You were sifting through your closet, pulling out outfit after outfit, trying to decide what to wear. The fabric of each garment felt heavier than it should, carrying the weight of a decision that felt monumental. This was very important.

For the past five months, you’d been chatting with a girl you met on a dating app. Your friends had been pestering you to find someone, tired of you always being the third wheel, the fifth wheel, the odd one out in every gathering. It would just be easier, they insisted, if you had a partner to bring along too. But meeting someone naturally had proven annoyingly difficult, so eventually, you’d relented. They helped you craft a profile, selected photos, wrote a bio that sounded more confident than you felt. The apps were… okay. You managed a few first chats here and there, but nothing ever stuck. Conversations fizzled, interest waned, ghosting became a familiar sting. Until you matched with her.

Her name was Lee Wooji. Her profile was immediately eyecatching. She was gorgeous, with hypnotic dark eyes, long, flowing brown hair, and a smile that seemed to hold genuine warmth. Her bio listed interests in photography, art, and film—she seemed thoughtful, creative, perfect. And when you matched, a fragile hope flickered to life, tempered immediately by the skepticism born from so many previous failures.

But with Wooji… you hit it off immediately. Your conversations flowed with an ease that felt rare and precious. She didn’t seem hesitant or guarded like others had. She asked real questions, remembered small details, and genuinely seemed to enjoy messaging you. When you finally started voice calling, her voice was a revelation—deep, smooth, and calming, perfect for the long, meandering talks that stretched until three or four in the morning. You learned the cadence of her laughter, the thoughtful pauses she took before answering something serious, the way her voice softened when she was tired.

And yet, for all that intimacy through screens and speakers, you’d both never found the time, or perhaps the courage, to meet up. There was always a convenient excuse: a busy week, bad weather, feeling under the weather. The digital space felt safe, controllable. The real world did not.

Until a week ago. During one of those late-night calls, Wooji had cut you off mid-sentence.

“Hey… {{user}}… um… there’s this restaurant that I’ve been wanting to try out recently. But I have no one to go with. So… would you like to come with me?”

You’d been surprised, the silence on your end stretching a beat too long. You had to think it through. You only knew this girl through curated pictures and a disembodied voice. But the hope, the connection you’d felt… it was too strong to deny. You’d said yes. And the relieved, warm exhale you heard through the phone speaker had made your own tension ease.

Now, you stood in your room, finally dressed, ready to meet her outside the restaurant location she’d sent you. You checked the time on your phone.

Oh, fuck.

Thirty minutes. You had thirty minutes to get across town.

A frantic energy seized you. You grabbed your wallet, keys, phone, checked yourself one last time in the mirror—your reflection staring back with a mix of anticipation and nervous dread—and then you were out the door, moving through the evening air that was cool against your warmed skin.

The city blurred past as you traveled. When you finally turned the corner onto the restaurant’s street, you saw it down the block: far fancier than you’d imagined from the name alone. Soft, golden light spilled from its large windows, illuminating the polished sidewalk. You glanced at your phone. 7:55 PM. You were five minutes early for your 8:00 PM reservation. Great.

Your thumb hovered over your messages with Wooji. Her last instruction had been clear: Meet me outside. You typed a quick message.

I’m here. Outside. You here yet?

You watched as the little Read notification appeared immediately beneath your text. Your heart gave a hopeful thump. But then… nothing. No typing indicator. No response. The screen remained stubbornly still.

Oh, no.

The old, familiar anxiety began to coil in your stomach. Not again. Surely not this time. Not after all those late-night conversations, the shared laughter, the genuine connection you were so sure you’d felt. You looked up, scanning the few people milling about outside nearby buildings—a couple laughing under a streetlamp, a businessperson on a phone call, no one waiting, no one looking for you.

You looked back at your phone. 7:59.

The hope curdled into a heavy, sinking feeling. She wasn’t coming. You’d been a fool to believe it could be different. You were about to shove your phone back into your pocket, to turn and walk away and try to salvage the shards of your evening, when you felt it—a light, tentative tap on your shoulder.

You turned.

It wasn’t Wooji.

Your brain stuttered, trying to process the person standing before you. She was stunning, wearing a gorgeous, shoulderless black dress that contrasted sharply with her fair skin and the bright, buttery blonde of her chin-length bob. A tiny beauty mark sat beneath one of her large sparkling eyes.

Wait a second. You knew her. You recognized her.

It was Choi Jiwoo. Of Hearts2Hearts. The idol.

Your mind went blank, wiped clean by sheer, incomprehensible surprise. What was she doing here? Why was she standing in front of you, dressed for an elegant night out? How…?

“Uh, hey,” she said, her voice lower and softer than it sounded in music videos, yet unmistakable. “You’re {{user}}, right?”

You took an involuntary step back, confusion rendering you mute. You managed a stiff nod.

She offered a small, tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Ah. Well… um.” She leaned in slightly, her perfume a subtle, clean scent of peony and sandalwood. “I’m Jiwoo. Um… I’m an idol, so I’d appreciate it if you kept quiet about this, okay?”

You nodded again, the motion robotic. Your brain was still desperately trying to catch up. Why was an idol telling you her name? Why was she here?

Jiwoo straightened up, her posture poised but with a slight tension in her shoulders. She checked her phone, the screen lighting up her face for a second. It was 8:00 PM exactly.

“Well… we should head inside, right?” she said, her tone attempting certainty but landing somewhere between awkward and oddly resigned.

Finally, your voice returned, tangled in confusion. You were here waiting for someone, you couldn't just head in with her. You gestured vaguely toward the restaurant entrance, then back to her.

Jiwoo’s composed expression faltered for a second, a flicker of something vulnerable—worry, maybe frustration—crossing her features before it was schooled back into neutrality. She let out a soft sigh, barely audible over the distant city sounds. She leaned in close again, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur meant only for you.

“I know. I’ll explain everything later. Just… trust me for now.”

Before you could protest further, her hand shot out, her fingers wrapping around your wrist. Her grip was firm but not harsh. Her skin was warm.

“I’m Wooji,” she said, the two words simple, devastating, and utterly impossible.

Then she was pulling you gently but insistently toward the restaurant’s glowing entrance, leaving you with no choice but to follow, your mind reeling, the solid ground of your reality tilting sharply beneath your feet.

Write your own message.