Before I can lose my nerve or comprehend the true absurdity of what I’m about to do, I slip inside.

And freeze.

I’m not sure what, exactly, I expected to see. Maybe Henry reclining on giant piles of money, or polishing one of his many shiny trophies, or exfoliating his ridiculously clear skin with crushed diamonds and the blood of migrant workers. That sort of thing.

Instead, he’s seated at his desk, his dark brows furrowed slightly in concentration as he types away on his laptop. The top button of his white school shirt is undone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the lean muscles in his arms. Soft afternoon sunlight streams through the open window beside him, bathing his perfect features in gold, and as if the whole scene isn’t dramatic enough, a light breeze drifts in and runs its fingers through his hair like this is some goddamn K-pop music video.

As I watch on with a mixture of fascination and disgust, Henry reaches for the jar of White Rabbit milk candy next to his laptop. Peels off the white-and-blue wrapper with his slender fingers. Pops it in his mouth, his eyes fluttering closed for an instant.

Then a small voice in the back of my head reminds me that I did not come all the way here to watch Henry Li chew a piece of candy.

Unsure how else to proceed, I clear my throat and say, “Henry.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look up.

Panic floods through my veins, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe people can’t hear me either—as if being invisible wasn’t already hard enough—when I notice he’s got his AirPods in. I sneak a peek at his Spotify playlist, half certain it’ll be all just white noise or classic orchestral music, only to find Taylor Swift’s latest album playing instead.

I’m about to make a comment on it, but then my eyes fall on the laminated photo taped to his desk, and the significance of Henry Li secretly jamming out to Tay Tay pales in comparison.

It’s a photo of us.

I remember it floating around in a couple of school advertisements; it was taken at the awards ceremony three years ago, back when I still had those ridiculous side bangs that covered half my face. In it, Henry’s wearing his signature expression—that look of polite interest I find so infuriating, as if he has better things to do than stand around and receive more applause and prestigious awards (what makes me angrier is the fact that he probably does). Beside him, I’m staring straight at the camera, shoulders tensed, arms held stiff at my sides. My smile looks so forced it’s a wonder the photographer didn’t make us retake the photo.

I have no idea why Henry would keep this lying around, other than as visible proof of my clear inability to look better than him in photos.

Suddenly Henry tenses. Tugs his AirPods out. Spins around in his seat, eyes sweeping the room. It takes me a second to realize I’ve leaned too far forward, accidentally brushing against his shoulder as a result.