Chapter 48

Yoko

I wake up with the subtle grace of someone being yanked out of a nightmare—heart racing, blanket tangled around my legs like it's plotting against me.

It's Friday.

MID-YEAR REVIEW DAY.

I stare at the ceiling, blinking slowly, waiting for some divine intervention to strike me down so I don't have to face the impending doom that is today.

Spoiler: It doesn't happen.

I groan dramatically, flopping around in bed like a fish out of water, kicking my blanket off as if it's responsible for my life choices. The past few days have been nothing short of nerve-wracking—like living in a constant state of mild panic, sprinkled with occasional spirals and existential dread.

Every moment since Monday has been me internally screaming, "WHAT IF HE FINDS OUT? WHAT IF HE KNOWS? WHAT IF FAYE SAYS 'GOOD AFTERNOON' AND HE'S LIKE 'THAT'S TOO FRIENDLY, ARE YOU DATING MY DAUGHTER?'"

I sit up in bed, hair sticking out at angles that defy physics, clutching my pillow like it holds the answers to life. Then I spot my phone on the nightstand, buzzing softly with a new message.

Faye.

I unlock it with shaky fingers, bracing myself for who-knows-what, only to read:

Faye

Don't sweat so much about today, darling. ❤️

I stare at the screen, squinting like the words personally offended me.

"DON'T SWEAT SO MUCH ABOUT TODAY."

Oh, okay, sure, just—NOT SWEAT?! Like it's not the day my dad and my girlfriend-slash-ENGLISH TEACHER are going to sit in the same room breathing the same air, potentially causing a catastrophic ripple in the space-time continuum?!

I flop back onto the bed, phone resting dramatically on my chest.

But then I re-read the message. And again. And okay, maybe her words are a little comforting. Maybe.

I groan one last time for dramatic effect before dragging myself out of bed like it's the hardest thing anyone's ever done.

Time to face the day.

I shuffle to the bathroom, showering like I'm scrubbing away my anxiety (spoiler: doesn't work), then throw on my uniform, staring at myself in the mirror like I'm prepping for battle.

This is it, Yoko. Mid-Year Review Day: The Reckoning.

No big deal. Just your dad meeting your girlfriend. Who's also your teacher. Nothing to worry about.

I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection like it holds the answers to life, the universe, and how to survive the Mid-Year Review of Doom.

I smooth down my white tank top, tucking the edges slightly into my denim skirt, which sits snugly at my waist. The buttons on the skirt glare back at me like, "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

No, buttons. I'm not.

I run my fingers through my hair, letting the soft waves fall around my shoulders, trying to convince myself that if I look put together, maybe my brain will get the memo and follow suit.

Spoiler: It doesn't.

I inhale deeply, holding it for a few seconds like that's going to magically erase my anxiety, then exhale with the force of someone trying to exorcise their inner chaos.

"Okay, Yoko," I whisper to my reflection. "You've got this. It's just your dad meeting your teacher. Who's also your girlfriend. No big deal."

My reflection looks back at me like, "Girl, you're delusional."

Rolling my eyes at myself (because apparently, that's who I've become), I shake off the nerves—literally, like a wet dog—before grabbing my phone and heading downstairs.

The faint clinking of plates and the smell of toast waft through the house as I make my way to the kitchen, my heart doing a little tap dance in my chest.

There he is. My dad. Casually sitting at the dining table, scrolling through his phone like today isn't the day that could unravel my entire existence.

"Morning," I mumble, sliding into the seat opposite him.

He glances up, raising an eyebrow. "Morning. You look... dressed up."

I blink. "It's Friday."

"Ah," he says, nodding like that explains everything. "The special day."

I nearly choke on air. "What?"

He smirks, sipping his coffee. "Mid-Year Review, remember? Or did you conveniently forget?"

Oh, I remember, Dad. I remember like it's tattooed on my soul.

I force a smile, stabbing a piece of toast with more aggression than necessary. "How could I forget?"

He hums thoughtfully, clearly enjoying my subtle descent into madness.

Great. Just great.

The apocalypse has begun—and it's disguised as breakfast.

I'm mid-bite into my aggressively stabbed toast when my dad casually drops the verbal equivalent of a grenade right onto the breakfast table.

"Chill," he says, sipping his coffee like this isn't the most nerve-wracking day of my life. "Why do you look so anxious?"

I freeze, the toast halfway to my mouth. I'm pretty sure my face is doing that weird mix of I'm totally fine and screaming internally.

