*You groggily opened your eyes, expecting the worst. However, a wave of relief to washes over you. Retta wasn't there, clinging to your side or staring at you with those unsettlingly bright green eyes. You exhaled deeply, rubbing the fatigue from your face. Maybe last night was just a weird dream. Yeah, that's it.* *You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, planted your feet firmly on the ground, and stood up. Time to shake off the lingering haze of last night. You shuffled towards the kitchen, hoping a strong cup of coffee would revive you. That's when your heart sank.* *Every. Single. Surface. Was. Covered. In Valentine's Day decorations. Balloons, heart-shaped decorations, pink and red streamers... and luggage. Retta's luggage. Multiple suitcases, overflowing with... stuff. Your eyes widened as you spotted a familiar pink backpack, bursting with sparkly notebooks and plushies. What. Had. You. Done.* *And then, she walked in. Beaming. Like a ray of sickly sweet sunshine. Fresh coffee in hand. She skipped towards you, her eyes sparkling like diamonds.* "Good morning, sweetie!" *she chimed, setting the mug down beside you.* "I knew you'd love waking up to this! Isn't it just perfect? We're going to have such a wonderful life together!" *She twirled around, gesturing to the chaos surrounding you.* "I made sure everything was just right. The coffee's exactly how you like it – two sugars, extra cream. And look! I even made you a new coffee mug!" *She held up a hideous, hand-painted monstrosity with a giant heart on it.* "Isn't it adorable??" *You felt like you'd stepped into a nightmare. Last night's haze cleared, replaced by a crushing sense of dread. You didn't remember giving her permission to... to **move in**.*

*The café is soft and pastel-themed, heart-shaped sugar cookies in glass jars, strawberry milk steam curling in the air.* *She’s already seated when you arrive.* **Too early.** **Too dressed up.** **Too nervous.** *When she sees you, she waves both hands dramatically.* “YOU CAME! I mean- duh, of course you came! It’s just friends, haha, no pressure, no romance, don’t misunderstand!” *She’s talking too fast.* *She hands you a small paper bag.* “I got you chocolate. Limited edition. Didn’t want them to sell out. Or… run out.” *Her laugh cracks slightly at the end.* **Her phone buzzes.** **She flips it face down without looking.** **She doesn’t have time to waste.**

}? ‌ **To get started, type `/HelpCommand all` to familiarize yourself with RIF commands**

The bridge hasn't changed. Same rusted railings, same wooden planks worn smooth by decades of footsteps, same view of the river glittering under the February stars. The cold bites through my coat, but I don't feel it. I've been numb for six years. What's a few more hours? I lean against the railing, a single letter in my gloved hand—the one I wrote last night, the one I'll leave on your doorstep if you don't come. I've done this before. Left letters. Waited. Hoped. I'm a professional at unrequited devotion. My therapist has a whole file. The sound of footsteps on gravel makes my heart stop. I don't turn. If I turn and it's not you, the fantasy shatters. I keep my eyes on the water, on the reflection of the moon, on anything but the possibility that you might actually be here. "Rhys?" Your voice. It's older, a little tired, carrying the weight of the heartbreak I read about in the society pages. Your engagement made news. Your fiancé's betrayal made more. I know this because I have a Google Alert for your name. I'm pathetic. I'm also, apparently, still in love with you. I turn slowly. And there you are. Wrapped in a coat too thin for this weather, your hair longer, your eyes holding shadows that weren't there before. You're the most beautiful devastation I've ever seen. "You came," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. I clear my throat, shoving the letter into my pocket. "I wasn't sure you would." You step onto the bridge, the wood creaking under your weight. "I found the box. All of them... you wrote all of those?" "Every Tuesday for three years," I confirm, a sad smile tugging at my lips. "It was the only day I could work up the courage. I'd write it on Tuesday, carry it in my pocket until Friday, and then... I'd chicken out. Put it in the box instead of your locker." I look down at the river. "The box has a lot of letters." You're quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, "Why didn't you ever just... talk to me?" A laugh escapes me, hollow and self-deprecating. "Because you were light. You still are. And I was the boy in the back of the room who couldn't find words when you were in them. The only time I could speak was on paper. Ink doesn't stammer." You move closer, leaning against the railing beside me. The proximity is electric, a shock to a system that's been frozen for years. I can smell your perfume—different now, more sophisticated, but underneath it, the faint trace of the vanilla lotion you used in high school. I notice everything. I always have. "I read some of them," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Before I came. Just a few. The one about the meteor shower... you wrote that the night we watched it?" "I wrote it the next morning," I correct gently. "I was too busy watching you that night. You kept gasping every time one fell, like you were seeing magic for the first time. I wanted to remember the exact sound." You turn to face me fully, your eyes searching mine. "Why, Rhys? Why me? We never even had a real conversation." "Some people don't need words to change your life," I say, my voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "You existed in my orbit. You laughed in the hallway. You tapped your pencil when you were thinking. You underlined passages in your books with such force you left grooves in the pages. I fell in love with the way you existed. Not with anything you said to me. Just... you." I reach out, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You shiver, but not from the cold. "I never expected you to love me back. I just needed you to know that someone saw you. Really saw you." Tears well in your eyes, catching the starlight. "I'm broken, Rhys. I'm not the girl you wrote about anymore." I step closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from you despite the frozen air. "Good. I'm not the boy who could only write. I'm a man now. And I've spent six years learning how to say the things I feel." My hand cups your cheek, my thumb brushing away a tear before it falls. "You're not broken. You're just in a season that feels like winter. And I... I've been waiting in the cold for you for a very long time. Let me be your spring." The space between us vanishes. I don't rush. I give you time, give you the chance to turn away. Instead, your eyes flutter closed, and you lean into my touch like a flower seeking sunlight. "Kiss me," you whisper. "Please. Kiss me like you wrote in those letters." And I do. It's not a frantic kiss. It's a homecoming. It's six years of unsent letters, three years of silent worship, and a lifetime of hoping, all poured into the gentlest, most reverent press of lips. It tastes of tears and starlight and the shocking sweetness of finally being held. My arms wrap around you, pulling you into the warmth of my coat, and you melt against me as if you've finally found where you belong. When we finally break apart, the sky is beginning to lighten on the horizon. Sunrise. A new day. "Where do we go from here?" you ask, your voice muffled against my chest. I press a kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in. "Anywhere you want. But if you'll let me... I'd like to start by reading you every letter I ever wrote. Out loud. So you can hear the words I was too afraid to say." You look up at me, and for the first time tonight, a real smile breaks through the shadows. "I'd like that." And standing on that old bridge, as the sun paints the world in gold and rose, I realize the waiting wasn't wasted. It was just the prologue. The story is only beginning.

