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The sun hadn’t even reached its peak, and Sunoo already regretted getting out of bed.

Room 4-B looked exactly as he remembered: the same cream-colored walls that peeled a little too confidently near the back door, the same creaky armchairs, and the same electric fan that rotated just enough to almost reach his desk.

What was new—what was violently, irreparably new—was the piece of masking tape slapped onto the surface of his seat. Written on it, in permanent marker:

KIM SUNOO | YANG JUNGWON

“No,” he muttered, blinking hard. “This is fake. This is photoshopped.”

He checked his phone. Opened the digital section list. Same result.

A deep inhale. A long sip of iced caramel macchiato. A silent internal scream.

Sunoo slumped into his seat by the window, hoping maybe—maybe—the other name would stay hypothetical. Maybe Jungwon got reassigned. Maybe he was absent. Maybe—

“LABIDABSSSS!”

Sunoo’s soul exited his body.

He didn’t even need to look up. The thudding sneakers, the chaotic laughter from the hallway, and the familiar shriek that cracked the silence like a cheap speaker—all signs pointed to Jungwon. He stormed into the room, hair still wet, untucked uniform flapping as he spun once before spotting Sunoo.

Grinning like it was the climax of a romcom, Jungwon bolted toward him.

“You missed me!” he shouted, dumping his bag on the floor. “Ayan, seatmates ulit tayo. Destinyyyyy.”

Sunoo didn’t look at him. “Stop. Calling. Me. That.”

“What?” Jungwon blinked, all innocence. “Labidabs?”

“YES.”

Jungwon laughed, already pulling his snacks out. “Hay nako. Same old labidabs. Sweet on the outside, suplado sa loob.”

“We are not—talo,” Sunoo said firmly, tossing his tote bag on the floor.

Jungwon opened a bag of Nova. “Yet.”

Before Sunoo could manifest a sinkhole to swallow him, the class adviser entered with a stack of folders.

“Good morning, class,” she said. “Let’s keep this short. First announcement of the year: The annual Valentine’s Play is happening. Auditions next week.”

Groans erupted across the room.

“This year,” she continued with a tight smile, “we’re adapting a Pinoy classic. The Theater Club’s chosen piece is ‘Labs Kita, Okey Ka Lang?’.”

Sunoo dropped his pen.

“Yup,” she said, clearly enjoying their reactions. “The Jolina-Marvin movie. Your generation needs to suffer, too.”

Jungwon’s entire face lit up. “OH MY GOD. That movie’s iconic.”

Sunoo stared at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Dude,” Jungwon said, eyes sparkling, “I’ve always wanted to be Ned. Imagine mo ako—guitar boy na may internal pain—tapos ikaw si Bujoy. Ang poetic.”

“I’m not playing Bujoy,” Sunoo muttered. “I have dignity.”

“But you have the bangs na,” Jungwon said sweetly. “Tapos ‘pag umiyak ka, slow motion. Ganon.”

“I will stab you with my highlighter.”

Their adviser clapped her hands. “Sign-up sheet goes around tomorrow. Anyone can audition—preferably with someone who gives main character energy.”

Jungwon grinned. “We have that, labidabs.”

Sunoo shut his eyes. “I’m transferring sections.”

Later that night, Jungwon was lying belly-down on the floor at home, doodling on a scratch paper, while Rob Deniel played softly from Kuya Wonwoo’s speaker across the room.

“Labs kita, okey ka lang~” the song crooned.

“I swear, destiny’s working overtime,” Jungwon mumbled to himself.

Wonwoo looked up from his laptop. “What now?”

“Guess who’s my seatmate again,” Jungwon said smugly.

“You still calling him labidabs?”

“Syempre.”

Wonwoo sipped his coffee. “He confess yet?”

“Confess what?”

“That he hates how much he doesn’t hate you.”

Jungwon grinned. “Not yet. But I feel it. Ramdam sa aircon.”

Wonwoo snorted. “If you kiss him in that play, I’m filming it for tita.”

Jungwon only grinned wider.

The next morning, a milk tea slid across Sunoo’s desk just as he was about to open his planner.

He looked at it like it might explode.

“What is this?” he asked, not turning.

“Bribe,” Jungwon said cheerfully. “Large. 30% sugar. Pearls. Like you like it.”

“I told you I’m not auditioning.”

“But we’d be legendary.”

“No.”

“You already look like Bujoy.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re drinking it, though.”

Sunoo glared at the cup, then at Jungwon, then sipped it slowly. “Shut. Up.”

When the audition sign-up finally passed to their row, Sunoo stared at it, torn.

Jungwon nudged his elbow. “Come on. We’ll make people cry. With kilig.”

Sunoo hesitated for three seconds too long.

Then, before he could stop himself, he picked up the pen. Wrote:

Kim Sunoo & Yang Jungwon

Jungwon fist-pumped. “YES! Gusto ko ng wig para kay Bujoy, promise.”

“Delusional.”

“Delusionally in love with you. Joke lang. Unless…”

Sunoo slammed the clipboard shut.

But didn’t stop smiling.

The first rehearsal was held in the school’s multipurpose room, which—despite the dramatic name—looked like an abandoned storage closet someone tried to romance with fairy lights and bean bags. A foldable table served as the casting corner, where Sir Matt, the eccentric moderator-slash-director-slash-frustrated actor, sat like a panel judge at a reality show no one asked to join.

Sunoo was already regretting everything.

“I want natural chemistry,” Sir Matt said, tapping the table with a monobloc leg. “I want tension. I want you to LOOK at each other like your hearts are breaking but you’re both in denial.”

Sunoo raised his hand. “Sir, respectfully, this is high school.”

“And heartbreak knows no age,” Sir Matt snapped, then pointed at him. “You. You’re Bujoy now.”

Sunoo opened his mouth, closed it, and turned to Jungwon with visible despair. “Seriously?”

Jungwon, sitting beside him cross-legged, flashed him a peace sign. “Told you. Destiny. Meant to Bujoy.”

“That’s not even—” Sunoo sighed. “Never mind.”

Sir Matt passed them a printed scene. “Memorize this. Scene 7. Confession practice.”

Sunoo scanned the script. Then blinked. Then paled.

“Sir… is this the part where Bujoy says—”

“Yes,” Sir Matt said, already grinning. “The line.”

Sunoo stared at the words on the page:

“Labs kita, okey ka lang?”

He lowered the script slowly, turned to Jungwon, and said in his coldest voice:

“I’m not saying that.”

Jungwon burst into laughter. “Come on, labidabs! It’s iconic! Jolina said it, so you can too.”

“I’m not Jolina.”

“No, but you’re my Bujoy.”

“I'm going home.”

“You’re already here.”

Sir Matt clapped. “Places!”

They were shuffled to the front, standing awkwardly under the hot fairy lights.

Jungwon cleared his throat, adopting a tortured expression that was probably his interpretation of emotional male lead. “Sunoo—I mean, Bujoy—matagal na kitang gusto.”

Sunoo deadpanned, “Then go see a doctor.”

Sir Matt: “In character, please!”

Jungwon tried again. Took a slow, unnecessarily dramatic step forward.

“Bujoy… labs kita.”

Sunoo blinked. Then blinked again.

He was not going to say it.

He refused.

He—

“Okay ka lang?” he muttered, almost inaudibly, staring at the floor.

Jungwon gasped. “You said it!”

Sunoo grabbed a nearby pillow and threw it at his face. “I hate this school.”

After rehearsal, Jungwon was still on a high, twirling the script like a wand.

“You did so good kanina,” he teased as they walked out the building. “Like, so raw. So painful. Parang ikaw talaga si Bujoy.”

“I will strangle you with this script,” Sunoo muttered.

Jungwon leaned in closer. “But for real… it was kinda real, ‘no?”

Sunoo stopped.

“What?”

“The scene. It felt kinda real,” Jungwon said, tone suddenly softer. “Like… kung hindi ko alam na acting lang, baka maniwala ako.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes. “Jungwon, it’s literally acting lang ’to, ’di ba?”

Jungwon looked at him for a beat too long.

Then smiled.

“Sure, labidabs. Acting lang.”

Sunoo was trying— really trying—to underline his script with grace.

But his pink Stabilo was shaking slightly, thanks to the boy beside him who was currently munching on piattos like they were in the middle of a picnic and not a crowded, chaotic high school classroom.

Sunoo paused.

Tried again.

The pen squeaked.

He closed his eyes. “Can you not breathe so loud?”

Jungwon leaned over, lips still full of cheese dust. “You okay, labidabs?”

Sunoo turned his head with the slow menace of a horror movie doll. “Do not call me that while I’m holding a highlighter.”

“Wow,” Jungwon grinned. “Violent si Bujoy.”

“I’m Sunoo .”

“Same difference.”

Sir Matt’s voice cut through their bickering like a guillotine. “Scene 7, Sunoo, dapat mas may conviction. Right now you sound like you’re confessing love sa cash register, hindi sa tao.”

The class laughed. Sunoo nearly melted into his seat.

Across the room, a junior was rehearsing her scene while dramatically clutching a stuffed bear. The rest of the theater kids were either shouting, fake-crying, or writing their own lines in gel pen. Chaos.

Jungwon leaned in again. “You wanna rehearse later?”

Sunoo gave him a look.

“Off-campus,” Jungwon added.

“Why would I voluntarily suffer outside school?”

“Because you’re flopping in Scene 7,” Jungwon said cheerfully. “And studies show that rehearsing in places with ambiance increases emotional delivery.”

“What study? BuzzFeed?”

“No. Me.” Jungwon pulled out his phone and flashed a screenshot of their old chat where Sunoo once confessed he cries easier when drinking milk tea. “Scientific evidence, oh.”

Sunoo squinted. “You saved that?”

“I screenshot everything you say, labidabs.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“But we have a real chance of winning Best Pair, Sunoo.” Jungwon’s voice turned faux-serious. “Imagine our legacy.”

“I don’t care about legacy.”

“Okay, imagine a large Okinawa with pearls.”

Sunoo blinked.

Jungwon smirked. “Mmm. Weakness spotted.”

At dismissal, Sunoo told himself he wasn’t going.