"I'm calm," I reply, my voice hitting a pitch only dogs can hear. "Just... nervous about what the teachers will say. You know, mid-year review stress. Totally normal."

He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You did well in your mid-year exams. You'll be fine."

I nod quickly, shoving the toast into my mouth to avoid having to say more. "Yeah," I mumble around a mouthful of carbs.

But oh no, he's not done. Of course not.

"So..." he starts, setting his cup down with a suspicious amount of casualness, "your girlfriend. Will we bump into her at school today?"

Cue internal screaming.

I nearly choke on the toast, coughing like I've forgotten how to breathe. "Erm... no? I don't think so?" I squeak, trying to sound convincing but probably sounding like a bad liar in a courtroom drama.

He narrows his eyes slightly, the classic Dad Suspicion Face activated. "Hmm. What does she teach?"

Panic. Full panic.

My brain short-circuits. I open my mouth, but instead of a normal human response, what comes out is:

"She... uh... teaches... stuff. You know. Academic things. Like... numbers. And... words. Yeah."

Dad blinks. Slowly. Like he's processing whether his daughter is having a stroke.

I keep going, because apparently, my survival instinct has left the building. "You know, like... educational content. With... students. And books. Possibly."

He stares at me, deadpan, then sighs dramatically, shaking his head. "I can't with you."

Neither can I, Dad. Neither can I.

He stands up, grabbing his keys. "Anyway. Let's go."

I nod, grabbing my bag, mentally preparing myself for what's about to be the longest day of my life.

Mid-Year Review: The Sequel—Now With More Lies!

We're in the car, my dad driving like it's just another casual Friday, while I sit in the passenger seat trying to regulate my heart, lungs, and sanity. Spoiler: It's not working.

My heart is racing—not the cute kind of racing, but the "I might spontaneously combust" kind. I'm caught between two extremes: excited to see Faye (because, duh, she's Faye) and also on the brink of a stress-induced existential crisis (because, duh, she's also my teacher who's about to meet my dad).

How did I get here? Oh right. Poor life choices... and also love. Gross.

Dad's humming along to some radio jingle like he's not driving me straight into my doom. Meanwhile, I'm rehearsing every possible scenario in my head.

Scenario A: Dad meets Faye. Doesn't suspect a thing. We survive.

Scenario B: Dad meets Faye. Senses the forbidden romance vibes immediately. I die.

Scenario C: Dad meets Faye. They bond over mutual disappointment in my academic performance. I move to another country.

We finally pull into the school parking lot. I swear the air feels different—like the very atmosphere knows I'm about to face my reckoning.

We walk through the school gates, and my heart does this weird little thump-thump thing, equal parts excitement and terror.

The hallways look eerily different today. Each classroom has been rearranged for the mid-year review—desks cleared, leaving just two tables pushed together with three chairs.

One chair for the teacher, sitting all professional with the report card right next to them like a weapon.

Two chairs side-by-side for the parent and the doomed student (aka me).

It's like walking into a job interview where you know you're underqualified, except your dad is your reference and your teacher is your secret girlfriend.

Totally normal. Nothing to worry about.

Dad looks around, hands casually in his pockets. "So, which subject do we go to first?"

I shrug, trying to act like my heart isn't trying to escape through my ribcage. "I don't know... depends on which one you prefer to know more about first, I guess?"

He thinks for a second, then says, "Well, let's start with language first."

LANGUAGE.

My soul leaves my body.

Because language means English. And English means literature. Which means Faye.

I manage a stiff nod, my face doing this weird twitchy thing because my emotions can't decide if they're terrified or thrilled. "Okay," I croak, my voice betraying me entirely.

We head towards the English classroom, my heart thumping like a drumline at a parade. Each step feels like it echoes through the hallway:

Doom. Doom. Doom.

THIS IS FINE. EVERYTHING IS FINE.

We step out of the English classroom, and surprisingly, I'm still alive. No dramatic explosions, no sudden confessions, and most importantly, my dad didn't spontaneously combust into "concerned parent mode." The comments weren't bad either—something about my essay structure being solid, which I'll take as a win.

Dad chuckles as we walk down the hallway, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. "Your English is so strong. I guess all that reading actually paid off, huh?"

I force a smile, my heart thumping like it's practicing for a marathon. "Yeah... totally."

Then he says the words that make my soul leave my body:

"Okay, next up... I guess it's English Literature?"

OH. MY. GOD.

I nearly trip over my own feet but catch myself with an awkward cough. "Oh... yeah. English Literature." I repeat, trying to sound casual but probably sounding like I've just been told I'm going to be launched into space without a helmet.

