I had to hook an arm around Adam's waist to stop him from storming after
her.
"Come back here right now!" he shouted, practically vibrating with righteous
fury.
Delulu girl—yes, that Delulu girl—was already halfway across the
courtyard, mumbling frantic apologies as she fled. She didn't even look back.
Didn't notice that she'd crashed right into me and dumped her coffee all over
my shirt. And my sneakers. My sneakers.
The dark stain spread across the soft cream of my button-down, dripping like
some abstract tragedy over the laces of my white Margielas.
"Why are you stopping me?" Adam snapped, his voice rising. "Look at what she
did!"
I looked at him, amused. He had that look—chin jutted, eyes narrowed—the one
he wore when he was ready to throw down. And it was flattering, really, the way
he always got fired up on my behalf.
"It's okay," I said with a small shrug, brushing at the stain, knowing it
wouldn't help. "I'm sure she didn't mean to. It was just an accident."
Helen and Regina both let out matching gasps of outrage, like the universe
had personally wronged them.
"Did anyone see her face?" Helen asked, scanning the crowd. "Know her name?"
"Yeah, she needs to pay for this," Regina chimed in, dramatic as ever,
flipping her hair like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.
Heads shook all around us. People exchanged glances. No one knew who she
was, not even me. Just a blur of deep brown hair, coppery eyes, and
mortification.
"Guys," I said lightly, "it's fine. It's just coffee. I'm sure it'll wash
off."
Regina stepped closer, all hips and heels on the sun-warmed pavement, like
the courtyard was her personal runway. She reached out and pinched the hem of
my shirt, right where the stain bled darkest.
"I could wash it for you," she said, red lips curving.
Of course she could.
It wasn't a secret she'd been trying to edge her way back into my orbit, but
we'd already gone down that road. Once. A
few clingy texts, and a blocklist entry later—I'd learned my lesson.
"Thanks," I said with a smile that didn't reach my eyes, "but I've got it."
Even if the shirt was a write-off, I wasn't repeating old mistakes.
Not even if she paid me.
"It's fine," I said, letting my smile settle in
just enough to smooth out the tension in the air. No need for dramatics—it was
coffee, not bloodshed. "I'll just go to a nearby store and change."
Adam shook his head, still simmering with disbelief.
"Can't believe this happened. And on your first day back after so
long."
I reached out, ruffling his hair with deliberate amusement,
laughing when he immediately recoiled, swiping at my own head in retaliation.
Predictable. I stepped back, dodging easily, always just out of reach. I waved
a lazy hand at him.
"Don't worry about me. Just go hang out—I'll call you
when I'm done."
The group walking with me at the time consisted of Adam,
Brian, Kazeal, Peter, and the inevitable Regina and Helen—two forces of nature
in their own right. The others, scattered along the edges, fell into the
category of familiar strangers—faces I could place but names I wouldn't bet on
remembering.
As I drifted toward the parking lot, I caught snippets of
hushed conversations trailing behind me.
"Wow, Kai is really
chill."
"I know, right? I'd be flipping my shit if I were
him."
"Hey, has anyone ever seen Kai get angry?"
Adam, ever my personal spokesman, chimed in. "Nah. My
bro doesn't do anger. He's cool-headed—that's why I get
hot-headed. Balance, you know? I wish I knew that girl, man."
I didn't look back, just smiled as I strolled on, the voices
fading into the background. The irony wasn't lost on me—the first time she ever
spoke to me was by dousing me in coffee. A bold introduction.
I could still see her eyes when she rounded the corner,
right before we collided—wide, frantic, carved from pure terror. She was either
running from something or toward something equally nightmarish. Either way, she
wasn't moving like someone with casual plans.
Why was it that every time I saw her, she was in the middle
of some crisis? And now, apparently, I had been unwillingly dragged into it.
Then, out of the periphery of my vision, I caught sight of a
hoodie—an instant focal point. It was always a hoodie. And this time,
predictably, it was her, Delulu Girl.
