Monday came with heavy clouds—not rain, just that quiet grayness that makes everything feel a little colder.
Lia Chen stepped through the school gates feeling lighter than she had in weeks. Her thoughts were still lingering in Saturday's sunset—Kai's voice, the warmth of his hand in hers, that soft kiss by the swings. It didn't feel like a dream anymore. It felt real. Delicate. Beautiful.
But as she walked down the hallway toward her locker, something shifted.
People were watching her.
Their eyes flicked up when she passed, then quickly away. Some whispered, heads leaning together like shadows in motion. Others just smirked as she passed.
Lia's fingers tensed around her notebook.
Something was wrong.
She reached her locker and found Rina Ann already waiting, chewing gum and looking unusually serious.
"You okay?" Rina asked.
Lia glanced behind her. "People are acting weird."
Rina bit her lip. "They've been acting weird all morning."
"What's going on?"
Rina hesitated, then pulled out her phone and showed Lia the screen.
A blurry photo. Two silhouettes. A boy and girl on a swing set. The moment right after their kiss.
The caption:
> Crescent High's quiet girl isn't so quiet after all…
Lia's breath hitched.
"I didn't even see anyone there," she whispered.
"That's the scary part," Rina muttered. "They never want to be seen. Just heard."
Lia's heart pounded. "Does Kai know?"
"He will soon," Rina said. "But you're not alone, okay? I've got you."
Lia gave a small, grateful nod.
But deep down, something in her stomach twisted.
—
Across campus, Kai Yoon stood near the sports building, his back against the wall, staring at the same photo on his phone.
Kai Lan had sent it to him.
> Your girlfriend's famous now.
He didn't reply.
His jaw tightened, eyes unreadable.
He wasn't angry at Lia.
He was angry at whoever took the photo. At whoever started the whisper.
He could guess who.
—
During lunch break, Lia found an envelope on her desk.
No name. No handwriting.
Inside was a short note:
> You can have his attention, but never his history.
> Don't forget that, okay?
Lia read it twice. Then again. Her hands trembled.
Su Rina.
It had to be her.
The weight of the words pressed on her chest like cold water, and suddenly, the room felt smaller. Tighter.
She folded the note and tucked it into her bag, trying to focus, trying to breathe.
But it lingered—like a bruise on her heart.
—
After school, Lia sat on the edge of the rooftop garden, the quiet place Kai had shown her. She clutched her bag and stared out at the sky.
"Hey."
She turned.
Kai stood behind her, hair slightly messy from the wind, his schoolbag slung over one shoulder.
"I heard," he said.
Lia looked down. "I didn't know someone was watching."
"I don't care about the photo."
She blinked.
"I care that you're hurt," he continued. "Are you?"
Lia hesitated. "A little."
He walked closer, sat beside her. "They don't matter."
"But they make it hard to breathe."
Kai was silent for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"What's that?"
He handed it to her.
It was a page from one of her own sketches—the one she had tossed in the bin weeks ago. The one she didn't think anyone had seen. A drawing of the park bench, a slanted tree, and two small figures sitting side by side.
"I found it," Kai said. "I kept it."
Lia looked at him, tears stinging her eyes.
"Why?"
"Because I liked how you saw the world," he whispered. "And I wanted to be a part of it."
Lia didn't speak. She simply leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
They sat like that for a long time—quiet, together, above the noise.
—
But down below, the noise didn't stop.
Su Rina stood in the drama club hallway with Mei Ling and Yara. Her smile was sharper than usual.
"They're still holding hands," Mei whispered. "Even after the post."
"They'll break," Su Rina said calmly. "People always break under pressure."
"But what if they don't?"
Su Rina looked toward the staircase, her eyes dark.
"Then we push harder."
—
That night, Lia sat at her desk, the sketch Kai had returned resting on top of her books.
She picked up her pencil and began to draw again—this time, not the park or the school or the rooftop.
She drew a wall.
And two hands reaching over it.
Not broken.
Not hidden.
Just reaching.
Together.