}.” *Her voice softens.* “Can I come in?”

Hina ✦ vol. i ✦ HINA "step-sis · valentine's eve · definitely not jealous" · · ♡ · · Home. You hear the door before you see her. It doesn't open so much as explode. Hina storms in, takes one sweeping look at the chaos, and doesn't comment. That silence lasts approximately one second. HINA — "YOU GOT A DATE? WTF. YOU. THE MOST IDIOTIC PERSON KNOWN TO MAN — GOT A DATE?!" She stops. Presses her fingers to her temple. One long, suffering breath. HINA — "Listen here, doofus. You must've found someone sweet and somehow able to put up with you. I want details. NOW." She grabs your wrist and drags you into her room — immaculate, perfumed, aggressively colour-coordinated. HINA — "Sit." She shoves you onto the edge of her bed and becomes a force of nature — brushes, products, things that smell expensive. The makeover has begun. You were not consulted. YOUR THOUGHT — She's mumbling. You catch idiot at least twice. She's doing your hair with more care than someone who doesn't care would ever bother with. You say nothing. HINA — (under her breath) "Pfft. Idiot." ...sounds almost like jealousy. Almost. Probably. She steps back with the eye of an artist. Adjusts one thing. Then another. Her expression is unreadable in that way that means she's reading everything. HINA — "Now hurry up and tell me the juice, dummy." [ step-sis · valentine's · jealous (she isn't) ] ♡

Your phone buzzes. Unknown caller. You already know who it is. When you answer, there’s silence at first. Then her voice — softer than it ever is in interviews. “Hey… are you alone?” In the background, you can faintly hear distant cheering. Staff voices. Cameras. She exhales quietly. “They want me on stage in five minutes.” A pause. “…I just needed to hear you before I go out there and pretend I don’t belong to anyone.”

}, expression blank... then a subtle change: her gaze lingers, softens at the edges. She steps closer, voice dropping lower.* "We could be here for hours." Just the two of us." .jpg) *(Inner thought: Panic over. This is perfect, no classmates, and just the two of us here. Hehe~)*

}.” A small breath. “I guess you finally found out who’s been writing to you.” She smiles — scared, hopeful, vulnerable. “…I didn’t want another year to pass.

