The closet doors were open in front of me the next morning.
I'd been standing there for over thirty minutes—hair dry, makeup done, still wrapped in a towel.
I reached for the white button-down. Put it back.
Reached for the navy dress. Hung it back up.
"Why is this so hard…" I muttered, half annoyed at myself.
I tried the cream A-line skirt with a three-quarter sleeve blouse. Checked the mirror.
Too formal. Like I was going in for a job interview.
Pulled it off. Tossed it onto the bed.
The floral dress: too busy.
Plain black tee: too flat.
Orange cardigan: too much contrast.
Every single thing I tried, something felt off.
It wasn't about looking bad—it was a feeling. Like I didn't know which version of myself I wanted to show up as today.
My chest was tight. I sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the pile of clothes scattered everywhere.
This was the first time I was actually going somewhere with Alan. Not by accident. Not for a campus thing.
And somehow the thought circling my head was: 'don't show up looking wrong next to him.'
I picked up my phone.
"Rin…"
Her voice was hoarse. "What. I'm still asleep."
"I can't figure out what to wear."
A pause. "…Are you going out with Alan?"
"Yeah."
"Just go neutral. Whatever feels most like you. Don't overthink it."
I blinked at the screen. Marina made it sound simple, but I still didn't know what 'most like me' actually meant.
"Can you be more specific? That's way too vague…"
"Alina, that's the most honest answer I can give you. You're at your best when you're not trying to be someone else."
She hung up. I stared at my phone for a few seconds. Slow exhale.
She was right.
I stood back up. This time my hands went straight for the dark indigo slim-fit jeans and a soft beige long-sleeve top.
Simple. Not loud. Not stiff. Me.
I put it on and checked the mirror.
Nothing spectacular. But nothing wrong either.
My phone buzzed on the dresser.
Alan: 5 minutes out.
Me: Ready when you are.
My eyes drifted to the small drawer beside my bed. I pulled it open.
Inside was a small pendant with the initial H—two butterfly wings spread open. Simple design, but the engraving was still crisp under my fingertip. It had gone dull the way jewelry does when it hasn't been polished in years.
A gift from my dad.
I held it up. Clasped it around my neck—the chain was cold against my skin, gave me a small shiver—then checked the mirror.
It looked nice. But I was already wearing a bracelet, a watch, a hair tie, and earrings.
One more thing and I'd look like a street jewelry cart.
Too much.
I unclasped it slowly. "Not today," I whispered.
The pendant went back in the drawer. Click. Done.
My phone buzzed again.
Alan: I'm in the parking lot.
I grabbed my bag. Wallet, phone, lip balm. All there.
I closed my bedroom door. Took the stairs down, one step at a time, with a heartbeat that was moving a little faster than it needed to.
Alan was leaning against the side of his car—right hand tucked into his pocket, shoulder angled slightly toward the entrance. His eyes locked onto me the moment I came through the door.
His gaze traveled down, then back up. Face, outfit, shoes. Like he was taking stock of something.
He smiled. "You look prettier than usual today."
His fingers briefly grazed the hair falling over my shoulder. Just for a second—but it left something odd in my chest. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But not unwelcome, either.
I reflexively adjusted the strap of my bag, which had been perfectly fine the whole time.
"Thanks. Where are we going?" My voice came out a little rough. I cleared my throat quietly.
"Maxell Aquarium Park." Easy, unhurried. "Unless you want to go somewhere else?"
"No. That works."
"Cool."
He opened the car door for me. The moment I got in, a faint mint scent came from the air freshener hanging on the rearview mirror. Cool. Clean. Very Alan.
The car pulled out of the lot. The streets were still quiet—not much traffic yet, just a few motorcycles blowing past.
I watched his fingers on the steering wheel. Relaxed but precise. The silver watch on his left wrist caught the sunlight every few seconds.
"Why Maxell?" I asked, just to break the silence.
"No specific reason." He glanced over briefly, then back at the road. "Honestly, I've never been there myself."
"Same." I smiled a little. "I don't really go out much. Most of my time goes to studying and freelance work. Good grades, show up to class, repeat."
Alan was quiet for a moment, like he was sitting with that.
"That's impressive. Do you know what you want to do after you graduate?"
"I want to be a UX researcher—you know, the person who tests apps so they don't make users want to throw their phone across the room."
"Seriously? That's cool. Why that specifically?"
