I lift my camera to my eye, scanning the scene. Nothing catches my attention immediately, but I've learned that the best shots often come from spontaneous brilliance—or so I've been told.
As I zoom in toward the field where students spill across the grass in after school clusters, something unexpected comes into frame. Dominic. His familiar outline pops up behind a bush, and I slowly lower my camera, furrowing my brows in confusion.
What on earth is he doing back there?
Curious, I trace the direction of his gaze and there it is.
A pyramid of cheerleaders, falling and catching each other in perfect synchrony. Their pompoms flash vibrant colours, dancing in the sunlight. Each movement is graceful, rehearsed but dynamic, and I can't help but admire the athleticism and trust woven into their routine.
But Dominic is all wrong for the setting. Dressed head to toe in black from his beanie all the way even to his shoes. He sticks out like a misplaced thumb. He looks like he's on some covert operation… or worse, like a creep sizing up the girls in tight shirts and short skirts.
I try not to leap to conclusions, but the scene is jarring.
Slinging my camera back across my abdomen, I grip the strap for reassurance and let my headphones dangle around my neck. The soft thud of my boots on the pavement grows louder as I approach him with caution.
"Hey," I say, jogging up behind his leafy hideout. "Why are you crouching in a bush?"
Without turning, he responds in his usual flat tone. "You're late. Again. What, does punctuality mean nothing to you?"
I blink.
Did he tell me to meet him here? If he did, I must've tuned him out. I was fully intending to grab the next bus and head home.
Glancing at my watch, I watch the time tick mockingly. It's only two minutes after the last bell rang. I look back at him unimpressed. Is he serious?
Rolling my eyes, I choose not to get into an argument with him about two minutes of supposed punctuality. Getting into an argument with Dominic over tardiness feels like trying to reason with a toddler who is throwing a tantrum.
Trust me, dealt with that with Chu Hua before.
Not fun.
"Are you spying on Jodie?" I ask, steering the conversation elsewhere.
"Hide!" he hisses, grabbing my arm and yanking me behind the bush.
I crash into him, sharp pain blooming across my shoulder.
"Ow!" I grit out, glaring.
But Dominic doesn't even flinch. He doesn't offer me a quick glance nor an apology. Not even a shred of concern. Honestly, I doubt he's physically capable of saying the word sorry. Empathy seems like a foreign language to him but you'd think he could at least fake it.
As always, he flashes me that signature deadpan stare—the kind that makes you question whether he's got actual blood or just cold brew coffee running through his veins—and says, "To answer your previous question, yeah. Cheerleading practice."
I follow his lazy finger point toward the field and immediately regret it.
There's Jodie, his maybe crush/obsession, currently playing tonsil hockey with some random guy. He looks like one of the football players. Imagining the sound of their sloppy kiss, I wrinkle my nose so hard I might have just given myself premature wrinkles.
Then his hand starts creeping up her skirt and—nope.
That's my cue to exit this episode of Teenage Love Island, thank you very much.
"Yeah, that's some cheerleading practice alright," I mutter under my breath, praying his ears are as emotionally detached as the rest of him.
Strangely, he doesn't even flinch.
Not a twitch of jealousy.
It's like watching a robot observe a meme—absolutely no reaction.
Which honestly tracks. His entire existence is one long "meh."
Eyebrows raised, I muse out loud, "You don't look jealous. At all."
He peels his eyes off the PDA happening across the field and something in his expression—or lack thereof—makes me sad. Not because he's heartbroken but because there's just… nothing. No spark in those rich brown eyes. No angst, no joy, not even mild discomfort. I'd take literally any emotion at this point. Just a twitch. A sneeze. Anything really.
Come on, space alien. Show me you know what feelings are.
Instead, he side eyes my face. "What happened to your face?"
I shoot him a grin and fire back, "Same thing that happened to your personality. Hey-o!" I throw up my hand for a high five but as expected, he leaves me hanging so I give myself a high five pathetically.
