𓍯4𓂃

As the school day came to an end, Dove walked down the path leading back to the dorms, her steps light yet purposeful. The weight of the first day-the introductions, the classes, the whispers-still lingered on her shoulders, but she kept her head high.

She rounded a corner, only to stop short. Coming her way was a group of students, their laughter, and easy energy filling the air. At the centre of it all, of course, was Minho. He stood out without trying, his confident smirk and sharp jawline catching attention as easily as his voice did when he cracked a joke that sent his friends into laughter.

Dove's stomach clenched instinctively. For a moment, she considered turning around, but it was too late-Minho had already spotted her. His laughter quieted as his gaze met hers, his smirk faltering for a split second before he regained his usual cool demeanour.

"Well, well," Minho said, his voice carrying that same teasing edge she once knew so well. "If it isn't Dove Noelle Chauvin."

"Minho," she replied smoothly, her tone neutral but laced with just enough steel to convey she wasn't about to be toyed with.

His friends glanced between the two of them, sensing the tension. One of them muttered something under their breath, but Minho waved it off without breaking eye contact.

"Heading back already?" he asked, his tone almost casual but with a faint undercurrent of something else-something only she could pick up on.

"I am," Dove said simply. "Not everyone feels the need to loiter."

"Ouch," one of his friends whispered, stifling a laugh.

Minho didn't seem phased. Instead, he let out a soft chuckle. "Same old Dove," he said, folding his arms. "Still have that sharp tongue."

"And you're still Minho," she countered, her voice steady but her eyes flickering with something close to exasperation. "Always finding ways to make things about you."

That earned a collective "ohhh" from his friends, but Minho only smiled wider, leaning back slightly as if amused by her resistance. "Guess some things don't change," he said.

Dove felt her grip tighten on her bag strap. She wasn't about to let him win whatever game he was trying to play. "Have a good evening, Minho," she said coolly, brushing past him without waiting for a response.

As Dove walked past, Minho's voice cut through the cool evening air. "Still running away, Dove?" he called, his tone light but laced with mockery, loud enough for his friends to snicker behind him.

She froze mid-step, her grip on her bag tightening. Slowly, she turned around to face him, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp.

"Running away?" she echoed, her voice calm but carrying an edge that silenced his friends. "That's rich coming from you, Minho. Remind me-who ran away first?"

Minho's smirk faltered, his confident demeanour slipping for just a fraction of a second. His friends exchanged awkward glances, sensing they were treading on personal territory they didn't understand.

Dove took a step closer, her chin lifting slightly as she continued, her voice unwavering. "If you're looking for someone who runs, try looking in the mirror. At least I don't pretend I'm better at leaving than staying."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, all Minho could do was stare at her. His friends shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure of whether to step in or stay quiet.

Dove didn't wait for his response. She turned back around and walked away, her steps steady and deliberate. She didn't need to see his face to know her words had hit their mark.

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As Dove walked away, her shoulders straight and her steps measured, she felt the weight of the confrontation pressing down on her. Each step toward the dorms seemed heavier than the last, the cool breeze doing little to ease the heat rising in her chest. She clenched her fists tightly, her nails digging into her palms, willing herself to keep it together just a little longer.

But as soon as she turned the corner and the dorms came into view, her composure began to crack. Her breath hitched, and she stumbled slightly, gripping the strap of her bag like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"Still running away, Dove?" His words echoed in her mind, his voice dripping with the kind of taunting confidence that had always grated on her nerves.

How dare he? After everything that had happened, he had the audacity to throw that at her?

Her steps faltered as she reached the entrance to the dorms, and she leaned against the cool brick wall, her head tilting back as she took a shaky breath. She bit her lip hard, the sharp sting grounding her as her vision blurred slightly with unshed tears.

"Damn it, Minho," she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling. She hated how easily he could still get under her skin, how just a few words from him could unravel the careful composure she'd spent so long building.

For a moment, she let herself feel it-the anger, the hurt, the frustration. She pressed a hand to her chest as if trying to steady the storm inside her. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.

But after a few deep breaths, she straightened up, forcing the emotions back down. She wiped at her eyes quickly, making sure no one would notice the crack in her armour. She couldn't let anyone see her like this-not now, not ever.

She needed something-anything-to stop herself from screaming.

Frantically, she dug into her bag, her fingers trembling as she fumbled for the familiar wrapper. When she found it, she ripped it open in a blur, pulling out the fudge dark chocolate brownie.

She didn't care that it was messy or that she didn't even pause to properly tear a piece; she shoved it into her mouth, desperate for the familiar sweetness to ground her.

After calming down a bit, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder. She pushed open the door to the dorms, her face calm once again. But deep down, the storm still lingered, waiting for the moment when she couldn't hold it back any longer.

As Dove stepped into the dorm's quiet hallways, her calm exterior still firmly in place, the tension bubbling under her skin began to feel unbearable. She needed to do something-anything-to keep herself from spiralling.

Without bothering to fully unpack or change out of her uniform, she opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out a small, weathered notebook and a box of brightly colored gel pens. Flipping to an empty page, she let out a shaky breath and began writing.

But it wasn't journaling or venting. Instead, Dove meticulously wrote the same phrase over and over again, each time in a different pen colour: I am in control.

Her handwriting was immaculate, every letter perfectly formed, every line spaced precisely. She switched pens frequently, picking colours almost at random-electric blue, soft lavender, fiery orange-anything to keep her hands busy, and her mind distracted.

As the phrases filled the page, the act of repetition began to soothe her. It was as if pouring her focus into creating order on the page gave her a sense of stability, a fragile calm amid the chaos of her emotions.

When the page was full, she didn't stop. She flipped to the next one, then the next, the rhythmic scratching of the pen against paper, the only sound in the room. It wasn't until her hand started to cramp that she finally set the pen down, staring at the kaleidoscope of colours that now covered the pages.

Dove let out a slow exhale and leaned back in her chair. Her chest still felt tight, and the weight of Minho's words lingered, but for now, she felt a little more in control. Even if it was just an illusion, it was one she could cling to.

She closed the notebook and placed it carefully back in the drawer, her expression unreadable as she stood up and began preparing for the rest of the evening. The storm inside her was still there, but she had, at least for now, found a way to keep it at bay.

"Wasn't he quiet since that day I arrived at KISS? Where did he get the sudden surge of confidence to talk to me like that?" I asked myself before shaking the thought off and going straight to bed to sleep.

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This was dramatic, but Dove will be fine as long as she has her brownies, diary, and coloured pens... right?

If you haven't noticed, this whole chapter is kind of Dove's perspective.