He walked slower on purpose. Stopped at the school gate. Took out his phone like he was suddenly busy. He probably left already, he thought. Maybe he was just bluffing. Maybe—

“Seat number 4! Sunoo?”

Sunoo looked up and saw the milk tea shop cashier smiling at him.

Inside, Jungwon was already at the corner table, waving both hands like a maniac.

Sunoo sighed through his nose and entered the store.

The shop smelled like sugar, matcha, and cheap perfume. A little bell jingled as he opened the door. Acoustic OPM played faintly from a Bluetooth speaker near the counter. There were only two other customers—one was crying over a phone call, the other asleep beside a melting Oreo float.

Jungwon was wearing fake glasses again, the thick-rimmed kind he insisted made him look “mas acting coach.” His script was laid out in front of him with lines aggressively highlighted in three different colors. He had also ordered fries. And chicharon. For “fuel.”

Sunoo sat down.

“You’re late,” Jungwon said.

“I wasn’t coming.”

“But you did.”

“Because I was bored.”

“Because you missed me.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes so hard it could’ve counted as a medical emergency. “I’m going to throw your script into the sink.”

“You won’t. That’s where your name is printed beside mine.”

Sunoo reached for a fry and tried not to scream.

Sunoo didn’t know when the milk tea arrived.

One moment he was threatening to throw Jungwon’s script in the sink, and the next there was a familiar cup in front of him, complete with pearls, 30% sugar, and a little smiley face drawn in Sharpie.

“You remembered my order,” he said slowly.

Jungwon grinned. “Of course. Ikaw pa.”

Sunoo tried to scoff but the sound caught in his throat. Instead, he sipped. Too long. Way longer than necessary.

Jungwon plopped down across from him and opened the script between them. It was a massacre of highlighter ink—pink for Sunoo’s lines, orange for Jungwon’s, and green for what Jungwon labeled “emotional landmines.”

Sunoo blinked. “Emotional what?”

“Landmines,” Jungwon said, pointing at a highlighted sentence. “Lines na sasabihin mo tapos mararamdaman ng audience na ‘ay sh t, may feelings na.’* You have three.”

“Three what?”

“Landmines. All in Scene 7. Congratulations, labidabs.”

Sunoo ignored the nickname and took another sip.

The milk tea was perfect. Which made it worse.

They sat in comfortable-ish silence for a few moments. Jungwon dipped a fry in mayo and chewed thoughtfully.

“Do you think Bujoy should’ve confessed earlier?” he asked.

Sunoo blinked. “You’re asking me that?”

“Well, you’re the emotionally repressed one, so.”

“Excuse me?!”

Jungwon raised both hands in mock surrender. “Just staying in character!”

Sunoo crossed his arms. “For your information, I think Bujoy was right to wait. Confessing at the wrong time can ruin everything.”

“So you’re a wait-for-the-right-moment kind of person?”

Sunoo shrugged. “I’m a don’t-say-anything-unless-you’re-sure-they-won’t-run-away kind of person.”

Jungwon leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. “Mahirap din ‘yon. Baka maunahan ka ng ibang moment.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t your moment in the first place.”

Their eyes met for a second too long.

Jungwon looked away first, tapping the script with a fry. “Ready to rehearse?”

Sunoo sighed. “Fine.”

They picked Scene 4. A simple confrontation, nothing romantic—until Jungwon started playing Ned like a heartbroken poet from a 2002 boy band music video.

“Bujoy,” he said, lowering his voice an octave, “bakit ka umiiwas?”

Sunoo gave him a dead stare. “Because I have better things to do than talk to someone who can’t even look me in the eye.”

“Oh,” Jungwon said, clearly enjoying this too much. “So ako ‘yung duwag? Ako ‘yung takot sa feelings?”

“If the shoe fits.”

Jungwon leaned forward, voice low. “Eh ‘di isuot mo sakin, Bujoy.”

Sunoo paused.

Looked down at his line.

It was simple.

“Hindi ako takot. Ikaw lang ang hindi sigurado.”

He looked up and said it quietly, steadily, with a surprising amount of weight.

Jungwon froze.

For a second, neither of them moved.

“Wow,” Jungwon said after a moment. “That was… intense.”

“Was it?”

“If I didn’t have the script in front of me, I’d be confused.”

Sunoo blinked. “Confused about what?”

Jungwon looked him straight in the eye.

“If you meant it.”

Silence.

The air conditioning clicked louder than it needed to. Someone sneezed across the shop. A blender whirred from the kitchen like background noise to the scene that suddenly felt too real.

Sunoo laughed, soft and awkward. “Well, I didn’t.”

“Good,” Jungwon said.

But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

They went back to fries. No more practicing. Just chewing.

After a while, Jungwon spoke again, quieter this time.

“Have you ever confessed to someone?”

Sunoo wiped his fingers with a tissue. “No. You?”

“Once,” Jungwon said. “Grade 8. Tinawanan ako.”

Sunoo looked up. “Seriously?”

Jungwon shrugged. “Eh jologs daw ako. Pang best friend lang.”

Sunoo frowned. “That’s dumb.”

“You think I’m dumb?”

“I think whoever said that was.”

Jungwon smiled at his milk tea. “Thanks, labidabs.”

Sunoo didn’t even bother correcting it this time.

They’d moved outside the milk tea shop.

It was quieter under the streetlamp, away from the blender noises and aircon hum. The tables outside were almost empty, save for a college couple sharing fries in a romantic slow-mo kind of way. Jungwon leaned back in his chair, script on his lap, fingers absently tracing the lines he’d already memorized.

Sunoo sat across from him, arms crossed, doing everything he could to not notice the way Jungwon’s hair looked different under yellow light.

“Okay,” Jungwon said, tapping his pen twice on the paper. “Scene 7 ulit.”

“Do we have to?”

“We didn’t finish it kanina,” Jungwon said. “And you were, like, weirdly good. Scary good. Like you were speaking from experience.”

Sunoo made a face. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Jungwon continued, flipping to the right page. “Maybe that milk tea activated something in your soul.”

“Milk tea doesn’t unlock emotions.”

“Then what does?”

Sunoo didn’t answer.

Jungwon cleared his throat, shifting into character. He did that thing again—his face went serious, gaze sharper. Somehow, he wasn’t Jungwon anymore. He was Ned , soft-voiced and scared, asking for something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Bujoy… labs kita. Okey ka lang?”

Sunoo almost laughed.

Almost.

But then he looked at Jungwon.

Really looked.

His eyes weren’t teasing this time. There was no grin, no wink, no cha-cha energy.

Just a stillness.

And suddenly, Sunoo couldn’t remember what came next.

“Uh,” he said, blinking down at the script. “What’s my line again?”

Jungwon gave a half-smile. “You’ve said it like ten times.”

“I forgot.”

“Want me to say it for you?”

“No.”

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Sunoo inhaled and said it.

Quietly.

Not flat, not forced.

Just… there.

“Labs kita. Okay ka lang?”

Jungwon flinched. Barely.

It was subtle. A shift in the jaw. A twitch in his fingers.

“Damn,” he whispered, smiling faintly. “See? Too real.”

Sunoo leaned back. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Yeah, but this is—” Sunoo stopped. “— different weird.”

Jungwon leaned his arms on the table. “Sunoo.”

“What.”

“If this wasn’t a script…” He paused. “Would you still say it?”

“What?”

“That line.”

Sunoo stared at him.

His heart did something confusing in his chest.

Then he scoffed. “You’re acting again.”

Jungwon tilted his head. “So are you.”

Sunoo stood up.

Jungwon blinked. “Hey—”

“I have homework,” Sunoo said, grabbing his bag. “And a life. I’m going.”

“You’re not mad, right?”

Sunoo didn’t look back. “Acting lang ’to, ’di ba?”

Jungwon sat there alone for a minute. The wind shifted, carrying the soft hum of Parokya from a tricycle radio somewhere nearby.

He looked down at the script again.

Scene 7.

Emotional landmine.

“Boom,” he muttered, half-laughing to himself.

Sunoo didn’t take the tricycle.

He walked.

It was only fifteen minutes from the milk tea shop to his house, but tonight it felt longer. Maybe because his chest was full. Not heavy. Not exactly. Just full—like it had absorbed too much air in too little time and forgot what to do with it.

The street was quiet, lined with sari-sari stores shutting down and a karaoke machine echoing “Hanggang Kailan Kita Mamahalin” somewhere in the distance.

He focused on the pavement.

Left foot. Right foot. Breathe.

He tried replaying the scene in his head the way he usually did after rehearsals. Evaluate performance. Mark emotional beats. Grade himself out of ten.

But the words just… floated.

“If this wasn’t a script… would you still say it?”

That wasn’t acting.

That was a question.

A trap.

And he walked into it.

Stupid.

“Stupid,” he muttered aloud, kicking a rock into the gutter.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

He didn’t check it.

Across town, Jungwon was in the passenger seat of Kuya Wonwoo’s car, window rolled halfway down, script tucked under one leg, his fingers drumming the beat of a song that wasn’t playing.

Wonwoo was quiet.

Too quiet.

Jungwon glanced at him. “You can say it.”

Wonwoo didn’t blink. “Say what?”

“You’re judging me.”

“Not yet.”

“But you’re about to.”

“I’m always about to.”

Jungwon sighed and leaned his forehead against the glass. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“What? ‘Would you still say it?’ ”

“Yeah.”

“Sounded sincere.”

“That’s the problem.”

Wonwoo took a turn. “So what’s the issue?”

“He didn’t answer.”

“Did he run?”

“No.”

“Did he punch you?”

“No.”

“Then that’s progress.”

Jungwon frowned. “He left.”

“He’s processing.”

“Processing what?”

“You.”

Jungwon groaned.

Wonwoo smirked faintly. “You like him.”

“That obvious?”

“Painfully.”

There was silence.

Then Jungwon mumbled, “I think I’m screwed.”

Wonwoo reached over and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Bujoy always comes back before the credits roll.”

Jungwon slumped deeper in his seat. “Unless the theater burns down first.”

Sunoo lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended him.

His room was clean, sterile, exactly how he liked it—white curtains, pastel folders stacked by color, not a single hoodie on the floor. But his brain was chaos.

