(LEE JIHAN POV)
If someone told me ten years ago that the glitter girl who smeared tiara stickers all over my sketchbook would grow up to be Celeste freaking Hwang, I would've laughed. Or cried. Probably both.
Because back then, she wasn't a walking Chanel ad with a cat in couture.
She was just... her.
A disaster in jelly shoes with big dreams and bigger opinions.
And now? Now she was sitting across from me like she hadn't just shattered my entire reality under a cherry blossom tree, smug and sparkly as ever.
"I was your childhood crush," she'd said. With that grin. That grin.
I wanted to bury myself in the dirt.
But instead, I walked it off.
I had to. Because if I stood still for too long, I might actually start believing this wasn't some twisted rom-com simulation.
---
Back at the dorms, I opened my notebook and stared at the lyrics I wrote for class.
The ones about her.
The real her.
Laughter that sounded like summer.
Eyes like chaos and sunbeams.
A promise under a cheap paper crown.
Yeah. I was doomed.
I slammed the notebook shut and flopped onto my bed.
"What do I do, Monchi?" I asked the cat, who had followed me in like some tiny, furry spy.
He blinked.
"Yeah, thanks. Super helpful."
He meowed once and curled up on my hoodie. I didn't even bother fighting it anymore.
---
The next day at school, things got worse.
Because Celeste didn't just let the discovery slide quietly.
Oh no.
She walked into homeroom like she'd just won the lottery.
Wearing glitter lip gloss.
Winking at me every five minutes.
And she whispered to her friends.
Which meant the entire class now thought I was either:
a.) Her ex from a secret summer fling
b.) Deeply, hopelessly obsessed with her
c.) All of the above
"Bro," one of the guys said, clapping me on the shoulder. "You've got taste. Glitter Girl's got game."
"I'm going to transfer," I muttered.
Celeste passed me a note.
> "Still thinking about the kiss?"
I crumpled it.
Then immediately un-crumpled it and hid it in my pocket.
---
During lunch, she cornered me behind the vending machines like some sparkly debt collector.
"You're avoiding me," she said.
"You're hallucinating."
"You liked me when I was a chaotic art gremlin. That's adorable."
"Stop talking."
"You wrote a love song about me."
"Stop breathing."
She grinned. "So, what happened? Why didn't we meet again?"
I looked away.
"Family stuff," I said. "My dad's company tanked. My mom panicked. We moved to New York overnight. No phone calls. No goodbyes. Just... gone."
She was quiet for once.
Then: "That's messed up."
"Yeah. Well, we survived."
"You ever think about me?"
I turned to her.
"All the time."
She blinked.
And for the first time in forever, Celeste Hwang didn't have a comeback.
---
After school, we walked home together. It wasn't planned. We just ended up next to each other.
Like magnets.
"Hey, Jihan," she said quietly. "You think if we'd never gotten separated... something would've happened? Back then?"
I shrugged. "You probably would've made me wear a tiara and marry you on a trampoline."
She laughed. "Sounds accurate."
A breeze passed. Her perfume smelled like peaches and some stupid flower I didn't know the name of.
"I'm glad we found each other again," she said.
I didn't answer.
Because if I did, I might've said something I couldn't take back.
Something dangerously close to:
Me too.
---
Later that night, I opened my notebook again.
This time, I didn't write about glitter or tiaras.
I wrote about now.
About her laugh when she caught me blushing.
About her voice during that ridiculous song.
About the terrifying thought that maybe…
Just maybe...
I was falling again.
And this time, there was no America to fly to.
No goodbye.
No escape.
Just her.
And me.
And the mess we were writing—one dramatic, luxurious, heart-thumping chapter at a time.
(CELESTE HWANG POV)
It all started with a craving.
Not for drama. Not for romance. Not for a new designer bag.
(Okay, maybe a little for a new bag.)
But mostly—for banana milk.
You'd think, being the daughter of a hotel mogul, I'd have banana milk delivered by drones or diamond-studded butlers. But no. My father banned junk snacks from the mansion last month after reading one wellness article.
So, like any normal, responsible heiress... I snuck out.
Again.
