I was still standing frozen on the pathway, the plastic bag hanging limply from my right hand. The evening breeze blew past, brushing through Hana Yori's long hair—Hana Yori, the idol I had only ever seen on my phone screen and bedroom posters—but I could barely feel it.
"Andra?" she called again, taking a step closer. "Are you… okay?"
A real voice. Not from a speaker. Not from a fan meeting video. But from someone standing right in front of me, close enough for me to catch the faint scent of her perfume—vanilla mixed with something warmer, like burning wood in winter.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"You…" My voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger, hoarse and unsteady. "You're really…"
"Yes." She gave a small smile, slightly embarrassed. "I'm really Hana Yori. And it seems…" she glanced at house number 7, then at my house next to it, "…I'm really your neighbor now."
Neighbor.
That word spun inside my head like a broken recording. Hana Yori. Neighbor. Two words I never expected to exist in the same sentence.
"Sorry," I finally said, rubbing my face with my free hand. "I just… need to sit down for a moment."
There was a park bench about five meters away, the one usually occupied by old men playing chess on weekends. I walked toward it without thinking about whether it was polite or not, then sat down a little too hard. Hana followed, keeping a one-step distance, as if still hesitant.
"Water?" she offered, holding out one of the mineral water bottles from her grocery bag—the one I had paid for earlier.
I accepted it, took a large sip, then looked at her again. No cap. No sunglasses. That familiar face was now fully exposed under the fading evening light. Smaller than I had imagined. More… human.
"So," I began, my voice steadier now, "the reason you were in disguise earlier…"
"Agency." She sat down on the bench, leaving a respectful distance between us. "They don't want anyone to know I moved here. This neighborhood was chosen because it's… quiet. Far from crowds. No fans would expect an idol to live in an ordinary housing complex like this."
I understood. Not completely, but enough to nod. The entertainment world was brutal. Privacy was a luxury.
"Then why did you tell me?" I asked. "I could be a crazy fan. I could sell this information to the media."
Hana let out a small laugh, almost silent. "You already paid for my groceries without being asked. You gave up your spot in line even though you didn't have to. And…" she looked straight at me, her brown eyes sharp yet warm, "…you said, 'Just think of it as a loan.' Not 'Think of it as a gift,' or 'Forget about it.' You treated me like… a normal person."
I stayed silent. She was right, I realized. Even now, though my heart was still pounding, I didn't feel like I was standing in front of someone untouchable. She was just… Hana. A woman who ran out of money at a store. Who was in a hurry and panicking. Who was now sitting on a neighborhood park bench with groceries on her lap.
"Okay," I said, letting out a breath. "I won't tell anyone. But on one condition."
Her expression tensed slightly. "Condition?"
"You have to pay your debt." I smiled, trying to lighten the still-unreal atmosphere. "Rp87,500, remember?"
Hana blinked in surprise, then this time her laughter came out more freely—more genuine. A laugh I had never heard in any video—a laugh that wasn't polished for the camera.
"Deal," she said, extending her hand. "But I need some time. My wallet really was left at… the practice place. I'll get it tomorrow."
We shook hands. Her hand was small, warm, with slightly rough skin between her fingers—guitar calluses, I remembered from one of her vlogs. A small detail that suddenly felt very personal.
"Andra," I said, still holding her hand a little longer than I should have, "if I may ask… why move here? Not some elite apartment or a more… secure neighborhood?"
Her smile faded slightly. She let go of my hand and looked toward house number 7. "My older sister found this place. She told me, 'You need to live, Hana. Not just exist.' I've been an idol for five years—five years living by tight schedules, in hotels, on planes, in practice rooms. I…" She paused, searching for the right words. "I want to know what it feels like to come home."
I understood again.
This time, more deeply.
"House number 7," I said, standing up from the bench. "Welcome to our neighborhood. Though I should warn you, the neighborhood chief here is pretty annoying, and the men across the street love karaoke until ten at night."
Hana laughed again, and this time there was relief in it. "Thank you, Andra. For everything."
I nodded and started walking toward my house. But after a few steps, I stopped. Turned back.
"Oh, and Hana?"
"Yes?"
"Do you have Physics homework too? Because if you do, maybe we could… study together. As neighbors, I mean."
Her face flushed red. Real, unmistakable blush beneath the newly lit park lamp. "I… graduated high school three years ago. But if you need help with math, I'm pretty good at it."
I smiled, waved, and continued walking. My heart was still racing—but this time not from shock.
But from something far more dangerous: hope.
My house felt different that night.
I placed the groceries on the kitchen table, cooked instant noodles with slightly trembling hands, then sat at my study desk with my Physics book open. But the words on the page swam without meaning. My mind kept drifting back to the park bench. To her small hand in mine. To that unpolished laugh.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Mom:
"Sweetheart, Mom and Dad will be home next week. Take good care of the house. Don't stay up too late."
I replied briefly, then opened social media. My Hana Yori fan account—the one I made back in middle school, filled with thousands of posts and comments—suddenly felt strange. Like clothes that once fit perfectly, but now felt too tight.
Hana had just updated her story.
A photo of a dining table with milk and sliced bread—the groceries from earlier.
Caption:
"Simple dinner in a new home. Thank you to someone kind today."
No tag. No name.
But I knew.
I knew it was meant for me.
I closed my phone, shut my eyes, and tried to focus on gravitational force. But the image of Hana removing her cap kept replaying, over and over, like a favorite movie scene I never expected to become part of my life.
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual.
Normally I left for school at 6:30, but today I was ready by six. The reason? I didn't want to admit it—even to myself.
But when I opened the gate, she was already there.
Hana, this time wearing an oversized gray hoodie and a mask—a simpler, more casual disguise. She was checking the mailbox in front of her house, and when she heard my gate open, she turned.
"Good morning," she greeted, her voice still soft but fresher, more energetic.
"Morning," I replied, trying to sound normal. "Do you… always wake up this early?"
"Habit." She shrugged. "Morning practice for years. It's hard to go back to sleep after dawn."
We stood at our respective gates, about three meters apart. A distance that could be crossed in two steps. Yet it felt like a gap I shouldn't cross carelessly.
"Andra," Hana began, slightly hesitant, "about yesterday's payment…"
"I told you, no need to rush."
"That's not it." She reached into her hoodie pocket and took out something wrapped in a cream-colored drawstring pouch. "This… is a small gift. As thanks. I don't like being in debt, even to neighbors."
I accepted it carefully. The fabric felt soft, light in weight. "Can I open it?"
"Later. At school."
I nodded and placed it into my school bag. "Then I'll head off now. Don't… don't get kidnapped by fans while I'm gone."
Hana burst into laughter—loud and uncontrolled—startling even me. That laugh was different from yesterday's—wilder, freer, like something long held back.
"I'll try," she said, still smiling widely.
I walked away, feeling her gaze on my back until I turned the corner of the complex. And only then did I allow myself to smile.