"Stingy," Jayna teased, sunlight caught in the curve of her smile. She bumped Ginevra's arm—the arm of this easily-annoyed, painfully principled girl. "Even if you wanted to come, you won't get the chance anymore. My rehearsal was perfect. It's over. Now all that's left is the official performance the day after tomorrow."
"Perfect?" Ginevra shot her a look full of quiet suspicion—one that said and who, exactly, was trembling like a leaf the first time on stage?
Jayna pretended not to see it. "Why are you looking at me like that? That was just my hand cramping during the first run. The second time was great, okay? Besides…" Her voice softened, and the shamelessness slipped, just a little. "It's a good thing you were there. If you hadn't been, I would've panicked a lot worse."
She finished with a sheepish grin, the kind that made her look younger than she was—like she'd done something stupid, knew it, and still wanted to be forgiven.
Then she rummaged through her bag and produced a bottle of strawberry sparkling water. "Consider it your labor fee for accompanying me."
Ginevra took it without ceremony and muttered, "Strawberry flavor. There aren't even real strawberries in it."
Jayna rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. Sometimes Ginevra spoke in a way that made a person want to pin her down and shake her until warmth fell out.
"If I become a celebrity someday," Jayna declared grandly, "I'm definitely going to be their spokesperson. This strawberry one is insanely good."
She lifted her own bottle and drank first, like a knight saluting before battle.
Ginevra listened to her ridiculous ambition and, despite herself, let out a small smile.
Encouraged, Jayna leaned into her favorite sport—chattering while walking, tossing her thoughts at Ginevra as if the world existed only to hold their conversation.
"Giny, you know what? That day there'll be a professional makeup artist just for me. I'm going to pick a dress that matches my fairy vibe perfectly. What kind of dress do you think would suit me?"
Jayna had been agonizing over it for days. And for some reason—some unreasonable, stubborn reason—she believed only Ginevra could answer properly. Ginevra's taste felt… aligned with hers. Like if Ginevra said something was beautiful, it would be beautiful in a way that lasted.
Ginevra lowered her eyes.
She couldn't quite picture Jayna in a formal dress. In her memory, Jayna existed in softer things: that little floral sundress she'd worn before, the simple, swaying skirt from their previous "date," the way fabric moved when Jayna turned too fast, laughed too wide.
After a beat, Ginevra said honestly, "It'll look good."
Jayna huffed a laugh. "You didn't even ask what kind of dress. You're just imagining and saying it looks good."
Ginevra blinked—those pretty eyes steady, sincere in a way that wasn't fair—and then, as if she were clarifying a fact rather than offering praise, she repeated, even more earnestly:
"You look good in dresses. Any dress."
Jayna froze mid-step.
The heat that flooded her face was immediate, violent—like a match struck too close to skin. She pressed her cold bottle to her cheek as if it might save her.
"Ginevra," she mumbled, half-complaining, half-pleading, "you can say that to me, but you can't say it to other people. They'll misunderstand."
"What misunderstanding?" Ginevra asked, eyes fixed on her with a fierce, unwavering focus.
It was exactly that look.
That damn look—so intent, so unavoidably tender, like whatever she was looking at became the only truth in the room. A person could be telling lies in heaven's language, and anyone under that gaze would still believe every word.
Jayna opened her mouth… and couldn't say it.
How was she supposed to say—
They'll think you like me.
That was too impossible. Too absurd. Too much like wanting.
So she ducked her head, let her voice turn petulant, selfish—something safer.
"I mean… you're not allowed to call other people pretty," she said, eyes skittering away. "Only me."
The possessiveness sounded childish even to her, and still she couldn't stop it. There were feelings she couldn't control—only disguise.
Ginevra stared at her, confused by the sudden twist. "I've never said that about anyone else. You're the first." She paused, as if trying to pick the most exact wording. "And I wasn't even complimenting you. I was… stating what's true."
Jayna didn't really hear the explanation. She only heard:
You're the first.
That was enough to make her heart settle, just a little, like a small animal curling into warmth.
They walked on.
