Okay okay okay. So. Hi.
I’m Wonhee.
Yes, that Wonhee.
Unless there’s another girl at your school who gets straight A’s and gets away with sneaking fries into math class. In which case—awkward. But I doubt it.

I’m fifteen. Almost sixteen. Not like "driving a car and paying taxes" sixteen, but definitely “I’ve had one life crisis and a Pinterest board full of fake aesthetic quotes” sixteen. You know the vibe.

People always say I’m lucky. Like, we get it, universe, you like her better. But it’s not my fault that the vending machine gives me two sodas instead of one, or that I randomly find concert tickets in my coat pocket (which I swear I did not put there), or that my math teacher gave me extra credit for "creative thinking" when I accidentally turned in a half-finished poem instead of my assignment.

Is it weird? Yes.
Suspicious? Maybe.
Convenient? Extremely.

My life is like one of those feel-good coming-of-age movies, but with fewer cute boys and more awkward silences followed by me pretending I wasn’t just talking to myself in the mirror. (I was. I always am.)

But listen—being "lucky" doesn’t mean being invincible. I still fall down the stairs. Just… not all the way. Like, the last three steps usually catch me and I land in front of a chocolate bar. I still get dumped. (Twice. Okay, once, the second one doesn’t count because he cried more than I did.) And I still get that weird chest feeling sometimes. Like my heart’s holding its breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

But nothing really does.
At least… not yet.

I’ve got Moka and Iroha—my best friends, my chaos coordinators, my second and third opinions on whether my outfit says "cool and mysterious" or "I forgot how pants work."
Moka’s the loud one. She has thoughts. So many thoughts. You don’t even have to ask for them.
Iroha’s the chill one. Too chill. She once made a boy cry without blinking. I respect that.

Together we make up… I dunno, Team People Think We’re Intimidating But Actually We’re Just Tired.
And I love them. I do. Even when they steal my lip gloss or call me a "walking four-leaf clover."

My life is kind of golden?
Not perfect, not always pretty, but golden.
It just is. And I’ve never questioned it.

Until now.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let’s just start at the beginning—back when everything was sparkly, and I still thought my luck would last forever.