He turned his phone face-down.

Then flipped it back up.

Face-down again.

Then— buzz.

A voice memo.

From Jungwon.

He stared at it for a full thirty seconds.

Then hit play.

“Labs kita.”

A pause.

“Okey ka lang?”

A snort of laughter. The rustle of fabric. A whispered, almost embarrassed—

“Baka joke lang ‘to sa’yo, pero di ko na alam kung alin dito yung script eh.”

Sunoo sat up.

Paused.

Deleted it.

Immediately regretted it.

He stared at the blank screen.

Then slowly opened his bag, pulled out the script.

Scene 7.

Bujoy’s line.

He took a pink pen and underlined it.

Twice.

The aircon in Room 4-B was finally working again, but Sunoo couldn’t breathe.

It had nothing to do with temperature. Everything to do with the boy currently poking the edge of his binder with a pencil eraser, humming “Forevermore” like a threat.

Sunoo didn’t look at him.

Instead, he focused on his notes. Or pretended to.

His handwriting looked like it had been attacked by a seismograph. His bullet points had no bullets. His outline was just... a wavy paragraph with some half-hearted underlines. Useless.

Across the table, Jungwon whispered, “Good morning, labidabs.”

Sunoo didn’t respond.

Jungwon tried again, a little softer. “Hey, Bujoy.”

Still nothing.

Sunoo didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just sipped his overpriced latte through gritted teeth.

Jungwon leaned back with a long sigh, letting the silence settle.

Their classmates were buzzing about something near the front—someone said “rehearsal” and “kiss scene” in the same sentence. The word “labidabs” floated by like a paper plane made of humiliation.

Sunoo scribbled nonsense across his notebook margin.

Jungwon rested his chin on his palm. “Sige. Silent treatment ka today.”

“I'm focusing,” Sunoo said flatly, eyes on his page.

“On what?” Jungwon asked. “Kaka-color mo lang ng title mo ng four times.”

Sunoo clicked his pen aggressively.

“Not everyone rehearses like you,” he said.

“How do I rehearse?”

Sunoo finally looked up. “Like it’s real.”

Jungwon didn’t blink.

Then, just as softly, he said, “What if it is?”

Sunoo looked away again.

Sir Matt entered dramatically with a folder and a Starbucks cup in one hand and an armful of fake roses in the other.

“Scene 10 today!” he announced. “Blocking. You all know what that means.”

Someone in the back shouted, “Halik-an na ‘to!”

The room cheered. Sunoo died a little inside.

Sir Matt pointed at Sunoo and Jungwon. “Main pair. You're up.”

Sunoo nearly swallowed his pen cap.

Jungwon stood like he was walking on clouds. “Let’s do this, labidabs.”

Sunoo stood slowly. Controlled. Face blank.

Inside: fire alarms.

The rehearsal room had dim lighting. Curtains were drawn. Sir Matt even set up a small bluetooth speaker playing low-volume OPM—instrumental, wistful, deadly.

Scene 10 was the almost-confession. The near-kiss.

The emotional climax of the play.

They stood at center stage, face to face.

Jungwon was already in character. Sunoo could tell—not just from the voice drop, but from the way his eyes softened. How he held his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Sir Matt clapped. “Begin!”

Jungwon took one step forward. The room faded.

“Bujoy,” he said, voice low. “Alam mo bang ang tagal kitang hinintay?”

Sunoo replied automatically. The line was memorized. It was safe.

“Ned… ‘wag na. Friends tayo, ‘di ba?”

“Hindi na eh.”

Sunoo’s heart skipped.

Jungwon took another step forward. They were close now. Closer than they’d ever been offstage.

“Bujoy, ‘pag tiningnan mo ako ngayon… at hindi ka umatras… ibig sabihin, totoo lahat ‘to.”

Sunoo tried to blink.

Tried to breathe.

Tried to find the line on the page.

He couldn’t.

Jungwon leaned in—not touching, just hovering. Waiting.

Everyone else in the room had disappeared.

Just him.

And Jungwon.

“Bujoy,” Jungwon whispered, close enough to hear his breath, “okay ka lang?”

And Sunoo didn’t move.

He didn’t answer.

He just stared.

The room broke into applause.

Sunoo stepped back like he’d been slapped.

He turned.

And walked out.

The door to the rehearsal room closed behind him with a heavy thud.

Sunoo didn’t know where he was going until he found himself in the second floor restroom, gripping the cold edge of the sink. His reflection stared back—flushed, wide-eyed, lips parted like he’d just run a marathon.

He turned the faucet on.

Washed his hands.

Didn’t need to. He just needed something to do.

The water felt too cold. Or maybe his chest was too warm.

He looked up again.

“You’re okay,” he said aloud. “It’s just a scene.”

He blinked at himself.

Repeated it.

“It’s just a scene.”

But the problem was, it didn’t feel like one.

Not when Jungwon looked at him like that.

Not when he said “okay ka lang?” like he meant it.

Not when he almost leaned in and Sunoo didn’t move .

He clenched the edge of the sink again.

Why didn’t he move?

Why didn’t he want to?

He splashed water on his face and breathed in, sharp and quick.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

He froze.

“Sunoo?”

It was Jungwon.

Of course.

He didn’t answer.

Another knock.

“I’m not gonna go in,” Jungwon said. “I just wanna know if… you’re okay.”

Still nothing.

Sunoo stared at the door like it might dissolve.

There was a soft sound. A plastic water bottle set gently on the floor.

Then silence.

Then footsteps. Slowly fading.

Sunoo didn’t move for a full minute.

When he finally opened the door, the bottle was still there.

Labeled with Sharpie in Jungwon’s handwriting:

Bujoy’s hydration :’(

He rolled his eyes.

But carried it with him.

Sunoo found him on the stairwell landing between the second and third floors, sitting on the concrete steps like they were benches in a park. He was staring at his shoes, elbows on knees, holding the now-empty water bottle with both hands like it was sacred.

Jungwon didn’t look up.

Sunoo stood there for a second too long.

Then sat beside him—one full step up, because emotional superiority must be maintained.

Neither of them spoke.

Outside, a P.E. class was shouting on the field. A whistle blew. Someone was laughing loudly. Life went on, just not in this hallway.

Jungwon twisted the cap of the bottle slowly. Click, unclick. Click, unclick.

“You okay?” he asked without looking.

Sunoo didn’t answer right away. “Are you?”

Jungwon tilted his head back, eyes on the ceiling. “I’m used to this.”

“To what?”

“Pretending.”

That shut Sunoo up.

Jungwon leaned forward again, shoulders slouched, voice lower. “You ever get tired of it?”

Sunoo looked at him carefully. “Tired of what?”

“Acting like everything’s fine. Like nothing’s there.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice. No teasing. Just that annoying, dangerous sincerity that Sunoo had been dodging like potholes.

“I’m not pretending anything,” Sunoo said.

“Really?” Jungwon turned to him now, searching his face. “Then bakit ‘pag tumingin ako sayo kanina, parang hindi ka na si Bujoy?”

Sunoo stared back.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Don’t make it real.”

Jungwon’s voice dropped even lower. “It already is.”

Silence.

Sunoo looked away first.

He gripped the edge of the step. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That makes two of us.”

Another pause.

Then, gently:

“Pero ‘pag kasama kita… parang ayoko na umarte.”

Sunoo bit the inside of his cheek.

Hard.

Didn’t answer.

But he didn’t stand up either.

And that, somehow, felt like its own kind of confession.

They didn’t talk on the way home.

Not because they were avoiding each other—there just wasn’t anything left to say. Not yet.

They parted at the usual corner near the sari-sari store. Jungwon offered a quiet, “Ingat,” and Sunoo nodded once before heading off down his street, bag slung low, sweater sleeves tugged over his wrists.

At home, his room looked the same.

But something had shifted.

He didn’t go for his notes. Or his skincare. Or his playlist.

He just laid on his bed, back flat against the mattress, staring at the ceiling with his phone resting on his chest.

Nothing came in.

Until something did.

1 new message.

From: Jungwon 🍳

[Scene_10_edited.docx]
“pwede natin ito gamiting version sa play. kung ayaw mo, okay lang. pero gusto ko lang mas totoo.”

Sunoo stared at the message. Then tapped.

The file opened.

It was the same Scene 10—the almost-kiss, the emotional peak, the one that made Sunoo want to crawl into the stage curtains and disappear.

But one line was different.

Right at the end.

Ned wasn’t saying “Bujoy, bakit ngayon lang?” anymore.

He was saying:

“Bujoy… kung totoo ‘to, pwede ba… ‘wag mo na akong actingan?”

Sunoo stared at it.

Then reached for his pen.

Not the black one. Not blue.

Pink.

He underlined it.

Twice.

Closed the file.

Didn’t message back.

But he didn’t need to.

Sunoo knew something was wrong the moment he entered the classroom and didn’t hear his name shouted across the room like a teleserye plot twist.

No “LABIDABS!”
No “Destiny is working overtime!”
Not even the usual bag of chips being tossed onto his desk like an offering to the conyo gods.

Just silence.

He blinked once, then slowly approached his seat, as if it might explode.

Jungwon was already there—hair neat, uniform tucked in, pen in hand.

Writing.

Writing.

Like an actual student.

“Morning,” Sunoo mumbled as he slid into his chair.

Jungwon didn’t look up.

Just replied with, “Morning.”

No winks. No finger hearts. No sparkly eyes.

Sunoo’s eyebrows twitched.

He opened his bag and took out his notebook, trying to act casual. He told himself this was fine. Peaceful, even. No flirting. No noise. No chaos.

He underlined today’s date in blue.

Then purple.

Then pink.

Then crossed the whole thing out because it looked wrong.

The day dragged.

In Chemistry, Jungwon took notes in bullet form instead of doodling Bujoy-Ned fanart in the margins.

In Values class, he didn’t ask the teacher if love at first sight counts as a sin.

At lunch, he sat with the production team instead of by the milk tea gang (a.k.a. Sunoo + silence).

Sunoo stared at his spaghetti. It stared back, unbothered.

“Okay ka lang?” their classmate Jihyo asked, nudging his elbow.

“Yeah,” Sunoo said.

