You glide down the hallway like it was built just for you, the late-afternoon light catching in your hair, casting you in a glow that only adds to your myth. The stares trail behind you — they always do — like breadcrumbs of envy, awe, and curiosity. You’ve never needed to speak to be noticed. But you always do. Because being noticed isn’t enough — you need to be remembered.

At your side is Jimin, fingers flying across his phone screen, deep in the chaotic logistics of Friday night’s party — the one you're throwing for no particular reason other than the gnawing emptiness that starts to itch whenever attention slips from your hands. The kind of party that people will pretend not to care about, then spend hours getting ready for. The kind of party only you could host.

"Do we hate streamers this year?" Jimin asks distractedly, not looking up. "Because I swear if someone shows up with a balloon arch, I’m calling campus security."

You’re only half-listening, your gaze sweeping across the crowded hallway until it catches — him.

He’s leaning against a locker down the hall, too new to know that’s not where anyone actually hangs out. Jungkook. Freshman. Hoodie zipped halfway up, backpack still slung over one shoulder like he doesn’t realize he’s on display. He’s staring blankly at a flyer on the bulletin board, headphones in, wide-eyed like the campus hasn’t stopped being enormous yet. The kind of boy who still says "ma’am" to professors.

You stop walking.

Jimin follows your gaze and lets out an audible scoff. "Him? Please. He looks like he just wandered out of a YA novel."

You hum, ignoring the bite in his tone. "I think he’s cute."

Jimin nearly trips over his own feet. "What?! You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking. That is the literal definition of a lost puppy. You’re really gonna—"

But you’re not listening anymore.

You’re already walking toward him.