She was scrubbing furiously at her face, eyes raw and red at
the edges. She'd been crying. Again. Was distress just her natural state?
The urge to speak to her hit me so suddenly that I was
already moving before my brain had time to approve the action. It was magnetic,
inevitable.
I stepped directly into her path, but her head remained
bowed, forcing me to intervene before we smacked into each other—again. My hand
flicked up in front of her eyes, fingers snapping sharply.
"Are you in there?" I asked, amused.
She jerked her chin up, startled, and I watched as
recognition dawned in those honey-brown eyes—wide, still shaken, but undeniably
sharp.
"Wha—can I help you?" Her voice was thin, hesitant, with a
softness I instinctively knew wasn't typical for her.
I let a slow smirk surface. "Well, you did say
you'd pay me back, so I was following up."
Her brows knit together, then flicked downward, settling on
my coffee-stained shirt which I held out by the hem like evidence in an
unsolved crime.
"Remember?"
"Oh…" The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning, her
eyes stretching impossibly wider. I almost laughed.
"Did I do that?" she breathed, as if the answer could be
anything else.
I exhaled, shaking my head slightly. "I would think so. Same
hoodie. Same voice." I gestured at her with casual ease. "So, how are you
paying? Paystack or Zapp?"
She hesitated for a moment, then started patting herself
down, searching for her phone. "Right. Yes. How much is it?"
"900 dollars."
Her head snapped up, expression shifting. The timid edge to
her voice faded, replaced by something sharper, more skeptical. "Nine hundred
dollars?"
She blinked, suspicion creeping in as she studied me, her
brows knitting in wary calculation. "You're kidding."
I met her gaze, unwavering. "It's a brand. I couldn't be
more serious."
She let out a scoffing laugh, shaking her head. "Get out of
here. Nine hundred dollars? Who buys clothes like that?"
I fought the urge to grin, keeping my expression composed,
effortlessly confident. "Do you think I'm trying to cheat you?"
Her gaze flickered downward, scanning me with careful
precision—lingering on my watch, my necklace. A quiet sigh pushed past her
lips, shoulders drooping.
"I'm not giving you nine hundred dollars when I can get that
stain off with a dollar's worth of soap."
I exhaled, shaking my head. "You can't. This has to be dry
cleaned. Any kind of soap would ruin it."
She laughed, bright and warm, as if the very idea of that
was absurd. The way her face lit up caught me off guard.
"Fine, then I'll dry clean it myself," she said, chin
lifting slightly, triumphant. "Save my money."
I tilted my head, studying her. "Alright then. Where do you
want to do it?"
I wasn't even sure why I kept pushing it. I wasn't serious
about her paying, and yet, I kept going along with it—kept talking to her. Kept standing here instead of walking
away.
She met my gaze, determination settling in her stance.
"Fine. Let's go."
She turned and started back the way she had come, walking
with purpose but not urgency. I followed at a leisurely pace, my steps
measured, unhurried.
She led me up the stairs of the girls' dorm, casually
pushing open the door as if this were routine, as if nothing about this
situation struck her as odd. That alone told me she had no idea who I was. She
ushered me inside without hesitation, entirely undisturbed about bringing me—a
stranger—into her dorm room.
The moment we stepped inside, I noticed she wasn't alone.
Two girls sat on the couch, mid-bite, their conversation immediately cutting
off as their gazes landed on me. Their mouths fell open. Their bodies
stiffened. Eyes wide, frozen in place, as if someone had pressed pause on their
existence.
I briefly considered retreating, uninterested in being
gawked at. But then she spoke.
"Come in."
As if I were some polite gentleman lingering on the
threshold, awaiting permission. The sheer casualness of it made me smile deeply,
my focus narrowing in on her as I dismissed the two stunned spectators in the
living room.
She walked to a door at the end of the room, pushing it open
with the same nonchalance, stepping inside.