Jayna kept glancing sideways at Ginevra, her envy rising quietly, helplessly. She had never seen anyone wear a painfully ugly school uniform and still look like it belonged on a runway. Jayna hated Summit Ridge blue-and-white uniform on principle. Even in autumn, she only draped the jacket over her shoulders as a token gesture. But Ginevra wore hers properly—neat, fitted, composed—like elegance was a habit she'd had since childhood.
In Jayna's memory, Ginevra was always like this: proper, restrained, never losing control.
Perfect in a way that felt almost divine.
"Giny," Jayna said suddenly, tilting her head back to look at the sky, "look at that big cloud. I want to lie on it and sleep."
The weather was ridiculously beautiful—clear sunlight, crisp air, and one white cloud floating so perfectly it looked like someone had pasted it in afterward, like an edited, too-ideal detail.
Ginevra looked up once, clearly unable to understand how Jayna's mind worked.
But she did understand one thing: Jayna's lifelong romance with sleep.
"What are you laughing at?" Jayna squinted at her suspiciously. "Ohhh—are you thinking about that time I fell asleep in class and drooled on my desk? I told you, my nose was stuffed. I had a cold. Stop laughing at me!"
"I'm not," Ginevra denied quickly, lips pressed into a line that still wanted to curve.
Then, with a calm cruelty that arrived like a feather to the throat, she said, "I think that cloud couldn't support your weight."
Jayna stopped dead.
"…What?"
Was she calling her fat?
The strawberry water in Jayna's hand instantly tasted like betrayal.
Ginevra glanced at Jayna's waist—deliberate, slow—and added, as if tossing the final match into the fire:
"I just carried you. You're not light."
Jayna turned to stone in the middle of the path.
She had a perfectly normal figure—more than normal. She was proportional. She was elegant. And this girl—this quiet, cold, infuriating girl—was saying she was heavy?
"Ginevra Volkova," Jayna said with deadly seriousness, "I'm giving you one chance to take that back."
Ginevra lifted an eyebrow. "Or what?"
Jayna raised both hands like claws.
In the same instant, Ginevra said, flat and fast, "I take it back."
Jayna's hands froze in midair.
Ginevra had learned. She'd lost once; she wouldn't lose twice. Jayna's secret weapon—her shameless tantrums and the unstoppable torture of tickling—was something Ginevra couldn't resist. Not yet.
Jayna immediately looped her arm through Ginevra's. Ginevra still wasn't fully used to being touched so casually, but she didn't push Jayna away.
Jayna leaned in, suddenly serious beneath the playful tone.
"Giny," she said softly, "promise me something. Promise you'll never dislike me. Not ever. Not for my whole life, okay?"
Ginevra stiffened.
The words hit her like something too big to hold.
"A whole life?" she repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of it.
Jayna nodded, fingers tightening around Ginevra's arm as if anchoring herself.
"Yes. We're going to be together for a long time. Even if I get fat someday, or get freckles, or wrinkles— you're not allowed to dislike me." Her voice thinned, sincerity pressing through. "If you do, I'll be sad. Just now I already felt a little down. I don't care what other people say about me. But if you say it… it hurts."
There was something in the way she clung—like a cat insisting it belonged to you. Like she didn't know how to ask for security except by demanding it.
Ginevra's eyes flickered.
Something moved, deep and unfamiliar, and she turned her face away immediately, forcing her expression cold—refusing to let Jayna see even the smallest crack.
But Jayna saw anyway.
"Hey," Jayna gasped, delighted as if she'd discovered a new planet, and poked Ginevra's cheek with one finger. "Your face is red."
"Shut up."
"Tch, you won't even let people say it." Jayna laughed and, under Ginevra's glare, obediently pressed her lips together. "Fine. I'm quiet."
But her eyes were smiling.
Her cheeks had flushed.
She'd seen it.
A bright little bell chimed.
The first customer of the day pushed open the flower shop door—still wearing a school uniform.
Lily, the shop owner, had just opened, scissors in hand, half-buried in a sea of blossoms. Seeing a customer this early made her heart lift. A good omen.
She raised her head and found herself looking at a girl with striking features—cool, pale, beautiful in a way that didn't feel like she belonged among ordinary people.
"Sweetheart," Lily asked warmly, setting her scissors down. She wore a long, flowing floral dress, something cottagecore and whimsical, as if she'd stepped out of a fairytale forest. "Buying flowers?"