But his fork was upside-down, and he hadn’t noticed.

Rehearsal started after dismissal.

Sir Matt clapped his hands. “We’re doing Scene 4 again. No dramatic lighting. No kisses. Just tone.”

Sunoo and Jungwon stood at center stage, facing each other.

The air between them was heavy.

Not with tension.

With distance.

They ran the lines. They hit their cues. Sir Matt nodded in approval.

But something was missing.

Even Sir Matt felt it.

“Mas magaling kayo last time,” he said. “There was… spark.”

Sunoo didn’t say anything.

Jungwon just smiled faintly. “Maybe we burned out.”

After rehearsal, as they packed up, Jungwon passed by Sunoo’s bag but didn’t say anything. No teasing, no waves, not even a “see you tomorrow, Bujoy.”

He just walked past.

Sunoo zipped his bag too quickly and caught the fabric.

“Sh*t,” he muttered.

He didn’t even feel like correcting it to “shoot.”

Sunoo was halfway through scribbling “Ned internal monologue is cringe” in his annotated script when the theater room door opened again.

The footsteps weren’t rushed. Confident, chill, relaxed—like they belonged there.

Then he heard the voice.

“Oh my god. This place still smells like chalk dust and broken dreams.”

Laughter. A few gasps.

Then:

“HYEONGJUN!”

Sunoo looked up.

Jungwon was already across the room, practically sprinting, arms outstretched.

Hyeongjun caught him in a casual hug, one arm slung over Jungwon’s shoulder like they’d done it a hundred times. Maybe they had.

Sunoo stared.

Hyeongjun looked... annoyingly effortless.

Wearing a hoodie under a denim jacket, ID still around his neck from whatever college or org he’d come from, hair half-styled like he didn’t care, and a smirk that said “I know I’m a main character too.”

“Grabe ka, ang laki mo na,” Hyeongjun said, giving Jungwon a playful push.

“Kahit kelan hindi ako lalaki, shala ka pa rin,” Jungwon replied, grinning.

Sunoo blinked at the interaction. The rhythm. The comfort. The inside jokes. The nickname.

“Wonie.”

That was new.

That was not “labidabs.”

Sir Matt clapped dramatically. “Ah, yes. Our guest stage assistant. Hyeongjun graduated two years ago. He’s here to help block a few scenes and make sure our actors understand what believable body language looks like.”

Hyeongjun bowed slightly. “Happy to help, Sir. I heard this year’s Bujoy and Ned have chemistry daw. I had to see it myself.”

The whole cast oooh’d.

Sunoo kept staring at the floor.

Jungwon scratched his head, chuckling. “Grabe ‘to, wag niyo ako bigyan ng reputation.”

“You already have one,” Hyeongjun said easily. “I’m just here to observe the damage.”

Scene 6 blocking.

Hyeongjun stood beside Sir Matt, arms crossed, watching with a focused but amused expression.

Sunoo tried not to notice how often Jungwon looked in his direction. Or how easily Hyeongjun leaned in when giving notes. Or how casually he touched Jungwon’s shoulder when explaining movement cues.

“You two are pretty smooth,” Hyeongjun said once as Sunoo and Jungwon stepped into position.

Jungwon grinned. “Sanay na sa kaartehan ko si Sunoo.”

Hyeongjun raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You two look cute together.”

Sunoo felt that in his spine.

Hyeongjun tilted his head, almost teasing.

“If it’s not real… that’s impressive.”

Sunoo flinched.

Jungwon didn’t answer.

Sunoo stepped away for water he didn’t need.

And didn’t come back until the scene was over.

They were walking down the hallway after rehearsal—just the two of them, like always.

But it didn’t feel like always.

Jungwon wasn’t talking. That alone was weird.

And Sunoo didn’t like it.

He kept his eyes ahead. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Sweater sleeves tugged down even though it wasn’t cold.

Jungwon kicked a bottle cap along the tiles with every step.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Sunoo finally snapped.

“You’re different with him.”

Jungwon blinked. “Huh?”

“Earlier,” Sunoo said, voice sharper than he meant, “you were laughing at everything he said. Like he’s your personal comedian.”

Jungwon squinted. “You mean Hyeongjun?”

“No, Santa Claus,” Sunoo shot back.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “Are you… jealous?”

Sunoo stopped walking.

“I’m observing .”

“Your observation sounds jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Sunoo said.

And even he didn’t believe it.

Jungwon turned to him fully, hands in pockets.

“Why do you care?”

Sunoo looked away. “I don’t.”

“But you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re sulking.”

Sunoo’s hands balled inside his sleeves. “You’re the one acting like—like I’m just another prop.”

Jungwon flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

There was a long pause.

Then Jungwon said, quieter:

“You’re the only one I rewrote a line for.”

Sunoo froze.

Jungwon kept going. “You think I do that for everyone? That I write new endings and mean every line and actually wait for reactions that never come?”

Sunoo opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Jungwon gave a weak smile. “Good talk, labidabs.”

Then walked ahead.

And Sunoo didn’t follow.

Not right away.

Jungwon crashed face-first into the couch, limbs spread like a cartoon character post-breakdown.

Wonwoo didn’t look up from his laptop.

“You died again?”

“Worse,” Jungwon mumbled into the cushion. “I emotionally exposed myself to someone who probably thinks I’m a walking punchline.”

Wonwoo sipped from his perpetually steaming mug. “Was it at least dramatic?”

“Super. Sayang walang camera.”

Silence.

Then:

“You told him?” Wonwoo asked, finally glancing up.

“Kind of.”

“That sounds like a no.”

Jungwon rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I said he’s the only one I rewrote a line for.”

Wonwoo whistled. “That’s basically a marriage proposal in theater language.”

“Right?!”

“And he said?”

“Nothing.”

“Oof.”

Jungwon groaned and threw a throw pillow in the air. It landed on his face. He left it there.

“I hate this,” he said through the fabric.

“Why? You’ve fallen before.”

“Yeah, but they were all easy .”

Wonwoo paused.

Then, softly: “Because they didn’t matter.”

Jungwon peeked out from under the pillow. “Exactly.”

“And Sunoo does?”

Jungwon didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Wonwoo leaned back, crossing his arms.

“You can flirt all you want,” he said. “But you only ever look serious with one person.”

Jungwon stared at the ceiling.

“Problem is,” he murmured, “he’s not looking back.”

Sunoo sat at his desk, the lamp casting soft shadows across his script.

He hadn't touched it in an hour.

His phone sat screen-up beside his pencil case, blank. Quiet.

No notifications.

No messages.

No “labidabs.”

He unlocked it anyway.

Went to Notes.

New entry.

He typed slowly, like each word cost something.

You were never just acting.
That’s the problem.

He stared at it.

Read it once.

Twice.

His thumb hovered over “Send To Jungwon.”

Paused.

Then he hit backspace.

The words disappeared.

He didn’t rewrite them.

Didn’t save the note.

He just sat there.

Breathing.

Across town, Jungwon lay on his side, phone in hand, screen on.

His chat with Sunoo open.

Cursor blinking in a half-written message.

I meant every line.

Backspace.

Backspace.

Backspace.

He locked his screen.

Placed the phone on his bedside table.

Closed his eyes.

In both rooms, nothing was said.

But everything was already heard.

“Today,” Sir Matt announced, “we abandon the script.”

A collective groan swept the rehearsal room.

Sunoo’s spine straightened like someone had poured cold water down it.

“Scene 11 will now be improvised,” Sir Matt continued, pacing in front of the group like a proud mad scientist. “I want raw, reactive emotion. No memorized lines. Just what Bujoy and Ned would say, in that moment, if they were real people. Not students. Not actors. Real. ”

Sunoo glanced at Jungwon.

He was already stretching like this was a P.E. exam and not emotional exposure.

Sunoo turned to Sir Matt. “And... how are we supposed to know what our characters feel?”

Sir Matt raised both eyebrows. “You don’t know what you feel?”

Sunoo looked away. “That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

Sunoo didn’t answer.

Later, while they waited for their turn, Jungwon leaned against the wall near the prop cabinet, sipping from a bottle of water he clearly didn’t need.

Sunoo sat cross-legged on the floor, script open even though it was now irrelevant.

“You okay?” Jungwon asked, voice gentler than usual.

Sunoo didn’t look up. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“I said I’m fine.”

Pause.

Jungwon tapped the bottle cap lightly against his thigh. “You don’t have to panic. I’ll go easy.”

Sunoo scoffed. “Right. Because emotional vulnerability is your specialty.”

Jungwon smirked. “Actually, it kind of is.”

Sir Matt clapped again. “Kim Sunoo. Yang Jungwon. Center stage. No script.”

Sunoo stood.

He hated how cold his hands were.

Jungwon joined him. Closer than usual. Closer than safe.

Sir Matt waved them on. “Scene 11. The confrontation. The real one.”

Sunoo inhaled sharply.

The lights felt brighter.

He looked at Jungwon.

Jungwon looked back.

They waited.

And then—

Jungwon started.

“Ang hirap mo.”

That wasn’t in the script.

But it landed like a line he’d been holding in for weeks.

Sunoo blinked.

“What?”

Jungwon took a step closer. “Ang hirap mong kausap. Ang hirap mong kaibigan. Ang hirap mong mahalin.”

Laughter from the cast halted. Someone dropped a pen.

Sunoo’s pulse roared in his ears.

“Then don’t ,” he said, voice cracking. “Walang pumilit sa’yo.”

“No one had to.”

Jungwon’s voice stayed steady, but his eyes were glassy.

“I did it anyway. Kahit ikaw na rin ‘yung umiiwas.”

“I’m not —”

“Hindi ka umaamin.”

“Because there’s nothing to admit! ”

Silence.

Then:

Jungwon whispered, “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever said.”

Sir Matt stood frozen, stunned.

No one clapped.

No one breathed.

Sunoo stepped back.

And walked out.

The hallway was dim, echoey, and empty.

Sunoo’s footsteps hit the tiles like slaps. Fast. Sharp. He didn’t know where he was going—he just needed to move, to get out of that room and away from those eyes.

From his eyes.

“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever said.”

