers. Then taps.

The first story is a photo of a rainy street. Black and white. "some promises expire without warning," it says in tiny font. Lana Del Rey plays softly.

The next is a blurry train window, captioned: "he said i was different. so why was i so easy to leave?"

Another: a corner of a bed. Rumpled sheets. A heartbreak lyric floating in the middle: "You showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else"

Fragments. Scattered thoughts. Pain wrapped in pretty filters.

Taylor Swift. Cigarette Daydreams. Phoebe Bridgers. Sad music over beautiful pictures that ache.

Your Bonnie on the side.

You just want my attention.

Lovebomb then ghost.

I'm frozen. My ramen sits untouched, lid fogging with steam.

All this time, I thought Haeri was sunshine. The kind of person who floats. Who doesn't bruise.

But someone hurt her. Someone made her feel like background noise. And the worst part is—I get it. I know how easily a person like that can pretend. I've done it too.

I remembered her at the library once, holding a pencil like a wand while humming Disney songs under her breath. Or how she used to braid her hair when she was stressed, fingers shaking but focused. How could that girl be the same one behind this digital grief? And how the hell didn't I notice?

I almost send a voice message. My finger's already holding the mic button. Not a confession. Just something dumb, like, "hey, just so you know, you deserve better." Or "hope you're okay."

But I stop. Backspace. Turn off the screen.

A new message flashes on the lock screen. Group chat: Kang Family.

[Mom]: Avoid western culture, okay? Focus on your studies.

[Dad]: Send midterm grades. We need them by Sunday. You're not here for fun.

A separate text from my sister: "Just breathe. You're doing great. Don't let them get in your head."

I sigh. Type a vague reply.

[Me]: Midterms went okay. Studying a lot. Nothing crazy.

It's all they want to hear. Nothing too personal. Nothing too real.

If they knew about Haeri—if they even sensed what I felt—they'd be on the next flight. Dragging me back by my collar.

Because I'm supposed to carry on the family name. I'm supposed to be clean-cut, obedient, and future-ready.

Not some lovesick idiot with a soft spot for a girl who sees monsters in black-and-white photos.

I lie back on the bed, ramen cold now. My phone buzzes once more.

Haeri's sent a meme.

I smile again. Quietly.

And somewhere in my chest, something clicks.

I had thought about when she becomes my girlfriend.

Not if.

God. I'm so gone.

What a loser.

My phone rests on my chest, still glowing with that dumb meme she sent. Some cartoon squirrel screaming into a void. I smile, but it's different now. Softer. Sadder.

I flip to my camera roll. Scroll past class notes, food pics, screenshots I don't even remember taking—until I land on a short video from half a month ago. Tamara or Chloe filmed it, I don't remember, but I downloaded it from the group chat. Because of a single reason.

She's in it. Half in frame, laughing at something. Her hair's in a messy ponytail, and there's a highlighter smudge on her cheek. She looks up mid-laugh, says, "Stops, don't film me," but she's grinning, eyes bright, voice light.

I watch it again.

And again.

It's barely six seconds long.

But suddenly I want to memorize all of it—the way she brushes her strands of light brown hair back, the dip in her voice when she's being playful, the unfiltered joy.

It hits me then, in a way it hadn't before. There's so much I don't know. About her past. About who hurt her. About the parts of her she only shares in cryptic stories and lyrics whispered through speakers.

And now I know something else too.

If my parents ever found out about her—about how I feel—this thing between us would be over before it even began.

Not because of her.

Because of them.

I tuck the phone under my pillow, as if that could hide the truth from the world.

From now on, she has to stay secret.

But that doesn't make her any less real.

If anything, it makes her more.