We sit in silence, marinating in the mutual awkwardness of the situation, until he finally says, "That didn't really answer my question."
"Riley booted a football into my face after I made a 'challenging' comment. Got a nosebleed. Luckily, Damien was there and dragged me to the infirmary before I started leaking brain fluid everywhere."
Dominic nods sagely. "Honestly, he did you a favour. You don't look like a loser anymore with that stupid baby face."
"You think I look cool?" I beam.
"I think you look less like a loser."
My smile wilts, then rebounds. "You know what? I'll take it."
He rolls his eyes.
"You still haven't answered me," I say, still eyeing him like he's some emotionally constipated robot sent to observe teenage chaos. "How are you not losing your mind watching the girl you supposedly like swap spit with some random neek?"
He gives me an indifferent shrug.
A literal shrug with no anguish.
"If you haven't noticed," he deadpans, "Jodie switches guys like she switches underwear—"
Spoiler alert, Jodie doesn't wear any. Apparently, underwear makes her feel restricted. But let's leave that unsanitary detail out of his knowledge vault.
"That neek is just her itch scratcher for the day," he continues. "Give it 'til the end of practice, he'll be cast aside as roadkill on the highway."
My eyebrows do a full surprised arch.
How is he able to keep his composure with such calculative efficiency?
How is he not the least bit envious at the scene?
I mean, I'm obviously not the jealous type who goes around threatening the people hanging around my crushes, but whenever I'd catch Michael standing around and occasionally kissing other girls, Savannah mostly, I'd normally curl my lip in distaste and laser her with one of my infamous scathing stares that I made sure she wasn't privy to.
"You're still weirdly calm about this," I mutter, trying not to admire it too much.
His eyes finally shift away from the tongue tango happening across the field.
Glancing up at him readily, I clap us out of the silence and rub my hands together in preparation, "So what do you want me to do today? Please don't tell me I have to try and befriend her again because if you do then I swear I'm walking out of here faster than you can say befriend Jodie."
"Do you have short-term memory or something?" he ask casually.
"What?" I muse, wondering why he would ask me that of all things.
"I already explained this to you in class. Just go over there and say a few good words about me, see if she's the least bit interested in me or if she even knows who I am."
"Oh, okay. Good things about you… good things about you," I murmur out and blink up thoughtfully, trying to recall if I've ever come across any quality in him which could be deemed good. "So basically nothing, got it."
"Just go!" he hisses, pushing me out of our hideout like an expendable sidekick.
I stumble dramatically, my camera strap slipping off my shoulder and dragging my flannel halfway down my torso, exposing a sliver of collarbone that I immediately yank back into modesty.
Over my shoulder, I shoot him one of my best death glares.
He's awfully handsy today, no?
And as he gives another impatient shoo-wave like I'm some mosquito buzzing in his vicinity, I march off toward the cheerleading squad with the world's most petulant pout painted across my face. Equal parts scorned ex bestie and reluctant wingman.
"Hey, Jodie. Got a sec? Cool." I don't wait for her answer, just grab her hand and rip her away from her snogging marathon.
Her boy toy starts mouthing off at me like I just interrupted something really important, like the birth of his first child. Maybe if I had let them continue, this would've been the conception of his first born.
Jodie hushes him with a casual flick of her fingers, silently telling him she'll be right back to continue their saliva exchange.
"What is it?" she snaps, arms folded so tight across her chest it looks like her shirt is barely surviving the pressure. "I've got cheerleading practice, and you're kind of ruining it."
"Yeah," I say with a nod, my gaze sliding past her to her kissing partner, still glaring at me. "I could totally see that you were practising. Looked like very… spirited practice."
Her eyebrows hike up expectantly.
Translation: Say what you came to say, or I start charging you for my time.
I steal a subtle glance at the bush behind me. Dominic is still lurking like a raccoon. How do I pitch this without sounding like I'm trying hook them up? Which is exactly what this is. I'm being used as the mediator for Dominic and Jodie, but she has no idea.