He hated how much it echoed in his head. How much it sounded like something that wasn’t acting.

He turned a corner too fast and bumped into a bulletin board. A few flyers fell.

He didn’t pick them up.

“Sunoo.”

He stopped.

Jungwon’s voice again, quieter this time. Just a few steps behind.

Sunoo didn’t turn around. “I said it was just a scene.”

“You left before the scene ended.”

“Maybe it didn’t need an ending.”

“Or maybe you just didn’t like where it was going.”

Sunoo finally turned, arms crossed so tightly they might bruise.

“You want honesty?” he asked, voice shaking. “Fine. I hated that. I hated feeling like I didn’t know which part of it was still pretend. Like I was being baited into something real, only for you to turn around later and say ‘It was just acting, labidabs, chill.’ ”

Jungwon didn’t flinch.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t move.

“I’ve never once said it wasn’t real,” he replied.

Sunoo stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You didn’t have to.”

Jungwon stepped closer—just one pace, slow.

“If I was messing with you,” he said carefully, “do you think I’d rewrite lines for you?”

“Maybe,” Sunoo whispered. “You’re that kind of person.”

Jungwon blinked like he’d been slapped.

Silence.

Longer than it should’ve been.

Then, without a word, he turned.

Walked the other way.

And this time, Sunoo didn’t stop him.

Sunoo found himself in the same bathroom from before.

Same sink. Same mirror. Same cheap soap that always smelled slightly of expired lemon.

He stared at his reflection.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

He looked… fine. A little red around the eyes. Hair a bit messed up. But fine.

He washed his hands anyway.

Again.

Twice.

Then leaned on the sink and whispered, “Get it together.”

Behind him, the door creaked open.

Footsteps.

Then—

No voice.

Sunoo glanced up at the mirror.

Jungwon stood by the wall near the paper towel dispenser, arms crossed, eyes on the floor.

He wasn’t here to argue.

Just to be there.

Sunoo turned off the faucet.

Waited.

Jungwon finally spoke, not looking at him. “I’m not trying to confuse you.”

“Too late.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did.”

Silence.

Then Jungwon looked up, expression unreadable.

“Maybe I was just hoping you’d stop treating everything like it’s a rehearsal.”

Sunoo inhaled sharply.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“No, it’s not.”

Jungwon stepped forward.

Not close.

Just enough.

“I don’t get to hide behind the script anymore. You still do.”

Sunoo didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

Not with his throat closing.

Jungwon offered a half-smile. Not mocking. Just tired.

“Tell me when you’re ready to stop acting,” he said.

And then he left.

Again.

But slower this time.

And the door closed gently.

Like he wanted Sunoo to hear it.

Rehearsal ended early.

Sir Matt had “urgent life matters” (a.k.a. drama club parent meeting), and everyone was free to go. But Sunoo lingered behind—pretending to re-pack his bag, pretending to re-highlight his script, pretending like he wasn’t waiting for someone to speak first.

Jungwon had left the moment they were dismissed. No wave. No teasing nickname. Just gone.

Sunoo hated how light the room felt without him.

He was zipping his bag when someone sat on the chair beside him.

Hyeongjun.

“Hey,” he said casually, flipping his lanyard around his finger. “Heavy day?”

Sunoo glanced at him. “Define ‘heavy.’”

“You know. Stares. Tension. Theatrical exits.”

Sunoo didn’t answer.

Hyeongjun rested his elbow on the table and studied him like he was reviewing lines.

“Can I say something?” he asked.

Sunoo gave him a look. “Does it matter if I say no?”

Hyeongjun grinned. “Not really.”

Pause.

Then, without drama, just truth:

“You know, Jungwon’s never looked at me the way he looks at you.”

Sunoo blinked.

“What?”

“Back then,” Hyeongjun said. “We used to joke about dating. I mean—we were close. Touchy. Flirty. But he was never really in it. He’s always been like that.”

Sunoo swallowed. “And now?”

“Now?” Hyeongjun chuckled. “He’s acting like he’s not scared anymore.”

Sunoo opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Hyeongjun stood. “If I were you,” he said, stretching, “I’d stop waiting for a script to tell me what to say.”

And with that, he left.

No drama.

Just the line Sunoo needed.

That night, Sunoo opened Scene 10 again.

Not to study.

Just to feel.

And this time, he didn’t skip the ending.

The hairdryer hummed gently in Sunoo’s hand.

He wasn’t really using it anymore. His hair was already dry—half-puffed, still smelling faintly of coconut conditioner. But he didn’t put the dryer down.

It gave him something to hold while his mind buzzed louder than the machine.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at his phone.

Waiting.

For what, he didn’t know.

Maybe for the universe to make the next move.

Then, it vibrated.

1 voice memo.
From: Jungwon 🍳

Sunoo’s heart jumped before his finger did.

He hesitated.

Then hit play.

“Okay. I’ve been rewriting this for days.”

Jungwon’s voice was quiet. No background noise. Just breath.

“You don’t have to respond. I just… I want you to hear it. One last version of Scene 10. My version.”

A soft rustle. Then:

“Bujoy… kung totoo ’to, pwede ba… wag mo na akong actingan.”

Silence.

Then a nervous laugh.

“Or… kung hindi mo pa kaya… at least tell me if I should stop trying.”

The message ended.

Sunoo stared at the waveform on the screen like it could offer answers.

Then he did something that surprised even himself.

He hit record.

“I don’t want it to be acting either.”

Send.

No emoji. No name.

Just words.

Real ones.

Finally.

Jungwon didn’t reply.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because he couldn’t find anything better to say.

He played the message three times. Maybe four.

“I don’t want it to be acting either.”

The line replayed in his head like a looped score. Quiet. Crisp. More powerful than anything they’d ever said in rehearsal.

He sat on the floor of his bedroom, knees up, chin resting on them, eyes unfocused. His phone sat screen-up beside him, as if waiting for instructions.

But he didn’t send anything back.

He just held the silence like it was fragile.

The next day at school, everything was... still.

No grand confrontation. No whispered kilig. No dramatic eye contact across the courtyard.

Sunoo entered the room ten minutes early, as usual.

Jungwon followed five minutes later.

They sat side by side again.

Didn’t say a word.

But they didn’t shift away either.

Their elbows almost touched.

The air between them buzzed—not with tension, but with something neither of them could name yet.

At break time, Jungwon offered him a small pack of chichirya.

Sunoo blinked.

Then took it.

No smile.

But his fingers lingered on the wrapper longer than necessary.

During homeroom, they got called out of class—rehearsal room, urgent.

Sir Matt met them at the door with his usual chaotic energy.

“We’re doing Scene 10,” he said, waving a clipboard like it owed him money. “Full run. No stops. No commentary. Just feel it. Live it.”

Jungwon looked at Sunoo.

Sunoo looked back.

And for once, neither of them needed direction.

They just nodded.

And stepped inside.

The room was quiet.

Not because no one was there—everyone was. The whole production team sat against the walls, clipboards in hand, but no one moved. Not even Sir Matt.

It was the final full rehearsal of Scene 10.

The near-confession.

The almost-kiss.

The moment everything either breaks apart —or begins.

Jungwon and Sunoo stood center stage.

No one called action.

They just… began.

Jungwon took a slow step forward. Not as Ned. Just as himself.

“Ang tagal ko na palang naghihintay.”

Sunoo didn’t look away.

“Kala ko… trip-trip lang ‘to.”

“Hindi ako natutong mag-trip pag ikaw yung kausap ko.”

The line hit harder than usual.

Not because of how he said it.

But because this time… he meant it.

Sunoo’s voice was quiet. Vulnerable.

“Bakit ako?”

Jungwon exhaled.

“Kasi kahit pa umarte ka na parang wala kang pake, kahit paulit-ulit mo akong itulak palayo, ikaw pa rin yung gusto kong lapitan.”

They stood close now.

Too close.

It was the same blocking as always—but something was different. The tension wasn’t scripted. The breath between their lines wasn’t in Sir Matt’s notes.

Jungwon leaned in—not touching, just barely there.

“Bujoy…”

The audience held their breath.

“Kung totoo ’to…”

He paused.

The new line.

“Pwede ba… wag mo na akong actingan.”

The words fell like glass onto tile.

Sunoo stared at him.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

He just stepped forward—

—and lifted a hand to Jungwon’s collarbone.

Soft. Barely there.

“Hindi na ako umaarte.”

Silence.

Not even Sir Matt moved.

Then—faintly—a sniffle from the lighting crew.

But no applause.

Just stillness.

Because everyone knew—

That wasn’t acting anymore.

The bell had rung ten minutes ago, but no one had left the theater room.

Sir Matt wiped under his eyes with the corner of a prop curtain. “Beautiful. Raw. Organic. A masterclass in truthful theatricality. ”

Sunoo and Jungwon stood side by side, not facing each other, not saying anything, but neither making any move to leave.

Sir Matt clapped his hands suddenly. “Okay, okay. One last thing. We’re locking the final script today. Any edits, speak now or forever hold your creative regrets.”

Everyone began murmuring.

Jungwon raised his hand.

Sir Matt blinked. “Yes, Jungwon?”

“I want to officially change Ned’s last line in Scene 10.”

The room froze.

Sir Matt tilted his head. “To what?”

Jungwon turned—finally—to Sunoo.

His voice was steady.

“To: ‘Bujoy… kung totoo ’to, pwede ba… wag mo na akong actingan?’”

Sir Matt pressed a hand dramatically to his chest.

“Approved. Fully. Absolutely.”

He wrote it down with a flourish, muttering, “This generation, I swear…”

The room erupted into side comments.

Sunoo didn’t say anything.

Not until Jungwon looked at him again.

“You okay with that?”

Sunoo met his eyes.

Soft.

Sure.

“It’s always been yours anyway.”

Jungwon blinked.

Smiled.

Didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

The lights dimmed just enough.

The set was bare—just the suggestion of a late-night porch, one bench, two shadows.

They were doing the near-kiss again.

They’d done it so many times that the movements were muscle memory.

Step in.
Line.
Lean forward.
Pause.

It always ended there.

But this time, it didn’t feel like memorization.

This time, Jungwon’s breath hitched.

Sunoo noticed.

