He met Lily in high school. Not in a cute, dramatic way. No fireworks. No slow-motion moment. She was just... there.
The girl who always had chipped black nail polish, headphones in, and a tongue sharp enough to cut glass.
She sat behind him in Literature and kicked his chair once for tapping his pencil too loud.
"You're not composing Beethoven," she'd said. "Quit the percussion concert."
He rolled his eyes. She kicked the chair again.
That was their first conversation.
The chair-kick thing turned into a habit.
Every time he zoned out and tapped his pen, she'd nudge his chair.Softly. Not hard enough to piss him off — just enough to say "Hey, exist properly."
He never said thank you. She never asked for it.
They didn't talk much outside class. Lily was always half-buried in a book, or sketching in the margins of her notes. She never smiled unless it was sarcastic, and she never joined the loud table during lunch.
But once, during break, he found her alone in the art room — sketching a faceless body in charcoal.
"That's creepy," he said, standing in the doorway.
"Good. It's you," she said without looking up.
And for some reason, that was the day they started sitting next to each other at lunch.
Lily wasn't popular. She didn't care to be.She didn't flirt with the boys or chase attention. But when someone said something out of pocket in class — sexist, rude, or just plain dumb — she always spoke up.
Not for attention.But because it was right.
And Taehyung?He admired that from a safe distance.
One day, during PE, a guy knocked his books out of his arms in the hallway. Not on purpose. Just clumsy.
Taehyung knelt down silently, gathering them. No fuss. No scene.
Until Lily came up behind the guy, picked up his gym bag, and dumped it in the nearest trash bin.
"Oops," she said. "Clumsy."
Taehyung blinked at her.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Sure I did. My foot needed the exercise."
That's how he learned Lily's kindness came in strange, backhanded forms.Not hugs. Not compliments.
Just quiet loyalty and petty justice.
Their friendship wasn't sudden.It wasn't loud.It wasn't anything people noticed.
But Taehyung started looking for her before he sat down in class.And Lily started saving him a seat at lunch — never asking, never saying.
When he was quiet, she filled the silence with nonsense.When he was tired, she'd slide a juice box toward him and say, "You look emotionally dehydrated."
And when he smiled — really smiled — she'd just roll her eyes.
"Don't get soft on me, Kim."
He didn't know it yet, but Lily was becoming his constant.
And he?He was becoming the one person she didn't have to fight to be heard around.
***
By the time college rolled around, Taehyung was already someone.
Trainee by day, ghost by night.Fame was a freight train, and he was sprinting beside it barefoot, pretending not to bleed.
The mirrors at the company said "perfect."The mirrors in his mind said "tired."
But Lily?
Lily was the same.
Still sharp. Still quietly fierce. Still saving him a seat without asking.
People talked.
Of course they did.You don't hang around someone like him and not get swallowed by assumptions.
"She's not even pretty.""Why is he friends with her?""She's using him. She must be."
The men said it with jealousy.Women said it with scorn.
But Taehyung never cared.
Because Lily was the only thing in his life that didn't come with fine print or performance schedules.
She was just… there. Existing.Unmoved. Unbothered. Unapologetic.
He'd show up at her apartment after a long day of rehearsals, hoodie up, face flushed from hours of fake smiles.
Sometimes it'd be 1 a.m.Sometimes 4.
She never asked why.
Just opened the door, flicked the light on, and pointed to the couch.
"Did you stretch?""No.""Hydrate?""Sort of.""Eat?""Does stress count?"
She'd sigh, hand him a microwaved rice bowl, and mutter something about "idol idiots with soft bones."
He'd eat on the floor while she scrolled on her phone like this wasn't the only peace he'd felt in days.
One night, it broke a little.
He showed up, hoodie damp from the rain, eyes hollow like he hadn't slept in days.
She looked up from her sketchbook.
"You look like someone just unplugged your soul."
"They might have," he muttered, kicking off his shoes.
She didn't ask for details.Just handed him a towel and gestured to the couch.
He sank into it like he was sinking underwater.
"Tough day?" she asked, voice soft but unsentimental.
"Tough life."
He tried to laugh at his own joke. It didn't land.
"I messed up choreo three times today," he said. "Didn't eat. Got called 'emotionless' in vocal training. I've smiled at so many people today, I forgot which one was real."
She didn't give him a speech. Didn't tell him to "be strong" or "keep pushing."
She just sat down beside him and flipped on the little desk fan.
The hum filled the silence between them like white noise for the heart.
"Well, your smile is the dumbest one," she said eventually. "The one you do when you see dumb dogs or bad puns."
He looked over at her.
"You're saying I have a dumb smile?"
"I'm saying your real one is dumb. And that's why it's good."
He didn't respond.Just leaned his head back, eyes fluttering shut as the tension finally bled out of his shoulders.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For being normal."
She shrugged. "It's the least I can do for my emotionally dehydrated raccoon."
He chuckled — barely. But it was real.
And in the small, cracked apartment with peeling paint and two microwaved rice bowls on the floor, he felt something better than fame.
He felt seen.
Then—
"Remember when you told off Mr. Han in front of the whole class?" Taehyung asked, eyes still closed.
She grinned. "Which time?"
"The time he said you looked like 'you got dressed in a haunted house.'"
"Oh. That time."
"You said he looked like a retired broomstick."
Lily snorted into her coffee. "He did! Man was shaped like a capital 'L' and had the nerve to critique fashion."
"You got detention."
"Wore a spiked choker the next day in protest."
Taehyung opened one eye and gave her a lazy smile.
"You were such an emo menace. If eyeliner could kill, you'd be in prison."
"Says the boy who wore turtlenecks three sizes too big to disappear into the wall."
"That was aesthetic."
"That was sad."
"At least I didn't carry a notebook with 'Death Before PE' scribbled in black gel pen."
"You cried in PE."
"That dodgeball was thrown by a future judo champion!"
"You were so small, Tae. You got bullied by a leaf once. I remember. It brushed your head and you screamed."
He groaned and threw a pillow at her. She caught it, smirking.
"You didn't have to defend me so much, you know," he muttered.
She tilted her head. "I didn't do it for you. I did it because idiots shouldn't get the last word."
"So... I was just a side quest to your personal war?"
"Exactly. You were my tiny, emotional raccoon companion."
He laughed, really laughed this time — and for a moment, the world didn't feel so loud.
There was something about them that always felt like home, even when everything else felt like survival.
Years later, through contracts, comebacks, cameras…She was still the girl with too much eyeliner and too much heart.And he was still the boy who found shelter in her silence.
And maybe that's what real friendship is.
Someone who knew your weird before the world demanded your perfect.