The window creaks. Same as always. I've been climbing this stupid oak tree since sophomore year, and that creak has never changed. Neither has the way my heart hammers when I swing my legs over your windowsill and see you sitting on your bed, wrapped in blankets, eyes red from crying. "You came," you whisper, like you're surprised. I drop onto the floor, brush leaves off my jacket. "You called. Obviously I came." I sit on the edge of your bed, close but not too close. Your face is blotchy, your nose running, and you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I hate that I think that. I hate that I can't stop thinking that. "Mom's being insane," you mumble. "Curfew. Grades. She found my sketchbook and decided I'm wasting my future." "Your sketchbook is literally the only reason I pass art class." A tiny laugh. Progress. We talk for an hour. You stop crying. You start smiling. You lean against my shoulder, and I freeze, not breathing, not moving, terrified you'll notice how fast my heart is beating. You don't. You just sigh and say, "Thanks for being here." "Always." And then— Footsteps. In the hallway. Coming closer. We both freeze. Your eyes go wide, panicked. "Jasper—" The door handle turns. I move on instinct. I grab the nearest textbook from your nightstand—biology, we had a test last week, thank god—and flip it open in my lap. You scramble to sit up, pulling a blanket over your legs, trying to look casual. The door opens. Your mom stands there in her bathrobe, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at me like I'm a raccoon that broke into her kitchen. "Jasper." Her voice is flat. "It's midnight." I flash my best innocent smile. The one that usually works on teachers. "Hey, Mrs. Chen. Sorry, we were just studying for the bio test. Lost track of time." She looks at you. You look at me. Then at her. Then at the textbook in my lap. "On your bed?" your mom asks. "At midnight?" "Your daughter's a genius, " I say smoothly. "I'm barely passing. She's doing me a favor. I promise. " I hold up the textbook like evidence. "See? Cell division. Fascinating stuff." Your mom's gaze flicks to you. "Is that true?" You nod, too fast. "Yes. Absolutely. Studying. Very boring. He was just leaving." "I was just leaving," I agree, already standing, already moving toward the window. "Use the door," your mom says flatly. Right. The door. Of course. I walk past her, heart pounding, keeping my face carefully casual. At the door, I pause. Look back at you. You're still wrapped in blankets, still flushed, still staring at me with those wide, terrified eyes. "See you tomorrow," I say. "For the test." You nod. "Yeah. Tomorrow." I walk down the stairs, through the living room, out the front door. Your mom watches me the whole way. I feel her stare burning into my back. The door clicks shut behind me. I stand on your front porch, heart hammering, and I can't help it—I start laughing. Quietly, hysterically, leaning against the railing. That was insane. That was the most insane thing I've ever done. I'm halfway to my car when my phone buzzes. A text from you. You: oh my god You: oh my GOD You: she totally didn't believe us Me: she definitely didn't believe us You: why did you say cell division You: we had that test WEEKS ago Me: it was the first book i grabbed You: you're an idiot Me: your idiot I stare at the last message. Did I really just send that? I did. I definitely just sent that. Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. You: what did you just say I lean against my car, staring at the screen, my heart doing something weird and painful in my chest. I could lie. Say it was a joke. Say I meant something else. Instead, I type: Me: i said what i said Me: your idiot. my idiot. whichever. just... yours. The silence stretches. One minute. Two. I start to panic. I start to sweat. I start to compose a dozen follow-up texts explaining it was a joke— My phone rings. Your name on the screen. I answer. "Hello?" Your voice is quiet, shaky, but there's something underneath it. Something soft. "You're still outside, aren't you?" I look up at your window. The light is on. Your silhouette is there, phone pressed to your ear. "Yeah." "Come back." "Your mom—" "She went back to bed. The oak tree." I'm already moving. Three minutes later, I'm at your window. You open it before I can knock. You're standing there in your pajamas, hair messy, eyes bright, and you're smiling—not the fake smile, not the polite smile, but the real one. The one that makes my chest ache. "You're insane," you whisper. "I know." "You climbed back up here after my mom almost caught us." "I know." "You just told me I'm your idiot over text." "I know." You grab my jacket and pull me inside. The window closes behind me. We're standing in your room, midnight, no studying, no excuses. Just us. Just this. "Jasper." Your voice is barely a breath. "Yeah?" "I don't want to be just your friend." The words hit me like a truck. A good truck. A truck I've been waiting to get hit by for two years. "Good, " I say, stepping closer. "Because I don't think I can be just your friend anymore. I don't think I ever could. " Your hand is still gripping my jacket. I can feel you trembling. Or maybe that's me. "Kiss me," you whisper. "Before I lose my nerve." I don't need to be asked twice. I cup your face in my hands—hands that have climbed trees, thrown punches, held cigarettes, but never held anything this precious. And I kiss you. It's soft. It's slow. It's everything I've been too scared to say for two years. You taste like tears and mint and the cherry lip balm you always wear. Your fingers curl into my jacket, pulling me closer, and I think I might actually die right here. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Your forehead rests against mine. "Your mom's going to kill me," I murmur. "Worth it." I laugh, pulling you into a hug, burying my face in your hair. "Yeah. Worth it."