Jungwon whispered the line slower now, almost afraid of it.

“Bujoy… kung totoo ’to… pwede ba… wag mo na akong actingan?”

He didn’t lean in.

He just stood there.

Close.

Waiting.

Sunoo didn’t back away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

His voice came out quieter than it ever had.

“Now.”

Silence.

They hovered there—foreheads almost touching, hearts absolutely crashing.

And no one in the room moved.

Sir Matt didn’t yell “cut.”

The lighting crew didn’t fade out the scene.

No one dared breathe too loud.

Because it didn’t feel like a scene anymore.

It felt like a secret.

Shared.

Finally.

The halls were quiet.

Not rehearsal-quiet— after quiet. The kind of silence that came when the lights were off but the feelings were still humming inside your chest.

Sunoo stayed behind a little longer, adjusting the hem of his costume even though there was no one left to impress. The applause from earlier had faded. So had the nerves. All that remained was a strange kind of stillness, as if his skin hadn’t caught up to what his heart already knew.

Across the room, Jungwon stood by the exit, holding the door open.

He didn’t say, “Let’s go.”

He just waited.

So Sunoo walked.

They exited the theater room together, the door shutting behind them with a soft thud, like the last page of a chapter finally being closed.

Outside, the air was warm but not heavy. The sky held the last traces of daylight—burnt orange bleeding into purple. Streetlamps blinked on lazily, humming with a low buzz, casting pools of gold on the cracked pavement.

Their walk home was quiet.

For once, Sunoo didn’t fill the silence with small talk, and Jungwon didn’t break it with jokes.

They walked close—shoulders nearly brushing, steps aligned, breaths caught between glances they refused to fully exchange.

At the corner of the sari-sari store, a tricycle turned lazily into the street.

Its speaker, strapped to the metal roof with old electrical tape, crackled to life.

And then, through the static and summer air, a melody slipped in.

Familiar.

Soft.

“Ngayon ko lang natagpuan…”

Jungwon’s ears perked.

Sunoo slowed just slightly.

“Ang tanging kahinaan…”

The lyrics hung in the air like the first drops of unexpected rain—gentle, cool, and impossible to ignore.

“At lumilipas ang sandali…”
“At hindi na mapakali…”

Neither of them spoke.

Jungwon smiled—barely.

He tilted his head just slightly, like the world had handed them the background music to a moment they weren’t brave enough to name yet.

“Pero sa ’yo…”

Sunoo’s chest tightened.

Not in panic.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

“Labis-labis akong nasasabik…”

He glanced sideways.

Jungwon was already looking.

“Na makapiling ka na…”

The distance between them, barely there, now felt impossibly charged.

Not awkward.

Not unsure.

Just waiting.

“Labis-labis ang mga halik…”
“Nang matagpuan na kita…”

They reached the intersection.

Usually, this was where they parted ways—Sunoo would turn left, Jungwon would go straight. A casual “bye,” a light wave, maybe a joke about tomorrow’s blocking.

But this time, Jungwon stopped.

Not in front of Sunoo.

Beside him.

Facing the same direction.

He held out his hand.

No preamble.

No explanation.

Just an open palm, waiting.

Sunoo stared at it.

It wasn’t shaking.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was sure.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t laugh it off.

Didn’t ask, “For what?”

He just looked at Jungwon.

And saw someone who had been waiting—quietly, patiently, completely.

So he reached out.

Their hands met halfway.

Fingers slid into place like puzzle pieces long overdue.

Jungwon’s thumb brushed gently against his.

And they walked.

“Pag-ibig ang kahulugan…”

The wind picked up softly, brushing against their sleeves, lifting the corners of their uniform jackets like they were part of something bigger than just this street.

“Ako'y mayro'n palaging paraan…”

Neither of them looked at each other, but their smiles were the same—hidden, helpless, and absolutely real.

“Bakit si Marvin at Jolina…”
“Sa palabas lang magkasama?”

Jungwon laughed under his breath, the sound just loud enough for Sunoo to hear.

“Grabe,” he murmured. “Even the song ships us.”

Sunoo didn’t respond.

But his grip tightened—just a little.

Like permission.

“Minsan na lang ako magkaganito…”

They passed the row of acacia trees lining the road where leaves always rustled louder than traffic. The tricycle had gone, but the song stayed with them, looping quietly in their heads like a secret chorus.

“Minsan na lang ako muling mabuo…”

Jungwon’s voice, barely audible:

“Are we still acting?”

Sunoo shook his head.

“Kaya sabihin mo na…”

“I think this is the rewrite.”

“Sabihin mo na, giliw ko…”

And they kept walking.

No kiss.

No confession.

Just hands held under a lamppost and a song playing somewhere in the dark.

“At labis-labis akong nasasabik…”
“Na makapiling ka na…”
“Labis-labis akong nasasabik, oh…”

Jungwon looked up at the sky, then at their joined hands.

He didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

“Labis-labis akong nasasabik…”
“Na makapiling ka na…”
“Labis-labis ang mga halik…”
“Nang matagpuan na kita…”

And with that—

They turned the corner.

Together.

“Matagpuan ka…”

They reached the usual corner.

The one where they always split.

But this time, Sunoo slowed… and didn’t say goodbye.

And Jungwon?

He just kept walking.

Straight.

Right beside him.

No questions.

No offer.

Like it was already decided.

Sunoo glanced over, surprised.

“You’re not turning?”

Jungwon shrugged, casual. “Hatid kita.”

Sunoo’s heart jumped in a way he hoped didn’t show.

“You don’t have to,” he said, voice quiet.

“I know,” Jungwon replied, not looking at him. “Gusto ko.”

Just barely.

“At lumilipas ang sandali
At hindi na mapakali…”

When they reached Sunoo’s gate, they stopped.

Jungwon didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask to come in.

Didn’t linger.

He just looked at him.

Soft.

Sure.

“Pero sa ’yo
Labis-labis akong nasasabik
Na makapiling ka na…”

Sunoo opened the gate halfway, then turned back.

His fingers brushed against Jungwon’s—once, lingering.

“Labis-labis ang mga halik
Nang matagpuan na kita…”

Jungwon just smiled.

“See you tomorrow, Bujoy.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes. “Cringe.”

“Okay, labidabs.”

But he was blushing.

Hard.

He stepped inside, closed the gate softly, and watched Jungwon walk back down the street—hands in pockets, steps light.

Behind him, the chorus faded into the still air.

“Matagpuan ka…”

Sunoo was halfway through organizing his highlighters by color when his phone buzzed.

Not a text.

A voice memo.

From: 🐣 jungwon

He hesitated before pressing play, already bracing himself for whatever dumb thing it was this time.

And sure enough—

“🎵 Na makapiling ka naaa~ 🎵”
“…labis-labis ang mga halik—”
“sht, wait, ang taas nun—ano ba yan HAHAHAHA”*
“Okay, again. This time with FEELINGS—”
🎵 “LABIS-LABIS AKOOONG—”
“okay sorry na bye.”

Sunoo stared at the wall.

Then buried his face in his pillow.

Not because he was annoyed.

Because he was smiling like an idiot.

He typed a reply:

sunoo:

stop. you’re ruining the song.
also. you sound like a dying karaoke machine.

Three dots appeared instantly.

jungwon is typing…

And then:

jungwon:
HAHAHHAH
pero i thought this was our theme song? 🥺
don’t you miss me, labidabs? 😚

Sunoo rolled onto his back and groaned.

He could almost hear Jungwon's smug little voice in those emojis.

He was about to type “In your dreams” when another message came through.

jungwon:
tawagan mo nga ako.
ang weird kapag di kita naririnig.

Sunoo stared at the screen.

His thumb hovered.

Then—

He tapped Call.

The screen dimmed slightly. The sound of ringing filled his room.

And when Jungwon picked up—

Everything got quiet.

Then:

“Uy,” Jungwon said, grinning. “Ang ganda ng labidabs ko.”

Sunoo flipped him off instantly.

And they both laughed.

The video call connected with a quiet chime.

Sunoo blinked at his own face on-screen—headband pulling his bangs back, oversized shirt sliding off one shoulder, under-eye patches still stuck in place. Full pambahay mode.

“Don’t screenshot me,” he warned immediately.

Jungwon appeared on the other side—under a massive blue kumot, lit only by the glow of his laptop and the fairy lights strung behind his bed. It looked like a blanket fort built out of boredom and low-grade longing.

“Too late,” Jungwon said, lifting his phone like a threat.

“You’re actually twelve,” Sunoo muttered.

“I’m adorable. There’s a difference.”

Sunoo couldn’t help it—he smiled.

The soft kind. The kind that meant, I don’t want this to end.

Jungwon propped his chin up with one hand and reached for something off-screen.

When he returned, he was holding a bunch of index cards—like cue cards for a school presentation.

He held up the first one to the camera.

Written in marker:

ACT 10, SCENE 1
TOTOONG KILIG NA TOH!! 

Sunoo barked out a laugh.

“Stop. You’re such a loser.”

“Excuse you,” Jungwon said, flipping to the next card.

‘Sino ang nagsabing hindi ako in character?’
—ned, probably

“Wow,” Sunoo said. “Deep cut.”

“You’re welcome,” Jungwon grinned.

Then, softly, “I made these after rehearsal kanina. Just in case I forgot what I wanted to say.”

Sunoo blinked.

“You get nervous?”

Jungwon shrugged, lowering the cards. “Only with you.”

It came out so casual, so sincere, Sunoo forgot to breathe.

He glanced down at his lap, where his fingers were tangled in the hem of his shirt.

“Oh.”

Pause.

Then Jungwon said, quieter: “Still don’t miss me?”

Sunoo looked back at the screen.

His voice came out small.

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t end the call.

Jungwon had stopped holding up the cue cards.

Now they were just lying between his pillows, forgotten.

His screen was tilted down slightly, enough to show the curve of his blanket fort and the soft shadows on his cheeks. His voice was quieter now—not tired, just honest.

Sunoo had curled sideways on his bed, cheek half-squished into his pillow. The side of his headband was slipping down, but he didn’t fix it. His cheek was warm where it pressed against the screen glow.

They weren’t talking about the play anymore.