"Because I once used an app that made me cry. I'm not even joking. The button disappeared, the loading screen wouldn't stop spinning. I sat there thinking, 'who designed this? Did they even think about the person on the other side?' That's where it started—I wanted to be the person who actually cares."
He didn't answer right away. His grip on the wheel tightened slightly. Then he said, "You're genuinely kind."
I didn't see that coming. "I just think everyone deserves to be treated well. It starts with yourself, I guess."
Alan nodded. "That's a good way to live." He looked over again—a beat longer this time. "I can see you in that role. I'll be rooting for you."
"Thanks. What about you—what's the plan after graduation?"
"Honestly? No idea."
"That makes sense. You've got a lot of options. Basketball, gaming, even modeling if you wanted. You don't have to rush into a lane."
"Sure."
"Just—please don't become a gang leader. Or whatever you were doing when I first met you. Watching you get beaten up in an alley was genuinely traumatizing. Don't waste what you've got."
"Yeah, yeah. Noted."
"And no more blacking out at bars. I am still recovering emotionally from that night."
"I know. I promise."
I smiled—wide, without thinking. And just like that, something in the car felt easier. The conversation found its own rhythm. Nothing like the first time we met, when I asked for clarity and he offered a psychiatrist. Or when he suggested I skip class.
What I liked was that he didn't make fun of what I wanted. No eye-roll, no dig. I could just… say it. And that made me feel like I didn't have to keep the real version of myself tucked away.
Outside, the skyline was filling in. High-rises, crosswalks packed with people, the particular noise of a city fully awake.
We pulled up and I got out first, Alan right behind me, hitting the lock.
The moment we stepped inside Maxell Aquarium Park, the air changed completely. Cooler. Heavier with humidity. The glass corridor reflected blue light from the LEDs running along the ceiling, making our shadows shift like silhouettes drifting underwater.
The large panels on the left were filled with fish. Their movements were slow, almost soundless. Unbothered.
Alan walked beside me. Every so often he'd scan the room, then drift back to watching me—like he was quietly checking whether I was enjoying it.
I forgot he was watching me. My eyes were already everywhere. The fish moved in every color and didn't seem interested in each other's space. No drama. No noise.
Easy on the eyes. Easy on the mind.
Alan pinched my cheek.
I snapped back. He was looking at me with this smile—like he'd just caught a kid going wide-eyed over something at a toy store.
I bumped his shoulder. "What was that for?"
He just let out a small laugh. We kept walking.
At one of the panels, I stopped. Inside, two small bright yellow fish were swimming in sync—one ahead, one trailing just behind, moving like they'd rehearsed it.
"What are those called?" I asked, pointing.
Alan glanced over, following my finger. "Butterflyfish."
"Butterflyfish." I said it slowly. "Butter. Fly. Fish. Three words that have nothing to do with each other." I laughed quietly.
"Kind of fitting though." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Did you know they're monogamous?"
I turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"One partner for life. If one dies, the other usually doesn't last long after."
I didn't say anything. The two fish kept drifting side by side, calm and unhurried, like whatever was beyond the glass wasn't worth their attention.
"Is that actually true?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah." Alan nodded. "A lot of marine species are like that. Loyal until the end. For them, losing a partner isn't just grief—it's a death sentence."
I looked at him. "Why do you explain it like it means something? The sad detail—you said it like you weren't just talking about fish."
Alan held my gaze. His eyes were serious. "Because nature doesn't lie, Alina. Nothing in there is performing. If they're bonded, they're bonded until the end."
Okay. This was no longer an encyclopedia entry. This was a confession. His tone was different. The way he spoke was different. Like there was something he wasn't telling me—and I didn't know if I should ask or pretend I hadn't heard it.
"That's so sad," I murmured, looking back at the fish still swimming together. One in front, one trailing closely behind. "Only one for your whole life. You can't move on. You can't replace them. That's a lot of weight."
"It's not sad," Alan said quietly. "It's proof that their love doesn't have an off switch."
I fell silent. I didn't know what to say to that.
Not because I agreed or disagreed. But because there was something in the way he just said that made my chest tighten—and I couldn't explain why.
Something shifted in my chest. Sadness, and something else I couldn't name.
We kept walking. And from that point, I started asking everything.
"Can jellyfish actually sting you?"
"They can. But the ones in exhibits like this are usually the harmless kind."
"Do sharks sleep?"
"They sleep but keep moving. If they stop, they suffocate—water has to keep flowing through their gills."
"What about that one?" I pointed at a flat, dark brownish creature pressed against the sand at the bottom.