Heaving a breath out through my lips, I turn back to face her and plaster on my friendliest fake smile at the curious look she's now also giving the bush.
"First off," I exclaim loudly, causing her curious gaze to abruptly slide away from the bush. "You look really good in those. Love the shirt. Where's it from?"
Her eyes narrow. "Uh… the school? It's our cheerleading uniform."
"Oh, right. Uniform. Gotcha."
Uncertainty flashes in her eyes and her mouth parts a bit. "Seong Jin, you're seriously starting to freak me out. Yesterday you came to me, asking to be friends again which is weird because you had the opportunity to do that years ago when you and Vannah had that falling out and now—"
"Jode," I interrupt her from finishing her sentence about the conflict between me and her current best friend, flashing a polite smile. "Can I call you Jode?"
"It sounds an awful lot like chode so I'd prefer if you didn't call me—"
"I'm gonna call you Jode," I cut her off again, nodding adamantly.
Her soul visibly leaves her body.
"Quick poll for the school newspaper," I lie faster than a politician at a fundraiser. "Do you happen to know uh… Dominic Lachowski?"
She frowns and starts tapping her cheek with pink perfectly manicured nails. "Isn't he that majorly depressed guy with zero friends? I think he's in one of our classes. Always scribbling little stickmen in the corner of the desk. One time I sat next to him and he didn't say a single word. Not even a grunt."
She just described Dominic with scary precision.
The depressed, lone wolf who tends to avoid talking to anyone.
The emotional sphinx whose playlist is probably ambient rain sounds.
That's the front he presents, the façade he wears. It's the version everyone sees. The one he wants them to see. Maybe because he wants to appear mysterious and unreachable and well, he pulls it off so beautifully, because nobody wants to associate themselves with him at the end of the day.
No one but me.
Why do I do this to myself?
"Yeah, that definitely sounds like Dominic."
Jodie narrows her eyes, already suspicious. "What about him? What do The Moss people want with Dominic? What's so revolutionary about the guy that they're writing a piece about him? I mean, they could just interview the cheer squad captain. Yours truly."
She flashes a smug smile, one that says she fully believes she's the main character.
I press my lips into a thin line, trying to whip up a lie that doesn't sound like I pulled it out of my arse. "They're doing an article on, um, student archetypes. You know—jocks, geeks, influencers… outcasts. Apparently, Dominic's their poster boy for mysterious loners and they wanna unpack how his brain ticks. Like, educate us or something?"
She stares.
A pause stretches between us.
"Okay…" She nods slowly, her expression somewhere between confused and amused. "That makes absolutely zero sense."
"Yeah but it's The Moss," I throw back, palms up in defeat. "Nothing they write has made sense since the canteen avocado scandal of last year."
She tilts her head like that actually checks out.
I grin, relieved she's not asking for sources.
"Okay, next question is crucial. Life altering. Answer with your soul."
"Okay…"
"Do you think he's hot?"
She genuinely laughs, shrugging like I just asked if she liked puppies. "Obviously. Why do you think I didn't trade seats with someone else that day I was forced to sit next to him? I was aiming for proximity."
I light up like a human beacon and shoot Dominic a sneaky thumbs up behind my back.
Mission: Barely on track.
"Love that. Great stuff. So, would you ever consider dating an outcast like Dominic? Or does that whole broody weird vibe turn you off completely?"
She sighs, all dramatics now. "I don't do dating. Ever."
I respond with a thumbs down.
Mission: Failure.
"Okay, okay. Would you… make out with him?"
Her eyes widen in horror. "Absolutely not."
"Why not?" I motion toward the guy she was previously wrapped around, still sulking nearby. "Dominic is objectively hotter than that guy."
"Oh, a hundred percent. He's easily top ten material. But I don't snog gay guys, Seong Jin. No shade, but they're kind of a buzzkill."
My eyebrows launch halfway up my forehead. "You think Dominic is gay?"
She scoffs like it's the most obvious fact on Earth. "Come on. I sat right next to him. Breathed on him. Did the whole flirty hair twirl. Nothing. If that's not gay, it's broken."
