Dad says I have a gift. But I think it’s a curse. 

Having a gut feeling that’s impeccably never wrong has caused me too much turmoil growing up, and even now- as a sophomore in college, it still pisses me off.

Granted, having a deadly error-free intuition has landed me a spot in SM University’s criminology department, and my genius ability to accurately predict the weather means Mother Nature never gets the chance to rain on my fashionable outfits, sure- I get why Dad calls it a gift. 

But hunches make my head feel like an overfilled water balloon, and those inkling feelings of suspicion make my tummy ache. 

And right about now, I feel like I’m about to hurl. “Don’t you ing dare, Park Jang-mi!” 

My cheeks puff up and I clutch my stomach, wiggling my body to force the puke downwards. 

Jaemin’s eye bulge in panic, my best friend fanning me with his notebook. Students in the hall flash us confused looks and whisper into each other’s ears. I know damn well what they’re saying about me. Park Jang-mi, the attention . Park Jang-mi, little miss know-it-all who always has to be right about everything!

Gasping for breath, I grab Jaemin’s shoulders and he cringes. “What is it this time?”

“He’s cheating on me!” I burst, shaking him like a tambourine. “Yeonjun is cheating on me,” I declare and Jaemin’s jaw drops.

“You don’t know that for sure,” he starts but I throw my hands into the air.

“Jaemin, do you remember the time I took one look at your pet goldfish and told you it would die within three days?”

Jaemin blinks. “Yeah.”

“Where is Nemo now, huh?” I demand.

“Dead,” he replies. “He died two days later.”

“Exactly!” I exclaim, nails digging into my scalp. “I feel it in my chest, in every cell of my body, I don’t think, I know for sure.”

Jaemin inhales sharply, adjusting his backpack over his shoulder. “Okay, fine. But how about you try to ignore your psychic abilities and confront him? Yeonjun isn’t a goldfish I won at a carnival that was obviously going to die in three days.”

“Fine,” I grumble, slamming my locker shut and lugging my backpack down the hall. I look over my shoulder when I realize Jaemin hasn’t followed me. “Well, aren’t you coming?”

“I have class!” He flails his arms and I bare my teeth at him. 

“Class isn’t important right now! I’m about to confront my cheating boyfriend and someone needs to beat him up and it isn’t going to be me!”

Jaemin jabs a finger at himself. “And you think it’s going to be me? Choi Yeonjun has a black belt and is built like a tree!”

I stomp my feet. “Fine! At least come with me so I can use you as a step stool to reach his face when I want to slap him!”

“Fine!” Jaemin grunts, shooting dirty looks at the bystanders who watch us like we’re a live theatre performance. “What are you looking at?” He snaps at a group of girls. They scurry away and Jaemin punches me in the arm. “The things I do for you, Park Jang-mi.”

“Hey, you were the one who approached me at freshman orientation. It’s not my fault I imprinted on you.” I stick my tongue out at him and Jaemin rolls his eyes. 

The worst part of having stellar senses is realizing that I’m right. 

My vision blurs as I stare at the clothes strewn on the living room floor. A lacy bra and yellow dress form a trail to the bedroom, and the sounds that float through the wood make my heart splinter.

“Told you so,” I croak, peering at Jaemin through my wet lashes. 

Jaemin breathes a sigh. “I got this.”

My best friend marches over to the kitchen, smoke coming out of his ears. My jaw drops when he grabs a butcher knife and rolls his shoulders back.

“Jaemin, wha-.”

In one swift motion, Jaemin kicks open the door, and a female scream fills the air. 

“What the ?” I hear Yeonjun exclaim, and I peek my head inside our shared bedroom to see him scramble for his clothes. The girl covers her body with the blanket Yeonjun and I bought together at that flash sale last Christmas, and my boyfriend- ex-boyfriend stares at me with wide eyes. 

“Jang-mi, I- baby, it’s not what it looks like,” he stutters and Jaemin throws his head back and barks out a laugh. 

“Oh yeah? What does it look like then?” Jaemin growls, wielding the butcher knife like a psychotic serial killer. 

Yeonjun takes a moment to slip on his pants, and I sniffle. We’ve been together since Junior year in Highschool. I gave up the opportunity to study abroad to stay here so we could be together. We bought a car together, we even went window shopping for future houses to settle down in. 