"Stingray. Venomous tail. But it's defensive—they don't go after anything first."
I nodded. "How does a computer science student know this much about fish?"
"I used to read a lot."
"Used to? Not anymore?"
He smiled, a little sheepish. "Not as much. Got busy. Racing, modding the car, basketball. More exciting."
"As long as none of it is criminal."
"Speaking of exciting—on the way back, we could open it up on the highway. What do you think?"
I gave him a look. "Alan. I would like to continue living."
"Just once. For the experience."
"Big no."
"Come on."
"Hard pass. Thanks for the offer. I'm going to continue looking at fish."
My eyes went back to the panels. The colors—rich and layered, arranged in a way that just worked—were the kind of thing that made your brain go quiet. I hadn't thought about deadlines or anything else for the past hour. Alan had been trailing slightly behind me the whole time. Like he was giving me room to just be in it.
Around midday, we settled into the cafeteria. Small wooden table, two plastic chairs, natural light coming through the wide windows—warm, even though the aquarium's AC had kept everything cool.
Alan looked… off. Not tired exactly. More like something was sitting in the back of his head.
"You okay?" I asked, leaning in a little.
He scratched the back of his neck, then let out a slow breath. "I feel like I talked too much today. Like a biology teacher in the middle of a lecture. The whole point was for you to decompress—not load up on more information."
I almost laughed. "So you regret becoming a walking encyclopedia?"
"Not regret. I just—I wanted you to actually enjoy it. Not just stand there listening to me go on about fish."
I paused, then smiled. "But I did enjoy it. I like the way you explain things—you're serious without being condescending about it."
He looked at me. Something in his expression softened.
"I'm really glad we did this," I said, quieter. "No performance, no scrambling for something to talk about. It feels like we've known each other longer than we actually have."
Alan was quiet for a second. Then, with a smile small enough you could almost miss it—
"So I'm allowed to do this again?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Only if you leave the coursework at home. I get enough of that in class."
"Deal."
I opened my bag of fries. "You're not getting anything?"
"I ate a lot this morning." He unzipped his bag and pulled out a red-and-white can with Cyrillic lettering on it. "But I'll sit with you. I've got this."
I stared at the can. It didn't look like anything from any store I'd ever been in. Shaped like a soda can but narrower. "What is that? That's not a normal alphabet."
"It's strawberry milk," he said, sounding slightly uncertain. He was holding it the way you'd hold something you didn't want anyone to examine too closely.
"Strawberry milk from what brand?"
He pulled it just slightly further away, like he didn't want me reading the label.
"Gora."
"Gora." I repeated it. "That's a strange name. Where do you even buy that? And why is it in Cyrillic? That's Russian or Slavic, right?"
Alan paused for half a second, eyes not quite meeting mine. "I order it specially. It's not sold everywhere."
"What does it taste like?"
"Kind of savory… salty, and a little sweet?"
I stared at him. That was an objectively bizarre description for strawberry milk. "Savory? Are you sure it hasn't expired? Or is that maybe mislabeled vegetable juice?"
Alan laughed—small and slightly stiff. "Maybe my taste buds are just off today."
I nodded slowly, trying not to make it a thing, even though my brain had already logged it: now that I thought about it, there had been cans like that scattered around his apartment too.
Between bites, I complained about the website assignment that had been stressing me out all week. Alan immediately said he'd help—unprompted, no conditions attached. I felt the tension in my shoulders drop. Getting his help on something like that was the closest thing to a cheat code I'd ever found in real life.
Then I slid one fry toward him. "Try it. Don't judge it before you do."
He went along with it. Chewed slowly. Then shook his head.
"You don't like it?"
"Too bland for me."
"Really? Okay—so what do you actually like?"
He looked at me. The smile arrived gradually. "Anything, as long as it's with you."
I turned straight toward the window. "Alan. That line did not land."
"Understood. I need to read more books."
"Now that is a great answer. Better than burning time on the road, fighting, and street racing. Do something useful."
"I will."
I liked that he just said 'I will.' No pushback, no deflection.
But that's exactly when it hit me: I barely knew him.
Alan was attentive. Observant. The kind of person who helped without being asked.
But there was still so much I hadn't seen yet—gaps I couldn't fill in.
And for the first time, I caught myself thinking something slightly dangerous:
The Alan sitting across from me had nothing to do with the rumors.
Which made me want to know more.
And that, I would later realize, was going to be my absolute undoing.