Monchi tried to stop me by sitting on my handbag. I bribed him with tuna mousse.
---
It was late. Not too late. Just past-glamourous-o'clock.
I wore a hoodie, sunglasses, and a scarf like a K-drama heroine escaping the paparazzi.
The corner store was nearly empty. Just me, the cashier, and a wall of drinks whispering sweet banana temptations.
I grabbed three bottles and smiled.
Success.
But as I walked out into the night, sipping my victory...
I saw them.
A group of boys around my age—leaning on bikes, smoking, laughing too loudly. Their uniforms were half-ditched and their eyes were mean.
"Hey, sweetheart," one of them said, stepping into my path. "Where's your bodyguard, princess?"
"Probably less pathetic than you," I snapped.
Wrong move.
Another one flicked his cigarette. "Feisty."
They closed in.
My heart kicked into overdrive. I looked around—no car, no Monchi, no one.
Until—
"Hey!"
A voice cut through the night.
A boy stepped out from the alley.
Not Jihan.
Someone else.
Taller. Leaner. Black hoodie. Eyes like frost. And a stare so sharp it made even the gang pause.
"She's with me," he said.
"Yeah?" one guy sneered. "Didn't see your name on her."
The stranger moved fast.
It wasn't flashy—no flying kicks or anime poses. Just quiet, brutal efficiency. He ducked a punch, grabbed a wrist, twisted.
One gang member yelped. Another ran. The rest followed.
The boy stood there, breathing hard.
Then I saw it.
His arm. Bleeding.
"Oh my god," I gasped. "You're hurt!"
He looked down like he hadn't noticed. "It's fine."
"It's not!" I said. "Come with me. Now."
---
I drove him to a private hospital.
Did I break six traffic laws? Probably. Did I care? Not even a little.
He sat in the passenger seat, clutching his side and dripping blood on the leather.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He hesitated.
"Rei."
Just Rei.
Cool.
Mysterious.
Trouble.
---
At the hospital, I flashed my VIP card and pulled heiress rank. Within five minutes, Rei was on a bed, getting patched up while I hovered like a stressed mom-cat.
"Why'd you help me?" I asked, pacing.
He shrugged. "Didn't like their faces."
"That's... incredibly vague."
He looked up at me, then smiled. Just a little.
"You looked scared."
I froze.
Because no one—not even Jihan—ever said that. Not like that.
He didn't tease or mock.
He saw me.
---
After the nurse left, it was just us.
He lay back on the bed, arm wrapped in gauze, hair tousled. He looked like he belonged in a sad song.
"I'm sorry you got hurt," I whispered.
"I've had worse," he replied.
We sat in silence for a while.
"I'm Celeste, by the way," I said.
"I know."
My eyes narrowed. "Stalker much?"
He laughed. "You kind of glow. Hard to miss."
My heart did something weird. Like a flutter, but deeper. Like guilt and surprise and curiosity got together for tea.
"I'm not used to this," I said.
"To what?"
"Guys getting hurt because of me. Or saving me without... an agenda."
His gaze softened. "You're more than what people see, huh?"
My breath caught.
Then—
He leaned in.
Slow.
Gentle.
Like he was testing the gravity between us.
His face was inches away, lips parting—
And I flinched.
It wasn't dramatic. Just a tiny jolt.
But it was enough.
Rei pulled back immediately, eyes wide. "Sorry. That was—sorry."
I looked away, cheeks burning. "No. It's not— It's me."
"No, I get it," he said quickly. "I moved too fast."
"No, it's— I've just... been through a lot."
He nodded, quiet.
I wanted to say something. Anything.
But the words got stuck somewhere between my throat and my pride.
We sat in silence again.
This time, heavier.
---
When I dropped him off near the dorms, he gave me a soft smile.
"Thanks for the ride, Banana Milk Girl."
I laughed despite myself. "Thanks for the rescue, Mystery Biker."
As he walked away, my phone buzzed.
A message from Jihan.
> "You okay? Monchi's pacing like a worried dad."
I stared at it.
Then looked at the door where Rei had disappeared.
Two boys.
One past. One maybe-future.
And me—caught between banana milk and emotional mayhem.
This story?
It just got complicated.