"Don't mind the mess," she muttered, her tone flat,
dismissive. The tension in her voice hinted at unresolved issues—an argument
still simmering with her friends, maybe.
I followed her in. And the moment I did, it was like stepping into an entirely
different universe.
Her room wasn't just a space—it was a shrine
to her obsessions.
The bed was immaculate, but above it towered an impossibly
high array of anime figurines, neatly arranged like a miniature army, their
plastic eyes gleaming in the soft glow of LED strip lights that lined the
ceiling. The collection stretched upward, nearly brushing the top, and I
suspected that any wrong move could send a domino effect of destruction through
this carefully curated display.
Mugs lined her desk, each one holding brushes, pens, or some
forgotten trinket, most emblazoned with anime characters in dramatic poses.
Posters and wall scrolls dominated the space, layering over each other like
battle scars from years of fandom devotion.
And then there was the floor—a statement piece in
itself. A massive anime character, painted across the surface, its exaggerated
expression frozen in time beneath our feet. I didn't recognize the name, but I
knew enough to realize this wasn't some random artwork—it was a deliberate
choice.
The room breathed fandom, soaked in the essence of someone who
didn't just like anime—she lived inside it.
I was still caught up in the figurines, scanning their
little faces and dramatic poses—tiny warriors, witches, schoolgirls with deadly
weapons—when she returned holding a sweatshirt that looked like it could
swallow her whole.
"You can wear this while I wash that," she said simply,
handing it over like we were roommates and this kind of thing happened all the
time.
So she wanted me to take off my shirt. In her room.
If she had even the faintest clue who I was, I knew this
wouldn't be happening. Hell, if it were any other girl, I'd suspect some kind
of honeytrap—accidentally-on-purpose stain, conveniently oversized sweatshirt,
seduction 101. But her? She turned away the moment I grabbed the hem of my
shirt, eyes drifting to her cupboard like I was just another piece of furniture
being rearranged.
She wasn't even blushing.
And that felt like a damn shame.
I wanted to see it—to embarrass her just enough to see how
she flushed. Whether it'd be a shy pink or a dramatic, burning red. Her skin
was that smooth, ivory kind of pale, the kind that would light up like a
warning sign if she ever let herself react.
But she didn't.
Did she really not know who I was? Or worse—did she know,
and just didn't care?
I pulled on the sweatshirt. It hung loose around my frame,
the sleeves too short to cover my wrists and the neckline stretched from wear.
It smelled faintly of strawberries and warmth—some kind of soft scent that
clung to comfort. This was her shirt. Her go-to. Probably something she wore
when she was alone, sketching or crying or being human.
"A lovely room you have here," I said, handing her my
stained shirt. I didn't miss the way she avoided eye contact again.
"I know it's a mess but ignore it," she muttered. "Wait five
minutes and I'll get these stains in no time."
"Right," I said with the barest smile. "I have five minutes
to spare."
but she wasn't listening. She was already halfway out the
door, the stained shirt in hand, leaving me alone in her world of vibrant
chaos.
I found it impossible to be bored in this room—every inch of
space breathed life into a different story. The walls were lined with
narratives, each poster and figurine telling a tale I had yet to learn.
My fingers twitched with the urge to start snapping
pictures, capturing the sheer vibrancy of it all, but that would be a
violation. I'd ask for permission when she returned.
My gaze locked onto the figures stationed above her bed—an
army of plastic warriors, their stances frozen mid-action. At first glance, I
had assumed they were store-bought, but upon closer inspection, the scuffs, the
raw edges, the imperfections that made them uniquely worn caught my attention. Had she made these herself? If so,
then she was undeniably skilled—far more talented than I had expected.
How had I never heard of her before? And more pressingly— what was her name? I had
followed her here without even asking.
She intrigued me in ways I wasn't used to. And suddenly, I
couldn't wait for her to return so I could start unraveling the mystery.
She didn't keep me waiting long. The door swung open, and
she stepped in with a triumphant smile, lifting my shirt like a trophy.