Wha…
She folds her arms and taps a perfectly painted nail against her elbow. "And that hoodie is strategic camouflage. A misleading blanket that doesn't even work."
Is she just not accustomed to rejection?
Her comment instantly takes me back to primary school—to all those moments when she and Taylor agreed on everything, and I was the lone voice of dissent. Like when they insisted Nutella wasn't the best spread out there, or claimed that chocolate ice cream couldn't possibly lift your mood on a bad day.
I've always stood my ground.
Ice cream helps.
Chocolate, especially. The one true flavour.
A champion in dark times—especially after rejection.
And now there's this whole "Dominic might be gay" theory floating around. Both she and Taylor are convinced he's hiding behind that perpetual hoodie and moody silence.
But I've never bought it. The proof is right in front of me: Jodie Dillon.
She's living proof of his sexuality. I would bet an arm and a leg he's not batting for the other team. Or maybe… he's bisexual? I honestly don't know. Trying to guess feels like pure speculation with zero progress.
"Maybe you two should get together."
"What?" My eyebrows pinch together, trying to recalibrate reality.
Her suggestion lodges in my brain like a rogue invasion.
Did she actually just suggest me and Dominic get together as some kind of brooding romcom duo?
She clarifies with way too much pep, "You know, since he just so happens to be gay and you just so happen to be gay also, it just so happens to be like… the perfect match."
I blink at her. Slowly.
I'm ninety percent sure she was dropped on the head as a baby—lightly, once or twice—because what in the recycled teen trope is that logic? Pretty sure being gay isn't a matchmaking shortcut. And also, has she conveniently forgotten Dominic rejected me in eighth grade with the emotional flair of a dry toast slice?
I stare at her.
She stares back, ponytail bouncing with smug satisfaction.
I fight every urge in my body to not let my emotional meltdown show on my face.
"Wow," I say, nodding like a malfunctioning bobblehead while stretching a fake grin across my cheeks. "Why did I not think of that? You're a genius. Seriously. Einstein must be jealous."
She beams, flipping her hair like she just solved climate change. "Thanks."
"Okay," I exhale, pointing toward the bush to make my exit. "I'm gonna go crouch in that bush over there now. Feel free to resume your kissing with your… yeah."
"Cool, bye!" She twirls around and practically launches herself into the arms of her waiting guy. Leg wraps around his waist and lips engaged again.
Audience—me, scarred.
"Okay then," I mutter under my breath, turning on my heel and heading back toward the hideout, wondering how I'm still not emotionally numb after all this.
By the time I reach Dominic, he's already scowling at me curiously.
"So… what did she say?" he asks, voice flat.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. "I think I lost a few brain cells just trying to have a conversation with her."
His gaze lifts, slightly confused.
I shake my head, still baffled by Jodie's ability to spout nonsense with full confidence. She reminds of those people who moonlight as a life coach for delusional thinkers.
"What are you even talking about?"
"She thinks you're gay," I say. "And apparently, we're the perfect match."
He jerks his head toward me with a frown. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"I know, right? We're nowhere near compatible."
"I meant the thing about me being gay," he says, each word laced with irritation.
"Oh." I blink, mirroring his deadpan tone. "Well… I wouldn't exactly rule it out. I mean, no offence, but you haven't had a girlfriend. Clearly just waiting for Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet?"
I flash a grin to show I'm joking.
He doesn't grin back. In fact, his stare sharpens to full on death glare mode.
My smile folds like a cheap lawn chair.
I'm pretty sure Dominic isn't gay. Honestly, I don't even think he's bi. My gaydar has a decent track record—minus those three unfortunate misfires that lead to three consecutive rejections—but it rarely steers me wrong. And this time, I trust the signal.
At first, he didn't seem fazed when Taylor threw around the idea that he might be gay. He gave off that classic unbothered energy, the same vibe he's expressed about a hundred and forty three times by now.
But this time, it's different.
This rumour is coming from Jodie—his crush. And that probably changes everything.
