Y/N's POV:
Hey there, ever heard of that thing called love?
Yeah, you know, the thing poets write about, singers croon about, the thing that makes everyone around you seem like they're walking on sunshine?
I always thought it was overhyped, just a bunch of hormones tricking people into having bad poetry slams.
See, I'm Y/N, and I like things that make sense. I thrive on logic, on the tangible, the explainable.
Love?
It was this elusive concept, this abstract idea that seemed to have no concrete definition.
Sure, I'd felt affection for my family, loyalty to my friends, but this "love" everyone was obsessed with?
I wanted to understand it, feel it, experience it for myself, prove its existence beyond cheesy rom-coms and overly dramatic novels.
I devoured countless books on the subject, from dry philosophical treatises to sappy romance novels.
I even subjected myself to those reality dating shows, hoping to glean some understanding from the trainwrecks that unfolded on screen.
But it was all just words and fleeting moments, not the earth-shattering, life-altering experience everyone claimed it to be.
Then, Minji walked into my life.
It wasn’t some dramatic, movie-style meet-cute. No, it was far more ordinary—and yet somehow, infinitely more significant.
It was a Tuesday, I was at the library, my usual spot by the window, attempting to decipher some ancient text on the philosophy of emotions.
I was so engrossed, I hadn't noticed the seat across from me being filled until a voice, soft yet clear, broke through my concentration.
"Is this seat taken?"
I looked up, startled, into the brightest, warmest eyes I'd ever seen. They belonged to a girl with hair the color of a raven's wing and a smile that could only be described as sunshine personified.
"Uh, no, it's all yours," I stammered, feeling a blush creep up my neck.
Smooth, Y/N, real smooth.
She offered a grateful smile and settled in, pulling out a book that, to my surprise, was the same one I was struggling with.
For the next hour, we existed in comfortable silence, occasionally glancing up to find the other lost in the same paragraph, a shared chuckle escaping at the author's more outlandish claims.
Finally, she broke the silence. "You know, for someone who seems so engrossed in this, you look completely unconvinced."
I looked up, surprised. "Is it that obvious?"
"Maybe," she laughed, a melodic sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "I'm Minji, by the way," she added, offering her hand.
"Y/N," I replied, shaking it. Her hand was small and warm, lingering for a second longer than necessary, and for some reason, I didn't want to let go.
"So," she prompted, leaning forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement, "spill. What's your beef with love?"
And for some reason, I found myself telling her everything. About my quest for a concrete definition, my frustration with the abstract and intangible, my desire to experience love firsthand.
Minji listened patiently, nodding along, occasionally interjecting with a thoughtful question or a witty remark.
She spoke of love not as a scholar, but as an artist—painting emotions with words, weaving stories of joy and heartbreak, of grand gestures and quiet moments of intimacy.