Or if they were, it didn’t sound like it.

Jungwon spoke first.

“I’m scared, you know.”

Sunoo blinked. “Of what? We literally memorized all our blocking weeks ago.”

Jungwon shook his head. “Not the show.”

“Then what?”

A pause.

Then:

“After.”

Sunoo didn’t respond right away.

He reached off camera, grabbed the blanket from the foot of his bed, and pulled it around his shoulders before whispering, “Oh.”

Jungwon stared at his screen. “Like… what if we finish the play, and it’s amazing, and everyone claps, and we take our bow, and then… we go back to being nothing?”

The words sat heavy between them.

“Do you want that?” Sunoo asked quietly.

“No,” Jungwon said, instantly. “I don’t.”

“Then we won’t.”

Sunoo looked up again, adjusting the angle of his phone just enough so Jungwon could see the corner of his tiny stuffed penguin in the background.

Jungwon smiled at it.

“You always act so chill,” he said. “Like none of this ever rattles you.”

“I’m not chill,” Sunoo muttered. “I’m in denial.”

They both laughed, soft and sleepy.

Then Sunoo said, “Maybe let’s not think about after yet.”

Jungwon nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“But…” Sunoo shifted, voice softer, “just so we’re clear. Right now… we’re something, yeah?”

Jungwon met his eyes through the screen.

Warm.

Serious.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re not acting.”

Sunoo smiled.

Tiny.

True.

It was almost midnight.

The glow of the screens had dimmed—Jungwon’s face now half-shadowed by his blanket, Sunoo’s headband completely off, hair a soft mess against his pillow.

Neither of them had spoken in a minute.

But the call stayed open.

Jungwon was lying on his side now, his cheek pressed into the pillow, his voice low like it might wake the whole world.

“’Pag natulog ka na,” he said, not quite looking at the screen, “isipin mo…”

Pause.

Sunoo blinked slowly. “Isipin ko?”

Jungwon smiled, one side of his mouth tugging up.

“Gusto kitang halikan kanina.”

Sunoo made a small choked noise into his pillow. “Putangina, Jungwon.”

Jungwon laughed, muffled by the blanket. “Just being honest.”

“Why are you like this?”

“You said we weren’t acting.”

Sunoo covered his face with the edge of his blanket. “Gago ka talaga.”

But he wasn’t mad.

He wasn’t flustered.

He was warm.

All over.

Jungwon let the silence stretch again, softer now, like a shared yawn.

Then, gently:

“Goodnight, Bujoy.”

Sunoo peeked out from the covers.

“Goodnight, Ned.”

Neither of them hung up.

The call stayed on.

Sunoo’s breathing slowed first, barely audible.

Jungwon’s eyes blinked one last time.

And somewhere between words left unsaid and a screen still glowing softly in the dark—

They both fell asleep.

Still connected.

The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet, but the light from Sunoo’s phone was still glowing faintly across his bedsheets.

He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting.

And then he saw it.

Jungwon’s face—still on screen, grainy with sleep, hair flat on one side and sticking up on the other.

He was already awake.

“Good morning, labidabs,” he said, voice a sleepy rasp.

Sunoo groaned and buried half his face back into the pillow. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, we’re not doing that today.”

Jungwon smirked. “Final performance. Let me be gross.”

“You were gross at 11:48 p.m. last night. It’s only escalated.”

“I told you to remember I wanted to kiss you. Did you?”

Sunoo paused.

Then, in the smallest voice possible:

“…yes.”

Jungwon’s grin widened, but he didn’t push. He just leaned into his pillow and whispered, “Good.”

And then—

Silence.

Not awkward. Just warm.

Sunoo didn’t say it, but his chest was full of it. That feeling.

The stupid one.

The soft one.

The one that used to feel fake onstage, but now… wouldn’t leave.

By noon, the auditorium was a hive of pre-show energy.

Props being repainted.

Costumes being steamed.

Sir Matt pacing like he was going into labor.

“Find your light! Respect the fourth wall! No ad-libs unless it’s divine inspiration!”

Sunoo sat near the edge of the stage, already in his Bujoy outfit—baggy jeans, thrifted blouse, hairpins perfectly crooked on purpose.

He tried not to check the crowd forming outside the auditorium doors.

Tried not to think about the moment they’d reach Scene 10.

Beside him, Hyeongjun leaned over and whispered, “So… tonight’s the night?”

Sunoo looked at him, expression unreadable.

Then: “Scene 10’s been the night since we wrote it.”

Hyeongjun raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Theater kids are so dramatic.”

Sunoo didn’t deny it.

He was too busy replaying Jungwon’s voice in his head.

“Good morning, labidabs.”

He rolled his eyes at the memory—and smiled.

Just a little.

The backstage hallway buzzed with the nervous energy of castmates half in costume, half in denial. There were half-eaten donuts, makeup brushes flying, and someone shouting about a missing wig.

In the middle of it all, Sunoo stood in front of the mirror, adjusting a crooked hair clip.

He looked like Bujoy—pink headband, old ukay blouse, that little embroidered flower that kept slipping off his shoulder.

But his reflection?

That was all Sunoo.

And in the mirror behind him, a familiar figure appeared.

Ned. Uniform pressed, hair pushed back a little too carefully. Stage mic taped to his cheek.

And the smirk?

Very much Jungwon.

“You look like a fever dream,” he said casually, stepping up behind him.

Sunoo didn’t flinch. Just raised one eyebrow and replied, “You look like a disappointment.”

Jungwon laughed under his breath.

“God, I missed this,” he murmured.

Sunoo turned then, really facing him. The lights were soft backstage, but it was enough to see the small shift in Jungwon’s eyes.

Something quiet.

Something steady.

“You nervous?” Sunoo asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Jungwon exhaled. “Not about the lines.”

“Then what?”

“You.”

Sunoo blinked.

Jungwon quickly added, “I mean, not in a bad way—just. You’re the part that feels the most real. That’s all.”

Sunoo didn’t smile.

Not exactly.

But he nudged Jungwon with his shoulder. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Yeah,” Jungwon said, gently. “For you.”

Sunoo stared at him.

Then looked away.

“Come on,” he said, tugging on Jungwon’s sleeve as he turned toward the curtain. “Scene 10 won’t ruin my life on its own.”

Jungwon followed, close behind.

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

Sunoo didn’t turn.

But his voice was sure when he said—

“I’ve been ready since you called me labidabs.”

The house lights went dark.

A hush fell over the auditorium like a blanket—thick, expectant.

Scene 10.

Everyone knew it was coming.

Parents whispered. Classmates leaned forward in their seats. Even Kuya Wonwoo in the fourth row sat straighter.

Because this was the moment. The one everyone had been waiting for. The one everyone wanted to see happen for real.

Sunoo stood in his spot—front porch set, paper lantern prop glowing behind him, a soft, syrup-colored light spilling onto his cheeks. Bujoy’s blouse was loose at the collar, his hair curled just enough to frame his face. His heart, though, was entirely his.

No more acting.

Just waiting.

Then—

Footsteps.

Jungwon stepped onto stage.

His uniform looked perfectly rumpled—exactly how Ned would look if he’d run from his house just to say something stupid and honest.

His face was unreadable.

He stopped one full step away from Sunoo.

And for a second, they just looked at each other.

Not a line yet.

Not a cue.

Just them.

Then Jungwon spoke.

“Ang tagal ko na palang naghihintay.”

The line rolled out so gently it sounded unscripted.

Sunoo didn’t blink.

“Kala ko… trip-trip lang ‘to.”

Jungwon took a step closer.

The audience leaned forward.

“Hindi ako natutong mag-trip pag ikaw yung kausap ko.”

There was breathlessness in the pause that followed.

Real tension.

Sunoo’s voice dropped as he responded.

“Bakit ako?”

The question wasn’t rhetorical.

And Jungwon answered like he’d never said it before—not even in rehearsal.

“Kasi kahit pa umarte ka na parang wala kang pake…”
“Kahit paulit-ulit mo akong itulak palayo…”
“Ikaw pa rin yung gusto kong lapitan.”

They were close now.

Too close.

Sunoo’s hand trembled at his side.

Jungwon stepped forward again. Not part of the blocking. Not exactly.

The audience didn’t breathe.

“Bujoy…”
“Kung totoo ’to…”

He tilted his head.

Softly. Slowly.

Just like they rehearsed.

Except this time—it wasn’t just acting.

“…pwede ba… wag mo na akong actingan?”

Sunoo didn’t respond with a line.

He responded with his eyes.

And that was enough.

Jungwon leaned in.

The angle was perfect—foreheads nearly touching, Sunoo tilting his face up, Jungwon slightly down.

To the audience, it looked like a kiss.

The auditorium exploded in held breaths, clutched arms, barely-contained gasps.

But onstage?

There was no contact.

Just air.

Just a whisper.

“Later.”

Sunoo blinked once.

Almost flinched.

But didn’t.

And then—

The lights cut.

Blackout.

Backstage, Sir Matt let out a strangled sob.

From the house, someone whispered, “They really kissed, right?”

But onstage?

They were already walking off.

Hands not quite touching.

Yet.

The blackout stretched for half a second too long.

Then the lights burst up, bathing the stage in amber.

Curtain call.

The audience erupted.

Thunderous clapping, catcalls, someone whistling from the back. A girl from the journalism club yelled, “NAGKISS BA SILA O HINDI??” to a chorus of laughter and chaos.

From behind the curtain, Sunoo could hear it all.

He stood in the wings, heart still racing, cheeks hot—not from embarrassment, but from adrenaline. From that whisper still echoing in his ear.

“Later.”

He felt it like a promise.

Sir Matt flailed toward the cast, eyes already red-rimmed, hands clutched dramatically to his chest. “Poetry!” he choked out. “Visceral sincerity! It’s giving— PETA-level rawness! ”

Sunoo ignored him.

Jungwon came up beside him, tugging at the collar of his uniform shirt.

He didn’t speak either.

He just gave Sunoo a look.

Quiet. Knowing.

And held out his hand.

Not for a scene.

Not for a bit.

Just to walk out there with him.

Together.

Sunoo didn’t hesitate.

He laced their fingers.

They stepped into the lights.