I get why he's frustrated.
"Kidding!" I blurt, raising my hands. "Obviously kidding."
I say it quickly enough to avoid any sudden moves that involve my windpipe getting crushed by his very muscular, very irritated hands. I'm fond of breathing. It's sort of my thing.
"Can't you take a joke, mate?" I toss a playful punch toward his shoulder.
He intercepts my hand before I can touch him and shoves it away distastefully.
"I'm not your mate."
"Okay," I murmur, awkwardly blinking.
He turns toward the sky like it owes him answers. "Why isn't the plan working? It's perfect. Every detail, flawless."
The way he stares at the clouds, you'd think he expects divine intervention.
I should tell him the heavens don't operate on request lines.
"Maybe your plan's too perfect. People aren't algorithms. They're messy. Unpredictable. You keep trying to script emotions like a movie and then wonder why the cast keeps ad-libbing."
"What?"
"I told you to let the chips fall on the table and let fate take its course, but no, Starr is an idiot," I say the last part in his deep, monotonous voice."
He doesn't even blink. "No. Starr is an inexperienced boy who thinks he knows everything about dating."
"You say that like you've ever had a girlfriend," I fire back, arms crossed and head tilted, ready for verbal combat.
His eyes flicker just briefly and a blush creeps up the edges of his ears.
Gotcha.
"Detailed plans don't work on simple creatures like Jodie."
"That's not funny."
"It wasn't a joke," I mutter, irritation prickling under my skin. "I'm tired, Dominic. I want my normal life back. One where I'm not stuck between arguing with you and dodging Jodie's random matchmaking attempts. We need a simpler plan."
He exhales like he's bracing for a migraine. "Which is?"
"You grow some balls and talk to her." I throw up my hands, completely done.
He scoffs.
"This whole idea of using me—her ex friend, who she now treats like literal trash—to sneak intel? It's stupid. And it's driving both of us insane. You don't want two vexed people on your case. Trust me, one's bad enough."
He looks at me, and for a split second, I catch a flicker of fear. It vanishes quickly, swallowed by the usual void of emotion behind his dark brown eyes.
"So you want me to do what you do? Just walk up to her and declare my feelings like it's amateur hour?"
"Yes." I nod with every ounce of conviction I have. "Exactly that. For once, see reality and stop living in your stupid fantasy board. Life is messy. People are messier. Especially Jodie."
Perfection doesn't stand a chance against someone like her. Fate never allows you to work in clean lines. It's more the type to knock you down when you think your shoelaces are tied. Fate never wants you to succeed.
Unless you're Christian Bartell, of course. Mossbourne's literal golden boy. Smart, cute, somehow has the school's resident bully wrapped around his finger, apparently a total masochist too. And still manages to make it look charming.
He's all powerful.
"You do realise you got rejected for doing exactly that, right?" Dominic deadpans.
Ouch.
Bubble burst.
My mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for dignity.
"Uh… okay, yes, but that's like different," I stammer. "Hetero couples have different dynamics. Like when a guy confesses to a girl, it's considered romantic. When a guy confesses to another guy, sometimes it feels… like emasculating or something."
Dominic gives me a look reserved for toddlers talking about quantum physics.
I clear my throat and realise the nonsense I just spewed could qualify as its own conspiracy theory.
"You said like five times," he says. "You don't even believe in this simpler plan of yours."
"Wrong," I say, crossing my arms. "It's not even a plan. That's the genius. That way fate doesn't know it's fucking you over."
He rolls his eyes so hard, I'm surprised they don't get stuck.
"Oh God," he mutters, already regretting everything.
"Don't worry. We tweak a few things—fix your wardrobe to stop the gay rumours, stage a casual meet cute, then after a few conversations, awkward laughs, mild flirting… you'll have a shot."
He groans like I've asked him to run a marathon barefoot.
"Just think about it, Dominic," I say, leaning forward. "Your perfect plan failed twice. Do you really need a third crash and burn to figure out perfection doesn't work?"