"Told you!" she declared, proudly presenting the cleared
stain.
I glanced at it, unimpressed. "Yes, but it's still very wet.
And rumpled."
"Don't worry, I've got you," she said with a nod, like she
held the sacred knowledge of laundry miracles.
I chuckled under my breath, watching as she reached for a
hair dryer, flipping it on and aiming it directly at the damp spots.
"Genius," I said dryly.
"Hey, if it works, don't judge the process."
I swept my arm around, gesturing to the sensory overload
that was her room. "What's all this?"
She barely spared me a glance, continuing her task. "What? I
thought you were an art student."
"I am, but I don't know every art."
"This is animation."
I nodded, taking it in properly now—the dedication, the
depth of passion layered into every carefully arranged piece.
"That's your major?"
"Pretty much," she said, eyes flickering in thought before
returning to the shirt. "What about you?"
"Performance art," I replied, reaching for an intricately
detailed samurai figurine perched on the shelf. Turning it over in my hands, I
examined the fine craftsmanship, the careful strokes of paint, the way its
armor gleamed under the artificial light.
"Did you make this?"
"Yeah—" she started, then panicked, "Hey! Drop Minamoto."
"Who?"
"That samurai is called Minamoto," she said with wide eyes,
like I'd just threatened a national treasure.
I laughed. "They all have names?"
"Of course they do. Part of creating animation is telling a
story—and stories need characters."
She said it with such conviction I couldn't help but grin.
She really loved this. The way I loved stepping into someone else's skin on
stage, she loved building them from scratch. Her passion mirrored my own.
"That's the same with performance," I said. "Only the
characters aren't external—they're internal. And sometimes, they're not even
real. Just metaphors. Feelings wearing faces."
She blinked at me. Like I'd just said something unexpectedly
profound. Then she tilted her head and smiled in a crooked sort of way.
"You know, for a guy who wears nine-hundred-dollar shirts,
you're pretty cool."
"Really?" I chuckled. "I don't get that a lot. Something
tells me you've got a grudge against anyone who dresses like they live in a
fashion catalog."
She shrugged, casual but honest. "Not really. I just can't
blame people for being born lucky."
"Lucky?" I echoed, curious.
"You know… born with a gold spoon in their mouth."
"Not everyone born with a gold spoon actually uses it," I
said, voice dipping slightly.
She gave me a look. Like I'd just spoken in riddles. "You
say weird things."
I grinned, feeling strangely at home. I moved to sit on the
edge of her bed—it creaked under me like it wasn't used to visitors. "Why do
you say that?"
She opened her mouth, about to answer—but then there was a
knock on the door.
"June?"
She didn't respond immediately. Her whole expression
changed—eyes cooling, lips pressing flat. The warmth drained from the room like
a switch had been flipped.
"I'm busy right now," she called out, voice sharper than
before.
There was a pause, then soft footsteps retreating down the
hall.
I almost asked if she was okay. Almost. But I knew better
than to touch a bruise before it was ready. Whatever that was, it still stung.
So I just watched her, silent.
Let her breathe.
Let her come back.
"You done?" I asked, watching as she continued
holding the dryer on the same spot, long past the point of necessity. The shirt
was practically sizzling at this point.
She startled slightly, as if realizing what she was doing,
flicked the dryer off, and checked her work. "Here you go—your stain-free
shirt," she announced, holding it up triumphantly.
I accepted it, but noticed the problem immediately. Saying
nothing, I pulled off her sweatshirt, the faint scent of strawberries lingering
in the fabric, and slipped into my own.
Yup. The front was poking
out in a way that absolutely shouldn't
have been happening.
"Yeah, I can't say it isn't clean," I said, my
voice deliberately neutral as I waited for her to notice.
She turned. Froze.
"What the—why is it doing that? Was it like that
before?"
I exhaled, shaking my head. "That's certainly not how it was before."
