Chapter 7
I didn’t sleep.
I tried—lying on my bed with the lights off, my phone face-down like it might explode if I looked at it again—but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything: the video, the comments, my mother’s silence, Kim’s name trending in a corner of the internet that wasn’t supposed to know we existed.
Around three in the morning, my phone buzzed again.
Kim:
Can I come over?
I sat up so fast my head spun.
Me:
Yes.
Three dots.
Then:
Kim:
I’m already outside.
I didn’t think. I grabbed a hoodie, slipped my shoes on without tying them properly, and opened the door as quietly as I could, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might give me away.
The hallway was dark.
Kim stood at the end of it, half in shadow, half in light from the exit sign, his sketchbook clutched to his chest like always, his hair messy, his eyes tired and too bright.
For a second, we just stared at each other.
Then he crossed the distance in three quick steps, and I pulled him into my room and shut the door behind us, locking it with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have.
Only then did we breathe.
“Are you okay?” we asked at the same time.
Kim laughed weakly, the sound cracking halfway through. “No.”
“Me neither.”
That was enough.
He stepped closer, hesitating just for a second like he was asking without words, and when I didn’t move away, he rested his forehead against my chest, his breath warm through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I wrapped my arms around him without thinking.
The contact felt unreal—his weight leaning into me, his hands gripping the back of my hoodie like he needed something solid to hold onto, like he’d been bracing all night and finally let himself stop.
We stayed like that for a long time.
His breathing slowed first.
Mine followed.
“I was scared,” he said quietly, his voice muffled against me. “Not about people knowing. About losing you.”
My throat tightened. “You’re not losing me.”
He pulled back just enough to look up at me, his eyes searching my face like he was memorizing it, like he needed proof.
“You don’t know that,” he said. “Your mom—”
“I don’t care,” I said, the words coming out sharper than I meant them to. Then, softer, truer: “I care about you.”
The room felt smaller suddenly, the air heavier, charged.
Kim swallowed. “Moon.”
The way he said my name did something to me. It always had.
I lifted a hand slowly, giving him time to stop me, and brushed my thumb gently under his eye, where he looked like he might cry even though he hadn’t yet.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” I said. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
His eyes fluttered closed for a second.
Then he leaned in.
This kiss was different from the others.
It wasn’t tentative.
It wasn’t shy.
It was still soft—still careful—but there was something deeper in it now, something desperate and grounding all at once, like we were clinging to each other in the middle of a storm.
His hands slid up my arms, warm, firm, anchoring.
Mine rested at his waist, feeling the solid reality of him there, here, with me.
I felt everything.
The way he breathed when our mouths parted just enough to inhale.
The way his fingers curled into my hoodie like he might never let go.
The way my heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to get closer to him.
We broke apart only because we had to.
Kim laughed softly, breathless. “If anyone saw us right now—”
“I don’t care,” I said again, more quietly this time.
He smiled at that, something bright and vulnerable and dangerous. “You keep saying that.”
“I keep meaning it.”
We sat down on my bed without really deciding to, knees touching, shoulders brushing, the closeness intimate in a way that had nothing to do with anything physical and everything to do with trust.
Kim opened his sketchbook.
“I drew something tonight,” he said. “I wasn’t going to show anyone. But… you.”
The page he turned to wasn’t dramatic or detailed.
It was simple.
Two figures lying side by side, close but not touching, looking up at the same sky.
There were stars.
There was space.
There was quiet.
“I draw this,” he said, “when I want things to stop hurting.”
I stared at it, my chest aching. “You draw us like we’re allowed to rest.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something in his expression shifted.
“Can I stay?” he asked softly. “Just tonight.”
My heart kicked painfully.
“Yes.”
We lay down fully clothed, facing each other, knees tangled awkwardly, the mattress creaking slightly under the movement, and for a moment neither of us spoke.
Then Kim reached out, hesitated, and laced his fingers through mine.
The simplicity of it nearly undid me.
His thumb brushed over my knuckles absentmindedly, back and forth, grounding and intimate, and I realized—suddenly, completely—that this was the most at peace I had felt in my entire life.
“I don’t know how this ends,” I admitted quietly.
Kim squeezed my hand. “I don’t either.”
He shifted closer, his head resting against my shoulder, my arm coming up around him automatically, protective and certain.
“But,” he added softly, “I know this part is real.”
I pressed my lips to his hair, just once, a small, private promise.
Outside, the city kept buzzing. Notifications kept exploding. Secrets kept unraveling.
But in that room, in that moment, with his heartbeat steady against mine, none of it mattered.
And that was when my phone lit up again.
Not a message.
A notification.
From the gossip account.
NEW POST: UPDATE
I didn’t open it.
Kim felt me tense.
“What is it?” he asked.
I swallowed hard.
“I think,” I said slowly, “they know something about you I don’t.”
He went very still.
Too still.
And that was when I realized—
This wasn’t just about us anymore.
