The midterms are winding down as the days inch closer to our group trip. They're still there—looming in the background—but no longer quite as intimidating. It's early November now. The kind of crisp, sun-drenched day where everything feels unnaturally bright, where the breeze cuts just enough to make you hug your sweater tighter but not enough to chase you indoors.

Campus is alive. Crowded. Too crowded. Students flood the quad like ants swarming a sugar trail. Free pizza always does this. Undergrads, grads, even professors—everyone's out here, loitering beneath the faded autumn trees like it's a festival. Music's playing from a pop-up speaker. People laugh too loudly. There's a guy balancing four slices of greasy pepperoni on one flimsy paper plate. It's chaos wrapped in sunshine.

And in the middle of it all—

I see her.

Just her.

Everything else drops away. The noise, the people, the blur of moving bodies—it all falls out of focus. My vision narrows, sharpens, and for a second I can't tell if time's speeding up or grinding to a halt. Maybe both. Maybe neither. I don't care.

She's wearing a pastel blue sweater, the color of early morning skies. Soft. Cozy-looking. But that's not what stops my heart.

It's the skirt.

A skirt.

Knee-length, swishing just above her boots. She's never worn one before—said to her friends it wasn't her thing. And yet here she is, a contradiction in motion, spinning everything I thought I knew into static.

An angel? No. More like a pixie who wandered out of some forgotten meadow in a children's storybook. The kind of sight that makes you forget your own name.

Every goddamn thing looks good on her. Everything.

She catches my gaze. And I know—know—that she sees what she's done to me. It's probably written all over my face. The way my lips part like I've forgotten how to breathe. The way my eyes light up, helpless.

She tilts her head, smiling just enough to kill me softly, and lifts a hand to wave.

Then the students shifts—too many people—and they cut between us like a curtain drawing shut. I stumble back to let them through, twisting around to keep her in sight. But when they clear, she's—

Gone.

Panic hits sharp.

Like a child who's lost his parent in a supermarket. Like a stray cat blinking at a too-bright city.

Damn it. Did I just imagine her?

She's messing with my head again. She always does this.

A tap on my shoulder. I turn.

And there she is.

Closer now. Realer. Devastating.

She's wearing makeup today. Light shimmer on her eyelids, warm blush dusting her cheeks, lips a soft peach that looks like it was chosen just to match the breeze. It's subtle, but enough to wreck me. To make everything feel cinematic.

I freeze. Stare. Words don't come. They don't even try.

She nudges me, a playful bump to the arm. "Are you checking out the campus thing?" she asks casually. "Wanna grab a drink?"

I open my mouth. Nothing intelligent comes out. But before I can stumble into coherence, she grabs me—by the wrist—and pulls.

It's not even a strong grip. Her fingers are so small, they don't quite make it around. There's an inch of space between her thumb and middle finger. A tiny, ridiculous gap that suddenly means everything.

I want to close it. 

I want to hold her hand.

She weaves us through the crowd toward the drinks table, dodging a group of students hauling cardboard boxes. We fall into line.

Finally, finally, I remember how to speak. "Are you heading somewhere important?" I ask, gesturing lightly at her outfit. "You're... dressed up."

She smiles, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I had a semi-formal presentation this morning. Just finished. Now I'm reclaiming the rest of the day. With good company, if you're not busy."

I am. Class starts in thirty minutes.

An optional class.

On advanced topics.

What I have in front of me now is a master-level topic, and I'd be an idiot to walk away.

"I've got time," I say. Almost add for you. Don't.

She just beams. A sunshine smile, bright enough to eclipse the November chill.

But I know better. I've seen what she hides beneath that smile. Or used to. And that's what aches.

Her hair's half-up today, tied loosely at the crown. A few strands slip free, dancing in the wind. One brushes my chest as we stand close, and I have to fight the urge to touch it. To tuck it behind her ear. To get tangled.