"Agh, geez!" she groaned, looking so genuinely
frustrated that I couldn't hold back my laughter.
"At least it doesn't look too bad," I said, attempting
reassurance.
"Yeah?"
"Definitely. I'll manage it home."
She eyed me skeptically but let it go. After a pause, she
ventured, "Then... the nine hundred…"
I smiled, amusement flickering in my tone. "We'll talk
about that some other time."
A beat passed. Then I tilted my head slightly. "Your
name is June, right? I'm Kai."
Her expression shifted just a fraction—like the weight of
the moment settled in place.
"I'll see you around then," I said, turning to
leave.
I rose to my feet, letting my gaze linger on June's
collection one last time, my eyes tracing the rows of figures, the painted
chaos, the sheer dedication behind every piece.
Then, finally, I turned and walked out.
The two girls in the living room snapped into another state
of shock, their eyes rounding as though I had just casually materialized at
their dinner table. They stared, slack-jawed, unmoving, caught between
disbelief and sheer fascination.
Suppressing a laugh, I shifted my focus back to June,
meeting her amber gaze with deliberate ease.
"I guess I don't need to call you Delulu Girl anymore," I
mused aloud, knowing she wouldn't catch the reference.
Her brows furrowed. "Sorry?"
"Nothing," I said, voice light. "Just thinking out
loud."
I didn't wait for a formal send-off. Not when she kept
flicking glances at the awkwardly poking spot on my shirt, her expression tight
with visible remorse. I had the sinking suspicion that if I lingered even a
moment longer, she'd make another suggestion—and worse, I might actually let
myself stay.
I'd thought about what it would be like to talk to her, to
unravel the puzzle piece by piece. And now that I had, I hadn't expected to enjoy it this much.
Would I ever get the chance again?
Our worlds were so vastly different that they might never
intersect again—not on their own.
I was just reaching for my car door when I heard it.
" Kai! Kai! "
Her voice, urgent, rushed—like whatever was happening, I was
the only one who could hear it.
I turned, watching her come running, fidgeting as if she
were caught in some quiet conspiracy. I met her halfway.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She shifted awkwardly, clearly debating her own
words. "I just realized that it wouldn't be right to let you go like that. I
did, uh, ruin your shirt in front of the whole school." She cringed. "And I'd
just… like to do the right thing."
Ah. So she knew now.
Her friends had likely enlightened her—had filled in the
blanks, had clued her into why the reaction in the dorm had been so
intense.
I held her gaze, my tone effortlessly smooth. "Don't worry
about it," I said. "They didn't get a good look at you. You ran pretty fast. No
one will even remember."
"Still," she insisted, her tone unwavering.
"I feel awful. And while I don't have nine hundred dollars, I think... I
think I can spare..."
She lifted a finger, a slow gesture like she was preparing
to make some grand declaration.
I raised a brow. "Half of that?"
"Nah," she shook her head, short hair swiping left
and right with the motion. "A hundred... or less."
I laughed, shaking my head. "So that's why you chased me down?"
"I'm serious."
"I know you are, but I told you—it's okay."
"No. I'm insisting
."
She looked stubborn, arms crossing as she dug her heels into
the ground, fully committed to her self-imposed guilt repayment plan.
"Then why don't you come with me to the store, and I'll
pick a shirt there?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Sure! As long
as it's not an overpriced store
and you only pick a
shirt under eighty dollars, then of
course ."
"I thought you said a hundred?"
"Yeah, sixty."
"It keeps going down by twenty." I laughed and
said thoughtfully, "Hmm, this will be interesting. I've never had such a
restricting budget before."
"Take it or
leave it." She said, furrowed her brows, visibly bracing herself,
prepared to stand her ground.
"I'll... take it," I said finally, shaking my head
with a chuckle.
She sighed audibly, shoulders relaxing in a way that made me
laugh even more.
We drove to a store close by—the nearest brand store in the
Upper East Side. I didn't want to take her too far from home, and this was
convenient enough.