The crowd lost it.

Phones flashed. The school photographer snapped so many photos the shutter sounded like applause. Someone shouted, “WAG NA KAYONG UMARTE, MAGING KAYO NA!”

And still—

Jungwon didn’t let go.

Even as they bowed.

Even as the cast joined them, row by row, laughter filling the stage.

Even as confetti dropped and the final music played—

Their hands stayed locked.

No kiss.

No wink.

No speech.

Just fingers threaded.

And smiles that didn’t match the script.

The crowd still roared behind them.

Sunoo could hear it echoing faintly across the school courtyard as he pushed the backstage door open and stepped into the soft warmth of the late-night air.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

His legs carried him on muscle memory—away from the clapping, away from the bright stage lights, away from the cast huddled for post-show pictures under the banner they’d painted crooked the night before.

He needed quiet.

He needed air.

He needed—

“Wait up.”

Sunoo stopped walking.

He didn’t have to turn around.

The footsteps catching up behind him were familiar in a way that had nothing to do with rehearsal.

Jungwon slowed beside him, just a little out of breath, still wearing Ned’s uniform. The tie was crooked now, the collar undone, his cheeks pink—not from makeup, but from running.

Neither of them said anything.

Sunoo looked at him from the side, half a smile already curling at his lips.

“You didn’t stay for the cast photo,” he said, voice low.

Jungwon met his eyes. “You didn’t either.”

They didn’t explain it.

They didn’t need to.

Instead, they just started walking.

Their usual path home.

No script this time.

The road was quiet. The street was half-lit by flickering lamps and dotted with stray bottle caps, curled dry leaves, and one sleeping cat on a tricycle seat.

Sunoo inhaled deeply. “Still smell like isaw.”

“Romantic,” Jungwon said, brushing their arms together accidentally-on-purpose.

Sunoo said nothing back, but he didn’t pull away.

They turned a corner. Then another.

No one followed.

No audience.

No blocking.

No lines.

Just the stretch of quiet sidewalk ahead of them.

The same sari-sari store. The same post with peeling “NO PARKING” signs. The same slight dip in the pavement right before—

That corner.

Their corner.

Where, for weeks, they’d split paths without ever really splitting.

Tonight, though, Sunoo stopped walking.

So did Jungwon.

They stood there, facing the intersection, the familiar fork that used to mean goodbye, see you tomorrow.

Jungwon turned to him.

“This is where you always say ‘ingat.’”

Sunoo shrugged. “You always say ‘wag mo na akong i-message ngayong gabi.’”

Jungwon smiled. “And you always do.”

“Yeah,” Sunoo said. “I always do.”

He looked up.

Jungwon was already looking.

The streetlamp above them flickered once, then steadied—bathing them in soft gold.

“You didn’t kiss me on stage,” Sunoo said, more observation than complaint.

Jungwon’s smile didn’t falter. “You noticed.”

“You rehearsed it. Everyone expected it.”

“I didn’t want to kiss you there.”

“Why not?”

Jungwon took a slow step forward.

“Because I wanted to kiss you here.”

Sunoo blinked.

“Here?”

“Where no one’s watching.”

Jungwon’s voice was softer now. “Where no one claps. No lights. Just… this.”

His hand reached out, hesitant for the first time in hours.

Sunoo let him take it.

Their fingers threaded together easily, like they’d been doing it for months.

Jungwon’s free hand reached up—touching Sunoo’s cheek, gently brushing the faint streak of powder makeup left behind by the spotlight.

“I wanted it to be real,” Jungwon whispered. “Not part of a scene. Not for the audience.”

Sunoo’s heart stuttered.

He looked at their hands. At the shadows on Jungwon’s face. At the lamplight making his eyes look too warm for late-night.

“Can I?” Jungwon asked, barely louder than the breeze.

Sunoo didn’t speak.

He leaned in.

And that was enough.

The kiss wasn’t practiced.

It was slow.

Soft.

Almost unsure—but never hesitating.

Jungwon’s lips moved like a secret—gentle, full of breath and care and finally.

Sunoo kissed him back.

Not with fire.

Not with fireworks.

But like this was the only way the scene could ever end.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together.

No music.

No cue.

Just two kids under a flickering streetlamp, heartbeats syncing up in the silence between them.

Jungwon smiled, eyes still closed.

“No one’s clapping.”

Sunoo huffed a laugh, voice shaky with something close to joy.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“Good.”

They didn’t say goodnight.

They didn’t walk away.

They just stood there, hand in hand, until the streetlight blinked once more—and the moment turned into memory.

They stayed like that for a while—hands clasped, breaths steady, the world slowly shrinking around them until all that remained was this corner, this moment, and this version of each other they hadn’t had the courage to meet before.

Then Jungwon pulled back just slightly.

Still close enough to feel Sunoo’s breath.

Still close enough to whisper.

“Hey,” he said, a quiet grin tugging at his lips.

Sunoo blinked up at him, eyes soft, cheeks flushed.

Jungwon brushed his thumb across Sunoo’s knuckles and said it—calm, easy, like he’d been saving it for just the right night:

“Labidabs.”

Sunoo made a face, groaned through a smile, and lightly hit his chest. “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” Jungwon said. “It’s official now. You kissed me. You’re mine. That’s the rule.”

“Ew.”

“You like it.”

“I hate it.”

Jungwon leaned in again—just enough for their noses to touch.

“Say it back.”

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”

Jungwon grinned wider. “Come on. One time.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes so hard it should’ve hurt—and then, in the smallest voice he’d ever used on purpose:

“…labidabs.”

Jungwon lit up like someone had flipped on a spotlight just for him.

Sunoo groaned again, hiding his face in Jungwon’s shoulder. “Never again.”

“Too late,” Jungwon murmured, arms wrapping around him.

“I’m putting it on your contact name.”

“Labidabs,” Jungwon said, pointing to the vendor. “Fishball tayo. Tara.”

Sunoo stopped walking and squinted at him like he’d just asked him to lick the sidewalk.

“Fishball??”

“Yes,” Jungwon said, already pulling him by the wrist. “Sa stick. Sa kariton. Sa tunay na buhay.”

“Wait,” Sunoo protested, “like... outside food??”

Jungwon stared at him. “Sunoo. It’s literally PISO.”

Sunoo pulled his shirt away from his body. “Okay but like, I’m not dressed for fishball.”

“You’re wearing a SpongeBob t-shirt.”

“Exactly.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes and tugged him toward the cart anyway.

They ended up huddled under a tricycle roof while the man refilled the pan.

Sunoo clutched his phone like a lifeline.

“Grabe. I’m so out of my comfort zone.”

“You’re three steps from your school,” Jungwon deadpanned.

“Still. Parang... this isn’t in my vibe board.”

“Oh my god,” Jungwon said, grinning. “You’re so arte.”

“I’m not!” Sunoo gasped.

“Labidabs, you said ‘Where’s the sink?’ when I gave you a fishball.”

Sunoo lowered the stick dramatically. “I just wanted to know if there was like... a handwash station or something.”

Jungwon laughed so hard he had to hold onto the cart.

“You’re such a conyo,” he wheezed. “I bet you moisturize after isaw.”

Sunoo sniffed. “I have standards.”

“You literally just double-dipped.”

Sunoo paused. Looked at the sauce. Looked at Jungwon. Licked the stick.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late. Kuya saw you.”

The vendor gave him a thumbs up.

Sunoo groaned and buried his face in Jungwon’s hoodie.

“I hate you.”

Jungwon just wrapped an arm around him, still grinning like a devil.

“You’re lucky I’m into high-maintenance weirdos,” he said.

Sunoo peeked up, voice muffled.

“You really are.”

A week after the play, they were still being stared at in the cafeteria.

Sunoo hated it.

Jungwon loved it.

He slouched into his seat beside Sunoo, plopped his tray down, and said loudly:

“Labidabs, I bought you extra rice. Para di ka na ma-haggard.”

Sunoo dropped his spoon.

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered through a forced smile.

Across the table, a person spit his water laughing.

Sunoo kicked Jungwon’s shin under the table.

“I swear to God,” he hissed, “if you say labidabs again in public—”

“—you’ll fall in love with me harder?” Jungwon finished.

Sunoo glared. “I will replace you with the next decent human in line.”

“Good luck. You already told everyone I’m your pogi boy.”

“I said you were pogi in character! ”

“So you admit Ned is pogi.”

Sunoo slapped his forehead.

He didn’t win this argument. He never did.

But when Jungwon casually slid his foot next to his under the table, and left it there, warm and still—

Sunoo let it happen.

That night, Sunoo arrived at Jungwon’s house with a DVD copy of “Labs Kita, Okey Ka Lang?” and a bag of Nova.

Jungwon opened the door in pajama shorts and a ponytail. “Movie night?”

“You promised,” Sunoo said, raising the DVD like a threat.

Jungwon made popcorn.

Sunoo stole the butter packet to put on his rice later.

They argued over which lines to reenact.

Jungwon insisted on playing Marvin again.

Sunoo said, “I’m sick of being Jolina.”

“You’re the prettier one.”

Sunoo paused. “…true.”

They didn’t finish the movie.

They were too busy making fun of the acting, quoting lines wrong, and somehow ending up in a blanket pile on the floor by the second act.

Sunoo had his head on Jungwon’s stomach.

Jungwon was scrolling through old tweets.

Every now and then, he’d say something like “omg do you remember this?” and Sunoo would reply “shut up I looked so ugly” and Jungwon would respond “labidabs, you looked exactly like the person I fell for.”

Sunoo never said anything to that.

He didn’t have to.

He just reached up and played with the drawstring of Jungwon’s hoodie, fingers curling slow and mindless.

It was the only part of him that moved.

Everything else?

Soft. Still. Safe.

The next morning, at dismissal, Jungwon shouted across the hallway:

“BYE LABIDABS!!”

Sunoo flinched. “PUTANGINA.”

The entire third-year hallway turned to stare.

“Psh,” Sunoo muttered, brushing past him. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” Jungwon grinned, falling into step beside him. “But say it again, just in case.”

Sunoo didn’t look at him.

Just reached down, grabbed his pinky, and whispered:

“…labidabs.”