What did I do wrong? I clean the apartment, I do the laundry, I tell him I love him every day, and I even force myself to eat the food he brings back from culinary classes, even though it's almost always burnt and as bland as a white man. 

“We were just- we- baby, I…,” Yeonjun grunts as he fumbles for the right words. He can’t smooth talk his way out of this, and I bow my head to hide my glossy eyes.

“Don’t baby her, you cheating bastard!” Jaemin whips around to pull me forward. “Here’s your chance, Jang-mi. Tell him off!”

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I have every intention of giving him a peace of my mind. Or to slap him, since Dad always says actions speak louder than words. But at this moment, staring at him, all I see is the boy who used to hold my hand as we walked to school together. The boy who put flowers in my hair and who used to kiss me under the stairwells. 

Jaemin shakes my shoulders. “C’mon, Jang-mi!” He urges, but I can only choke on my pathetic sobs. 

“Fine, I’ll do it myself,” Jaemin declares, squaring up to Yeonjun. My lovable best friend has to get on his tippy toes for them to be eye level, and it’s comical, but despite Jaemin being the shorter of the two, he has the upper hand because he’s the one with the knife.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” Jaemin seethes, his spit landing on Yeonjun’s nose. He cringes and stares at Jaemin, looking rather bored. “Jang-mi has been nothing but good to you! She cooks and she cleans, and she eats your disgusting food!”

The jab at his cooking makes Yeonjun frown. “You think my cooking is disgusting?”

“It’s preposterous!” Jaemin shouts in his face, unleashing his full literature major essence. “Jang-mi is an angel sent from above, but you- you’re a diabolical pillock! You prepare yourself to be turned away from the gates of Heaven, Choi Yeonjun. You belong down under!”

“Down under means Australia, Jaemin,” I murmur.

“You belong in hell!” Jaemin clarifies, and Yeonjun scoffs. He has the nerve to roll his eyes, and I bite the inside of my cheek. For a split second, our eyes meet, and I no longer see the sweet boy I fell in love with. 

Yeonjun heaves a sigh, his shoulders slumped. “Jang-mi, you’re never with me,” he says softly. “You’re always lost in your head, obsessing over a case or school, and you don’t even- baby, when was the last time you kissed me first, huh?” 

My heart pounds in my chest, splinters of guilt swirling in my stomach. “No-,” I grit. “You don’t get to blame your poor choices on me. We’re over.”

“Damn straight,” Jaemin huffs, draping his arm over my shoulders. To make a final statement, Jaemin flings the knife toward the bed. The blade embeds itself in the wooden headboard, and we strut out to the sound of Yeonjun begging me to stay. 

Breakups are like permanent hangovers. 

My head is stuck in a constant whirlwind and bright lights make me want to shrivel and die. 

“Get up, Count Dracula,” Jaemin groans, yanking open the curtains. The blinding rays of sunshine make my eyes sting and I smother my face with one of Jaemin’s silk pillows. “Jang-mi, I say this with love, but you stink, and your wallowing is really ruining my vibe!”

Jaemin strips the pillow from my face and I hiss at him. 

“Leave me alone, I’m in mourning! That cheating bastard ripped my heart out of my chest, chopped it up into bite-sized pieces, and sautéed it, Jaemin!” I wail, and Jaemin huffs at my dramatics, tugging on one of my pigtails. 

His eyes glaze over with an alarmingly unhinged shimmer. “Honey, to quote our lord and savior, Ms. Taylor Alison Swift, there is nothing better than revenge. So get your flat off my couch, we’re going shopping, picking out a nice ty dress, and we’re going to party.”

I inhale sharply. “No.”

“That wasn’t an invitation, that was an order, Park Jang-mi!” Jaemin lifts me up by the underarms and I scream as he dumps me in his shower and turns on the water. I stand in my pink pajamas, arms crossed over my chest, warm water raining down on me. 

Then I start to cry, and Jaemin lets out a defeated sigh. 

Na Jaemin, that spoiled brat, always gets his way. One of the perks of being born with a silver spoon shoved in that big mouth of his. 