Ginevra lowered her eyes, hesitated for a long moment, then nodded.
Lily smiled as if she'd guessed everything already. "First time buying flowers, huh?"
Ginevra didn't answer.
Lily went behind the counter, poured a warm drink into a glass cup, and carried it over, placing it gently into Ginevra's hands.
"House-made floral tea," Lily said.
Ginevra accepted it, but she didn't drink. She simply held it—cautious. Watching. Taking in the strange, dramatic woman with the floor-length skirt and the too-bright warmth.
Lily leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Want me to recommend something? Are you giving them to family? A friend? Or…" Her smile sharpened into something knowing. "A lover?"
Ginevra's lashes flickered.
The three words landed one by one.
Family.
Friend.
Lover.
She chose the one that sounded safest. The one that wouldn't betray her.
"A friend," she said.
"Ooh." Lily led her into the shop, past neat rows of color and fragrance, and began introducing blooms like characters in a story. "Yellow roses, pink roses, tulips, sunflowers, freesias—those are all great for friends."
Ginevra's gaze drifted.
It stopped on the second shelf—on a small cluster of white flowers sitting slightly apart from the others, lonely in their quietness.
She spoke without raising her voice, as though afraid the flowers would hear her.
"I want daisies."
Lily blinked, then immediately pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.
"Daisies aren't really for friends," she said gently.
"Why?" Ginevra asked, genuinely puzzled.
Lily reached up and took the small bunch down. The petals were clean and bright, the kind of white that soothed the eyes.
"Most people give daisies to someone they like," Lily explained. "Because the flower language is—love hidden deep in the heart." She tilted her head, watching Ginevra closely. "A lot of people buy daisies here to confess to someone they've been quietly loving."
Ginevra stared at the flowers in Lily's hands.
She didn't speak for a long time.
Then, with a kind of stubborn precision—as if she were correcting a misunderstanding even while she couldn't correct her own heart—she said,
"An important friend."
Lily's smile softened.
She studied Ginevra's face the way a florist studies a stem—looking for the invisible tension, the place where it might break. In all her years running this shop, she'd seen every kind of buyer.
This girl…
"This girl," Lily said softly, and then smiled wider, as if it was inevitable, "you like her."
Ginevra lifted her head sharply, startled—ready to deny it on reflex—
But Lily raised a hand, stopping her with a light laugh.
"Don't rush to deny it," Lily said. "Sit. Let me wrap them for you. I'll make it so she loves it at first sight."
Ginevra sat where Lily indicated, still holding the warm floral tea like a useless shield.
Lily began trimming the daisies, clipping away extra leaves and stems with gentle efficiency.
A moment passed.
Then Ginevra spoke, quietly—so quietly it felt like she was asking the question from somewhere deep inside her chest.
"What… counts as liking someone?"
Lily's scissors paused.
She looked up, surprised, and then her expression softened into something almost tender—something that carried the weight of having been young once.
"The moment you asked that," Lily said, voice low and certain, "the first person you thought of… was the one you like. Feelings like that can't be hidden."
Ginevra lowered her gaze to the steaming cup in her hands.
Lily's words sank in slowly, swirling through her like the spiral in the tea—circling, circling, refusing to settle.
You like her.
Ginevra let out a small, bitter smile.
How could something like that happen to her?
She was supposed to be rational. Calm. Controlled.
And yet her mind had been disobedient for days now—no, for longer. Since morning, she hadn't stopped thinking, not really.
Worrying.
What if Jayna had been so nervous last night she couldn't sleep?
What if she panicked while changing and forgot a button, left something undone?
What if she lost something again—dropped her notes, forgot her music, forgot herself?
What if she—
She missed her.
But she couldn't say it.
Not out loud.
Not to Jayna.
"Alright," Lily said cheerfully, as if trying to pull her back from drowning. "Here you go, sweetheart."
She handed over the bouquet, wrapped with a red ribbon, neat and beautiful enough to make a person believe in luck again.
Ginevra came back to herself and accepted it carefully.
She looked down at the daisies in her hands, the clean white petals framed by red, and her voice dropped into something almost reverent.
"It's beautiful."