"I have an announcement," said Miss Villanueva, our MAPEH teacher, with a glint in her eye that spelled doom. "We're going to have a musical performance activity!"
Groans echoed across the classroom like a haunted opera house.
"Oh, don't be dramatic," she said, eyes twinkling. "You'll each write and perform a short original song. About your life, your emotions, your identity! I want truth, vulnerability, drama!"
I raised a hand. "Can mine be a power ballad dedicated to Monchi?"
"No."
Jihan leaned over and whispered, "How many lines are you writing about your yacht?"
"At least three. I have a brand to protect."
---
The week leading up to performance day was pure chaos. Students were humming in the hallways, scribbling lyrics during math, and Googling "how to rhyme without sounding like a disaster."
Jihan, being the mysterious menace he was, refused to let me hear his song.
"You'll find out with everyone else," he said smugly, strumming chords on his guitar like he wasn't trying to emotionally assassinate me in advance.
Rude.
---
Performance Day arrived with all the tension of a K-drama finale.
First came Jisoo, singing a heartfelt ballad about chasing dreams and failing physics. Then Minjae dropped an angsty rap about unrequited crushes and cafeteria food trauma. The class was surprisingly talented—and emotionally unstable.
Then came Jihan.
He stood up, adjusting his guitar strap. Cool. Calm. Effortless. Ugh.
"I wrote this," he said casually, "about someone I used to like."
USED TO?! My brain screamed. WHO? WHEN? WHAT GRADE? WAS SHE TALLER THAN ME?
Then he sang.
And I?
Was gone.
His voice was warm caramel and late-night radio. Soft but sure, smooth with just enough rasp to make even the boys lean forward.
The lyrics were simple: about seeing someone from afar, watching them laugh, being too scared to confess, and how that feeling never really left. Something about bubble tea, bookstore glances, and how her smile "sounded like a summer song."
I hated how much I wanted it to be about me.
When he finished, the classroom exploded.
Girls clutched their chests. Boys were blushing. Even Minjae whispered, "Bro, I think I just fell in love."
"LEE JIHAN," shouted one girl from the back, "MARRY ME."
He grinned. "I'm flattered, but I'm emotionally unavailable."
I glared. "Since when?"
---
Then it was my turn.
I stood up, glitter microphone in hand (yes, I brought my own), and cleared my throat.
"This one's called 'Daddy's Credit Card.'"
The beat dropped.
I rapped the first verse about growing up in a mansion, getting a private yacht before I got a driver's license, and how Monchi has his own skincare routine.
Verse two was an emotional ballad—how no one tells you that having everything doesn't mean feeling everything. How even heiresses cry in designer pajamas. How I once tried to bribe a guidance counselor with Chanel.
Monchi meowed from my handbag on cue. The class was howling with laughter.
Even Miss Villanueva was wiping tears. "You're unhinged," she choked. "But in the most creative way."
Jihan looked at me like I was the eighth wonder of the world. "You're insane."
"Told you," I said, bowing. "And yet… you still like me."
He rolled his eyes. "Debatable."
But his smile said otherwise.
---
By the time the bell rang, we were walking down the hallway like chaos royalty.
"I still can't believe you rhymed 'sashimi' with 'emotional tsunami,'" he said.
"Art is pain," I replied solemnly.
Miss Villanueva clapped us on the back. "You two are impossible. And probably destined for fame. Or jail. Keep it up."
We exchanged grins.
And maybe—just maybe—I was starting to believe that even spoiled girls and sarcastic boys could make one heck of a soundtrack.
Later that day, we sat under the cherry blossom tree near the back of the academy courtyard. The performance buzz was still in the air, but quieter now, like the aftertaste of something sweet.
I threw a cherry blossom petal at Jihan's head.
He didn't flinch.
"You still haven't told me," I said. "Who was that song about?"
He stretched out his legs, letting the pink petals drift over his blazer. "Why do you care?"
"Because if it's not me, I need to know who to eliminate."
He laughed, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Okay," he said, voice suddenly softer. "You really wanna know?"
I nodded, trying to act casual even though my heart was staging a one-woman drama inside my chest.
"I liked someone. Ten years ago," he began, eyes on the sky. "We met in the most random place—a summer art program. I was nine. She was this... loud, sparkly disaster. Always talking, always drawing cats with tiaras."
My pulse picked up. Cats with tiaras? That was suspiciously specific.
"She tried to convince everyone she was secretly a princess from another country," he went on. "No one believed her except me. I don't know why. I just... did."
I blinked. Wait.
"She used to say she'd grow up, buy a castle, and make me her royal advisor. Said we'd eat mango smoothies and throw parties every weekend."
No. Way.
"And then one day," he said, voice dimming, "she stopped coming. Her dad had business issues. They moved to America overnight. I didn't even get to say goodbye."
He turned to me.
"I never forgot her. I didn't even remember her name. But sometimes, I'd dream about her. Loud. Annoying. Sparkly. Always in pink."
I stared at him, brain static.
"Jihan," I said slowly, "was she... wearing glitter jelly shoes?"
His eyes widened. "YES!"
"And did she own a cat named Marshmallow?"
"YES! Wait—how do you—"
"Because that girl was ME, you emotionally constipated maniac!"
Silence.
A single cherry blossom floated dramatically between us.
"Wait—YOU'RE the glitter girl?" he said, jaw dropped. "The fake princess?"
I gasped. "EXCUSE ME, I was committed to the role!"
He blinked. "You're telling me... the girl I wrote that entire emotional song about... is you?"
I grinned, suddenly feeling a little too powerful. "Looks like it."
He buried his face in his hands. "Oh my god. I serenaded you. In public. In front of half the school. With heartfelt lyrics about tiaras and bookstores."
"And you said I was your childhood crush," I said, smugness levels rising like designer stock. "That's basically a confession."
"You're unbearable."
"You liked me first."
He groaned. "This is the worst timeline."
I leaned closer. "So, what I'm hearing is... you never got over me."
He gave me a sidelong look. "Don't push it."
"Too late."
---
Monchi meowed from his travel pouch like he knew something seismic had just happened.
Because it had.
Jihan and I?
We weren't just partners in sarcasm and shrimp forks anymore.
We had history.
We had fate.
And now… we had a secret no one else knew.
The girl he never forgot.
The boy I always dreamed about.
Ten years apart—and back in the same place.
This wasn't just a plot twist.
It was a love story waiting for its next chorus.