I shift uncomfortably in my red slip dress, then thread my fingers into my curled hair. As someone who usually wears sweats and tank tops 24/7, this tight-fit outfit is a hate crime. I did threaten to sue Jaemin for forcing me into this, but the jerk reminded me that I’ll go bankrupt if I take him to court. Fair enough, considering that his family owns half of Busan, and the only assets my dad and I own are a run-down Prius and my late grandma’s rusted jewelry. 

Smacking my red matte lips together, I wander my eyes around the college bar. Population: a bunch of girls in low-cut dresses and a bunch of low-quality guys who plan to get a girl drunk enough to get lucky tonight. How classy. 

Jaemin nudges me in the side. “At least try to pretend that you’re enjoying yourself, will you?”

I roll my eyes. “Dude, I can barely breathe in this dress, my hair smells like barbeque because you burned half my head with your curling wand, and oh- just a little reminder, I’m heartbroken!”

Jaemin knocks on my forehead and shoves a shot into my hand. “Drink up, then. Alcohol makes everything better.”

I accept the shot and tip my head back to revel in the afterburn. One shot turns to two shots, then it exponentially increases and I lose count. Jaemin eventually leaves my side to shake it off on the dance floor and I can no longer hold my head up. 

Jaemin is right about one thing. Alcohol does make everything better because my heart no longer feels like it’s in pieces.

My bladder makes itself known, and after flagging down the bartender to ask him for directions, I hobble through the crowd in search of a toilet and some quiet time. 

The loud music is headache-inducing and boy- I should not have eaten all those chips.

Hands plastered to the walls to keep myself upright, I hear a loud whistle and heavy footsteps approach me.

A stranger loosely grabs my hips, and the alcohol in my veins muddles my reaction time. My flinch is delayed and the guy runs his filthy hands up to my waist.

“What the , get off me!” My attempt to shove him away is weak, and my dad’s voice flitters to my mind,  reminding me of all the self-defense tips he’s taught me.

Number one: your voice is your most powerful weapon.

“No!” I shriek as Mr. Handsy reaches for the zipper of my dress. 

“Awe, c’mon, we’re just going to have a little fun,” he breathes down my neck and I swing my arms at him. He pins me to the wall, his knee between my legs and I let out my loudest scream. 

“Get off me!” 

“Hey!” A voice down the hall thunders and the jackass is torn off of me. “She said to back off!”

The newcomer throws him to the ground and blocks me with his body until the bastard sprints away. 

Heaving, the stranger turns around to wash his eyes over my body. I instinctively cringe away and hug myself around the stomach, because his leather jacket makes me suspicious of his character, and from past experience, I know never to trust a good-looking guy with a chiseled face. 

With obsidian hair, midnight eyes, and alarmingly snow-pale skin, my savior shows me his palms. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he assures me, his voice deep and silky. 

I nod silently as I desperately try to compose myself because my heart is racing a mile a minute. 

“What’s your name?” He asks, extending his arm for a handshake. Again, my instincts kick in and I flinch at his sudden movement. He takes a step back and the air becomes easier to breathe. 

“Jang-mi,” I squeak, and he nods.

“Nice. I’m uh- Jeno,” he replies and I stare at him blankly. What am I supposed to do with that information? I don’t know him or recognize him from anywhere. My eyes scour his body in search of something to make him more familiar.

“You play guitar,” I blurt, and Jeno’s eyebrows knit.

“Y-yeah.”

I jerk my chin in the direction of his hands. “You have calluses on your fingertips, and I know it’s guitar because you don’t have the posture of a violinist or any other string instrument player,” I elaborate, in air through my teeth. “And you’re a rider.”

“What makes you say that?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

“You have a round-shouldered posture, there are creases on your hands from the gloves, and I smell motorcycle polish. It’s quite…pungent.” I scrunch up my face and Jeno scoffs, running his fingers through his dark hair. 

He shrugs off his jacket and places it at my feet. 

“You have anemia,” Jeno tells me, and I furrow my brows. “Shortness of breath, pale skin with a slight yellow, and your nails are spooning. You lack iron,” he concludes.

“I know what anemia is,” I find myself snapping at him, bending down to grab his jacket because my skin feels like ice. “I usually take iron supplements, but I’ve missed a couple of days this week.”

“You should take them.” Jeno crosses his arms over his chest, his black t-shirt tight around his biceps.

“I know that.” I make a face at him, giving