The Thursday streets hum with life as I walk toward the riverside. The night market's setting up early — tarps stretching overhead, the smell of oil and sugar already hanging in the air. I'm not sure how I ended up in this group chat. Tamara added me, I think. Or Yegi? Honestly, I was half-asleep when the ping came.

I check my phone. Type: "Anyone here yet?"

"Still on the bus, almost there!" Yegi replies first.

Then, Haeri: "I'm in the library building. Come in if you're early."

I stare at her message. My fingers hesitate over the keyboard.

Okay. Chill. She's just being polite. This doesn't mean anything. Totally casual.

My legs are already moving. The glass doors of the library slide open before I can talk myself out of it.

She's there. I spot her before she sees me.

Through the rows of books, across the quiet second-floor lounge, she sits by the glass wall that looks over the river. The window captures the sunset perfectly, making the whole corner glow in soft, slanted orange light.

She's curled up in the armchair — one leg tucked under her, her jacket loose over a sweatshirt, earphones in, Kindle on her knee. Her lips move slightly. She's mouthing lyrics, nodding her head now and then like she's in her own quiet concert.

And I just stand there, like a weirdo, watching.

She looks... unbothered. Like nothing around her matters. People pass behind her. No one else really notices her, and she doesn't notice them. Just... exists, completely herself.

I curse under my breath. This crush is frying my brain. I'm a rational person. I passed calculus. But now I'm just frozen, staring at a girl lip-syncing to some probably depressing indie song.

Then she glances up, catches me.

Her smile is soft — not surprised, not fake. Just... warm.

She pulls out one earbud. "Want snack?"

It's a little candy in bright red wrapping. I think I've seen her eat it before. Same brand. Her favorite?

"Uh, sure. Thanks," I mumble, taking it. My hand brushes hers. Probably not long enough to matter, but still.

I sit next to her.

Silence stretches — but not an awkward one. Just ambient library noises: quiet voices, a printer starting up, distant chatter downstairs.

She goes back to her Kindle, her eyes scanning calmly. I glance at her again. She's so still. There's a band-aid on her finger. I wonder what happened.

Outside, the river glints with orange and pink light, like someone spilled sunset over it.

There's a quote on her screen:

"Some people carry peace inside them. It's not something they say. It's just... there. Like quiet gravity."

I stare at it. Then at her. Then quickly away.

Why does this feel like a scene from a book I don't deserve to be in?

I speak without thinking.

"You look really peaceful. Like... glowing. Or something."

What the hell.

Glowing? Am I a poet from 1820? What's next — comparing her to a summer's day?

She turns slightly, blinking once. Then smiles. "Thanks. That's sweet of you."

She means it. Not teasing. Not awkward. Just says it like it's normal.

I freeze.

She turns back to her Kindle like it's nothing. Like she didn't just absolutely detonate my frontal cortex.

I look out the window again. My ears are hot. Was she just being polite? Does she think I'm weird now? I shouldn't have said anything. I should delete my existence.

I almost ask her — Why'd you tell me to come in?

She could've just left me outside, wandering like a clueless extra, until the others showed up and we all walked together.

But she didn't.

She texted me.

Told me to come in.

But I don't ask.

Because if I do, and she says something like "I was just being polite" or "Didn't want you to be awkward," I'll curl into myself and cease to exist.

Maybe it's not a big deal. Or maybe I'm overthinking nothing — again.

I shift in my seat. Think of saying something casual, something to change the subject.

"So..." I clear my throat. "Are you going to the KSA welcome thing this year?"

She scoffs lightly. "No. Didn't go last year either."

I blink. "Oh. Why?"

She shrugs. "Too many people. Too many name games. Fake hype. It's not really my thing."

I nod slowly. Relatable.

She says it offhandedly, like an afterthought, eyes still on the Kindle: "KSA events are just... meaningless chaos. Loud people trying too hard, awkward icebreakers, nobody actually remembers your name after."

There's a dry twist to her voice — sardonic but not bitter. Like she's been through enough of these things to earn the right to make fun of them.

I almost choke trying not to laugh.

Not because it's hilarious — okay, maybe it is — but because it's exactly how I feel, word for word.

There's a weird kind of relief in hearing her say it. Like someone cracked open my head and voiced the part I usually filter out for being "too antisocial."

She continues, a dry smirk tugging at her lips. "Also, some of the KSA crowd is... not great. I don't like being cornered into team games or teambuilding stuff."

She tilts her head slightly. "I suck at group work, actually. It stresses me out. I like people. Just not... people."

I'm still nodding, maybe too eagerly.

"Yeah," I say. "Same, actually."

She pauses. "Really? You're not going either?"

"Yeah. I was gonna say that before you said it first." I chuckle awkwardly.

Her smile grows just a little. "That's rare. Most people fake their way through those things. But thank God. Finally someone who gets it."

My brain short-circuits again. She gets me. She really gets me. Or... maybe I'm reading into this. Am I? No. Yes. Maybe. Help.

Then her phone buzzes. Mine does too.

Tamara: "We're here!! Where are you two?"

She reads it, sighs lightly, and starts packing up. Kindle into her tote bag. Earphones tangled but shoved in a pocket. Wrapper folded and tucked away.

"Let's go before they start complaining."

She stands, brushing off her jeans, silhouetted by the fading sun. The orange light outlines her hair, glinting like the last edge of dusk.

It's then I notice it — the height thing.

She's small. Not short short, but definitely the shortest in our group.

I'm not tall. Just... average.

But next to her, I feel taller — which does things to my brain I'm not proud of. Like how perfectly we look together.

Like this stupid, warm thought: She looks like a little kid next to me. A cute little kid.

And then: Jesus, get it together.

She's two years older than me. A walking enigma with a Kindle and indie playlists and a mysterious bandaid on her finger.

And here I am, spiraling over height difference like a loser in a romcom.

I kind of want to smack myself in the face.

I follow her, two steps behind.

She pushes open the glass doors. The noise from outside rushes in — laughter, a bus engine, sugar frying in oil. She doesn't look back. But I do.

Wondering if I just imagined all of that — the peace, the connection, the compliment — or if something real just quietly began.