As soon as June spotted the place, she scoffed, arms folding
as she stared at the gleaming storefront. "
Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is above your budget, Mr.
Nine-Hundred-Dollar-Shirt. "
I chuckled, unbuckling my seatbelt. " Let's check it out first. "
She followed me in, her pace cautious, measured. Her eyes
flicked around like she expected someone to show up and personally escort her
off the premises for trespassing on high fashion ground.
" Hi, Bertha. "
The sales associate turned, her gaze landing on me, and
without hesitation, she grinned.
" My god, Kai, did
you get hotter? "
I let a slow, practiced smile slide into place—effortless
charm, polished with familiarity.
She made a show of pretending to swoon, and I played along,
chuckling under my breath.
" Can you show me the
latest collection? "
"For you? Of course." She stepped out from behind the
counter, already leading us toward the more glamorous section of the store. An
area dripping with exclusivity, the shelves and racks curated like pieces in a
gallery.
From the corner of my eye, I saw June staring
—her gaze darting around, her neck moving so often it might need
oiling.
Bertha gestured to the selection before us. " You'll find everything that's popping right
now. "
I nodded, scanning the array, my expression cool. " Thanks. I'll be okay on my own. "
Even without turning to her, I could tell June had retreated
further into herself, suddenly quieter, less sharp. Being around strangers
seemed to dull her ease—a contrast to the fire she had when she was just
arguing with me .
I didn't want that. Though, I wondered if I counted as a
stranger to her, too.
June took one glance at a price tag and visibly buckled , her whole body recoiling like she had just
laid eyes on something out of a horror film.
"Are these real prices," she demanded, voice dripping with
disbelief, "or do people sell their souls to
afford them?"
I held back a laugh, shaking my head. " I don't think souls are an acceptable
currency here, June. "
Her eyes flickered downward again, scanning another tag. She
sucked in a breath.
" Sixteen hundred? Is
that in dollars? "
I laughed, unable to hold it in this time. " Don't worry, I'm still sticking to my budget. "
"You better," she muttered, arms crossing, "or I'll be
working for ten years straight to pay
that off."
She was funny. I
liked that a lot.
Maybe I could ask her to be my friend. But then again—with
the crowd that followed me, it would be hard for her to fit in.
Something about her told me she preferred the quiet over the
constant noise that surrounded me. It really would be impossible to incorporate
her into my world.
But then again—maybe not.
I picked a shirt, far beyond our agreed-upon budget—a two-thousand-dollar masterpiece —and slipped into the dressing room to try it
on.
Then, with my old shirt in hand, I walked to the front
desk.
"This got ruined," I said, holding it up. "Is it possible to
get it fixed?"
The attendant, ever polished, took one glance and smiled
sweetly. " You can leave it here with
me, darling. Did you have it washed? It isn't supposed to be washed by
friction. "
I exhaled, glancing
at a certain blushing girl who was suddenly looking anywhere but here —as if sheer avoidance could erase the crime
she had unknowingly committed against high fashion.
Blushing really does look
good on her.
I paid for my shirt, and we stepped outside.
" I didn't even get
to pay for your shirt. "
I smirked. " Even
though I left you so many chances. "
Her face lifted, her expression playful,
bright—hopeful.
" Then, maybe I can
pay off my debt in other ways? "
I glanced at her, intrigued. "Is that important to you?"
She nodded, her voice quiet but firm. "Yes."
" Then give me your
number. "
June blinked, suspicion flickering across her face. "What? Why?"
"So that I can call you if I think of something," I said
smoothly, watching her reaction.
Her gaze shifted, wary but reconsidering. " Right. Makes sense. "
We exchanged numbers, the simple act feeling oddly
significant.
When I offered to give her a ride home, she hesitated before
quickly refusing, citing errands she needed to run.
But I had my suspicions.
Something told me it wasn't errands keeping her away. It was
the awkwardness—the unfamiliarity of being around me.