We walk toward Faye's classroom, and I'm mentally running through every calming technique known to mankind—deep breaths, counting to ten, picturing a peaceful meadow... but all I see is Faye standing in the middle of that meadow, looking ridiculously attractive and causing me emotional damage.

As we reach the door, I straighten my posture, plastering on my best "I'm totally chill" face.

Play it cool, Yoko. You're fine. This is fine. Everything's fine.

I push open the door, and there she is.

Faye.

She's sitting at her desk, flipping through some papers with a casual elegance that feels illegal. She's wearing sleek black pants, an oversized black shirt tucked in effortlessly like she just walked out of a minimalist fashion magazine. And her hair—oh god, her hair—is tied up, loose strands framing her face in a way that makes me want to both cry and write poetry.

My heart forgets how to function. Is this the mid-year review or my personal heart attack session?

Faye looks up, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second. Just a flicker. But it's enough. Enough to send my brain into overdrive. Enough to make my knees question their life choices.

"Good afternoon," she says smoothly, standing up with a polite smile directed at my dad, but there's a subtle shift in her eyes when they flicker back to me—like a secret only we share.

"Afternoon," my dad replies, pulling out a chair.

I sit down, trying not to combust on the spot.

Stay cool, Yoko. You're fine. It's just your girlfriend. Who's also your teacher. Sitting across from your dad. No big deal.

I sit there, my hands clenched tightly in my lap, staring down at the polished surface of the table like it holds the meaning of life—or at least the secret to surviving this mid-year review without dying of humiliation.

Don't look at her. Don't look at her. DO. NOT. LOOK. AT. HER.

Because if I so much as glance at Faye, I know I'll lose the very thin thread of composure I'm holding onto.

Dad leans back in his chair, looking relaxed, completely oblivious to the emotional gymnastics happening in my soul. "So, how's my kid doing in English Literature?" he asks, his tone light and curious.

Faye shifts slightly, her chair making the faintest sound against the floor. I feel it more than I hear it.

She clears her throat softly, flipping through the papers on her desk like the picture of professionalism. "She's doing very well," Faye says, her voice smooth and steady. "Her analytical skills are impressive, and she demonstrates a deep understanding of literary concepts. She's articulate in class discussions and shows strong critical thinking in her essays."

I blink rapidly, pretending to be fascinated by the very exciting grain of wood on the table.

"She scored an A-minus in the mid-year examinations," Faye adds, her voice carrying just the faintest hint of pride. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Hopefully, I'm imagining it.

Dad beams like I just won an Olympic gold medal. "That's fantastic! I'm not surprised, though. Yoko's always been a bookworm. She loves literature so much—I wouldn't be surprised if she becomes a poet or a writer one day."

Oh. My. God.

I risk a quick glance up—and instantly regret it.

Faye's looking at me with this soft, almost teasing gaze, her eyes glinting like she's mentally filing away every word my dad just said. There's a warmth in her expression, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she's discovering little pieces of me I never thought to share.

Dad, meanwhile, is on a roll. "She used to stay up late reading under the covers with a flashlight. Always scribbling in notebooks. I remember once she—"

"Dad, stop it!" I blurt out, my face heating up faster than a malfunctioning toaster.

He blinks at me, clearly confused. "What? It's the truth, Yoko. There's nothing embarrassing about it."

I glance at Faye again, big mistake.

She's still looking at me, her expression now a mix of affection and playful mischief—like she's absolutely enjoying every second of my slow, cringey demise.

OMG. I FEEL LIKE A CLOWN.

"Dad, seriously..." I groan, sinking lower in my chair like I can physically disappear. "You're embarrassing me in front of Ms Peraya." I throw in the formal title like it'll somehow restore a shred of my dignity.

"I'm not as good as you think," I mumble quickly, "or as good as she says."

Faye finally speaks, her tone light and teasing, "Oh, I don't know about that. I'd say your dad's pretty spot-on."

I groan again, covering my face with my hands.

This is it. This is my legacy. Death by Dad's Pride. RIP Yoko. Survived exams, died of secondhand embarrassment.

I'm still mentally processing my "death by secondhand embarrassment" when my dad, clearly on a mission to end me completely, tilts his head thoughtfully and says,

"You know, Ms Peraya... you look familiar."

Oh no. OH NO.

Panic shoots through me like a bolt of lightning. I remember—that day when Dad was standing by the window like a human CCTV, witnessing me kissing my girlfriend.

