The two of them looked perfect together.

Everyone in the company chat had started shipping them as a couple.

A dull ache settled in my heart.

I often woke up in the middle of the night, startled from the same recurring nightmares—the plane crash, Kian running to hold me, Kian attending my funeral, and even Kian getting married.

Every time I woke, a wave of deep exhaustion and detachment from the world washed over me.

Maybe I really was losing my mind.

I thought back to the first time I met Kian—back in middle school, my first year.

Back then, my parents had just passed away, and I was living with my grandfather.

Poverty and hunger were our constant companions.

One day, my homeroom teacher organized a small donation within the class to help me.

At first, my pride wouldn’t allow it.

But I made peace with it, knowing this money meant my grandfather wouldn't need to scavenge for a long time.

The donations were only supposed to come from my classmates.

But when my teacher handed me the list of names, I noticed one unfamiliar name—Kian Homer.

He wasn’t in my class.

He was a senior, the top student in his grade.

And he had donated the most—four hundred dollars.

“The boy from the senior class saw the fundraiser and insisted on helping,” my teacher explained.

“If you have time, you should thank him. Maybe write him a note.”

I bowed in gratitude.

The final amount came to six hundred and ten dollars.

It was enough for my grandfather and me to eat well for months.

But I never wrote him a thank-you letter and approached him.

Instead, I watched from a distance.

Under the bright afternoon sun, he ran across the basketball court, his forehead damp with sweat, his movements sharp and effortless.

Cheers erupted around him, drawn to the effortless confidence in his every move.

Something about that unshakable vitality, that radiant energy struck me like lightning.

For the first time, I understood the meaning of the word "like."

And in that same moment, I realized how different I was from everyone else.

I never found the courage to talk to him.

It was just a passing crush—one that belonged to my younger, timid self.

Then, years later, in my first year of high school, I saw him again.

The boy had grown up. The youthful softness was gone.

But that sudden rush of emotion, the violent pounding in my heart terrified me.

The cold, distant boy turned his gaze toward me.

I couldn’t look away.

For a moment, he seemed puzzled, his sharp eyes locking onto mine.

Then, without a word, he gave the faintest smile and turned to leave.

I let out a shaky breath.

My whole body trembled.

The fear of being exposed left me frozen in quiet panic.

Not long after, my world collapsed.

My grandfather passed away, and that was how I lost my last family member.

By the next semester, I couldn’t even afford school fees, let alone food.

For three days, I wrestled with my pride, forcing myself to gather the courage to seek help.

When I finally did, I went to my high school homeroom teacher, hoping for something, anything.

But the moment I stood before his desk, he didn't looked up.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

That was all he said.

It was then that I realized that not every teacher cared about their students.

So, I dropped out.

And before I left, I did the boldest thing I had ever done in my life.

I wrote Kian a confession letter.

On the cheapest notebook paper I could find, I poured my feelings onto the page.

Then, I folded it carefully and sealed it inside an envelope glued shut with cheap adhesive.

On the last day of my sophomore year, I gathered every ounce of courage I had and handed it to a senior girl from Kian’s class.