She picks a maroon-brown drink. The same shade as my sweater—did she mean to do that? My fingers close around a bright blue cup. Darker than her sweater, but close enough to count.

We wander over to a bench under a tree, settling in just out of the noise. The world softens here. Shadows from the leaves dapple our legs. Wind rustles the canopy above us like an old lullaby.

"So," she says suddenly, turning to me, "when's your birthday?"

I blink. Not what I expected. But I smile anyway. Maybe—just maybe—she's a little curious about me too.

"September 28," I answer. "Why?"

She pauses, thoughtful. Lips pursed like she's calculating something. "So you're still eighteen. Not nineteen yet?"

I stiffen. Something about her tone makes me nervous. Please don't. Don't say it. Don't pull the junior card.

"I'm just asking," she says lightly, "because we're planning to go out during the break, maybe hit a pub. So we need to make sure we pick a place that everyone can get into."

Oh.

Not what I thought.

Thank god.

"Ah, I see," I reply, and then grin. "So... do I look like someone who can drink?"

She laughs, eyes twinkling. "Since you asked? Yeah. You do. But even if you can, you're still not allowed to. Not here."

I chuckle. "True."

She surprises me again. "I like beer. Wine. Soju's my favorite, but they don't really have it here."

My brows shoot up. Didn't see that coming. But I'm learning: she's full of surprises. Quiet ones. Sharp, soft ones. The kind that sneak under your skin.

"I didn't expect that," I admit.

She just smirks, taking another sip.

"What about your birthday?" I ask.

Her lips curl, mischievous. "Wanna guess? I'm an Aries."

"Uh..." I squint, mentally scrambling. "March...? April?"

"April. First half. That's your only clue."

Her tone is honey. That grin is pure mischief. I feel like I've wandered into a game I never agreed to play but desperately want to win.

"April tenth?"

"Close."

"Eighth?"

"Farther."

"Thirteenth?"

"Nope. But very close. Last chance."

I pretend to think hard, dragging it out just to keep her looking at me like that. "Twelve?"

She lights up like someone just flipped a switch inside her. It's her glasses, I realize. They've been hiding her. Not completely, not deliberately, but now that her smile reaches her eyes like this, everything feels exposed—no, revealed. The spark in her eyes, the soft curve of her cheeks, the warmth flooding from her expression—it's all too much, too disarming. If she ever took those glasses off, if she ever looked at me like this without anything in the way, I swear I'd be on my knees.

Wait—what?

My stomach flips. That's insane. Completely insane. What kind of thought is that? I must be sick. Seriously messed up. Thank God we're sitting, or I'm not sure I'd even be able to stay upright.

"Yes," she nods, "April twelfth. I don't like celebrating though."

"Why not?"

"Last year, Yegi insisted we do a dual party. Hers and mine. That was okay, I guess. But the one before... senior year. My friends barged into my room at midnight with cake and balloons. I faked the smiles. I appreciated it. But I hated it. I hate big surprises. Especially the kind that make you feel like you owe a reaction."

I nod, quiet. "Don't worry. I don't do those."

She glances at me, curious. "Hmm?"

I try to stay cool, try not to let the heat rise to my ears. What I meant was: I prefer quieter surprises. Personal ones. The kind you whisper between heartbeats.

What I say is, "I don't like big public things either. Always feels awkward."

"Right?" she sighs. "Glad you get it."

She sips her drink, legs swinging gently under the bench. The sunlight catches her hair again, painting it gold.

I don't speak. I don't need to.

Because for a moment—

The noise fades. The crowd vanishes.

Even my heartbeat hushes.

There's only this:

Her half-empty cup.
Her skirt tugged softly by the wind.
The inch of space where her fingers couldn't wrap around my wrist.
And the fact that she's still here.
Still sitting next to me.

I exhale slowly. Taste the sweetness of my drink.
And the far more dangerous sweetness beside me.

Maybe...
Maybe this is what almost happiness feels like.