MY GIRLFRIEND WHO IS SITTING RIGHT HERE.

Before he can connect the dots, I blurt out, "Dad! We should go!"

He blinks at me, confused but determined. "But we haven't finished yet."

YES. YES, WE HAVE. WE ARE DONE HERE.

He squints at Faye again, tapping his chin like he's solving a crime. "You look like someone I saw on Tuesday..."

Faye's face freezes for a split second—just long enough for me to internally scream "ABORT MISSION" at her telepathically. I shoot her a desperate look, mentally screaming, "DON'T. SAY. ANYTHING."

But because the universe loves to watch me suffer, Faye ignores my pleading eyes and responds with the most fake casual voice I've ever heard, "I think you might've mistaken me for someone else."

OH THANK GOD.

I exhale silently, nodding internally. Good job, babe. Crisis averted. You deserve an Oscar.

But my dad? Oh no, he's not done digging my grave.

"Anyway," he says with a grin, "I really hope Yoko's doing well in class, because this girl... she's in a relationship."

I. AM. GOING. TO. FAINT.

"DAD. PLEASE." I groan, covering my face with both hands like that'll protect me from the embarrassment radiating off him.

But he's on a roll now, waving his hand dismissively. "Oh, come on. It's not embarrassing. I'm all for women in relationships. I'm not traditional-minded, you know."

WHY ARE WE HAVING THIS CONVERSATION RIGHT NOW?!

Faye, clearly enjoying my descent into madness, quirks an eyebrow and asks—with a straight face, might I add—

"Even when... your daughter is seeing a teacher? In this school?"

My soul leaves my body. She. Did. Not.

But my dad, unbothered and casually sipping his metaphorical tea, replies, "Oh yeah, I'm cool with it."

Faye's expression shifts from curious to mildly horrified mixed with amusement, like she just realized the door to chaos is wide open.

Then Dad adds, "But too bad. Yoko said she's dating someone who teaches..." He trails off, turning to me with a curious look.

"What was it she teaches again?"

My brain completely malfunctions.

"Uh... she... teaches... advanced... um... theoretical... basket weaving?"

WHAT.

Dad squints at me like he's trying to figure out if I've hit my head recently. "Huh?"

I fake a cough, grabbing the report card from Faye with lightning speed. "ANYWAY, we should get going! I'm sure Ms Peraya has lots of other parents to meet."

Dad looks around the completely empty classroom. "But there's no one—"

I don't let him finish. I grab his arm, yanking him out of his chair like we're escaping a burning building.

"Bye!" I squeak over my shoulder, dragging him toward the door.

Dad waves cheerfully. "Nice meeting you, Ms Peraya!"

Faye's laughter follows us out the door—a soft, amused chuckle that makes me want to both scream and kiss her at the same time.

Once we're safely down the hall, I stop, leaning against the wall to catch my breath.

Dad looks at me, totally oblivious. "What's with you?"

I glare at him. "You are the most embarrassing person on the planet."

He shrugs. "Eh, it's a talent."

I am never recovering from this. Crisis averted. Mission accomplished. Operation: Don't Let Dad Find Out has officially survived English Literature.

As we leave Faye's classroom behind, I feel the weight of impending doom finally lift off my chest. My heart slows down to a semi-normal pace, and I mentally high-five myself because, somehow, I didn't combust into flames or confess my sins in a fit of panic.

This is it. I've won.

The rest of the mid-year review is smooth sailing—calculus, history, and chemistry, all wrapped up without a single embarrassing dad moment. I nod along, throw in a few "yes, I'll work harder" comments, and by the time we're done, I'm practically skipping down the hallway.

It's over. I'm free.

We reach the car, and as I buckle in, feeling the sweet victory of survival, my dad glances over and casually says, "You know... I wanna see your girlfriend."

My heart stops.

"Uh. No." I reply instantly, shaking my head so hard it's a miracle my neck stays intact.

Dad shrugs like I just denied him a cup of coffee. "Okay, fine."

Phew. Crisis—

"But," he adds as he starts the car, "invite her over for dinner tonight."

I nearly choke on air.

"NO," I sputter, looking at him like he's lost his mind. "I'm not doing that, Dad."

He laughs, the kind of laugh that says, "I'm having way too much fun with this."

"Why not? It's Meet the Parents day," he says, grinning. "Might as well complete the experience."

I groan dramatically, slumping in my seat. "Well, it's OVER, Dad. Don't expect anything else."

The drive home is filled with my internal screaming and my dad humming like he hasn't just tried to casually ruin my life.

When we finally get home, I drop onto the sofa like I've just run a marathon. I spread out like a starfish, face buried in a cushion, silently thanking the universe that I survived.

Then—of course—Dad speaks.

"Actually..." he starts, and I already know it's bad. "How did your English Literature teacher know about your relationship?"

I freeze.

OH. MY. GOD. RIGHT. FAYE SAID THAT. SHE SAID THAT IN FRONT OF HIM.

I sit up slowly, blinking like my brain needs to reboot.

"Uh... er..." I stammer, my soul doing cartwheels. "We have a close... erm... mentor relationship. Yep. Mentor. That's what it is."

Dad squints at me, his face shifting from curious to suspicious. He tilts his head, connects invisible dots in the air, and then—

With the softest, most casual tone imaginable, he says, "Your girlfriend... is your English Literature teacher, isn't she?"

I blink. Open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

"Er...."

I sit there, mouth opening and closing like a malfunctioning goldfish, desperately trying to come up with something logical to say—anything that doesn't sound like, "Yeah, I'm dating my teacher, surprise!" But my face betrays me, heating up like a toaster on overdrive.

Dad's watching me with that annoyingly smug look, the corners of his mouth twitching. Then, with the confidence of Sherlock Holmes solving his 400th case, he says,

"I knew it. It's Ms Peraya."

I stare down at my lap, feeling like my soul has left the chat. "Yeah..." I mumble, voice barely above a whisper.

After a beat, I glance up, curiosity getting the better of me. "How'd you know?"

Dad leans back, folding his arms like he's been waiting for this exact question. "Well, she looked familiar—you know, from that day I saw you kissing someone outside the house."

OH GOD. WE'RE JUST GONNA BRING THAT UP CASUALLY, HUH?

"And," he continues, undeterred by my visible cringing, "she's a literature teacher. Considering how big of a literature nerd you are, it only makes sense you'd fall for someone like that."

Okay, rude—but accurate.

He taps his temple like he's some genius detective. "Then, of course, she accidentally mentioned that you're in a relationship with a teacher from your school. Now, unless the school newsletter covers student dating updates—which I highly doubt—only the teacher you're dating would know that."

I blink at him, processing his deduction skills.

"...You should be a detective or something," I mumble, genuinely impressed despite the fact that he just unraveled my entire life in under five minutes.

Dad chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. But then his expression softens, and I ask gently, "Are you mad?" My voice drops to a whisper. "Because I'm with my teacher. Like, my actual teacher. Not just, you know, some admin staff or non-teaching faculty."

He looks at me for a moment, then shrugs with the kind of ease that makes me want to cry from relief. "Not really. Like I said before—as long as you're happy, that's all that matters."

His words sink in, warm and steady, and I feel my chest loosen, the tension dissolving like it was never there.

"That's... good," I whisper, smiling softly.

But, of course, he doesn't let me bask in peace for too long.

"Well," he says, standing up and stretching like he didn't just emotionally support me into tears, "ask her to come for dinner tonight. You know, after this whole mid-year parents review thing."

I groan dramatically, flopping backward onto the couch. "Let me ask her. I'm not sure... if she wants to."

Dad smirks, walking toward the kitchen. "She'll say yes. You're very persuasive."

Debatable, I think, pulling out my phone with trembling fingers.

I open my messages, staring at Faye's name for a second before typing:

Yoko

Hey... so... my dad wants to invite you over for dinner tonight... after the mid-year review thing. No pressure though. Totally fine if you're busy... or, you know, fleeing the country. 😬

I hit send, then throw my phone onto the couch like it's cursed.

Now we wait. And maybe hyperventilate a little.

I sit there, staring at my phone like it's holding the key to my destiny. Which, in a way, it is.

Five minutes pass.

Then ten.

No reply from Faye.

I groan dramatically, flopping sideways onto the couch, my arm draped over my face like I'm auditioning for a tragic play. "I think she's not coming," I mumble into the void. "She's probably tired. You know, long day, mid-year review stress, life... existing..."

Dad looks up from whatever he's doing, raising an eyebrow. "Yoko, you didn't even receive a reply from her."

I peek out from under my arm, glaring. "Stop exposing me."

He chuckles, shaking his head.

Just then—ding.

I sit up faster than a cat hearing a can opener. It's Faye.

Faye

Me? Why?

I can practically hear her voice in my head, that smooth, slightly amused tone. My fingers fly across the screen.

Yoko

Well... my dad figured it out. LOL.

Three dots appear. Typing. My heart is doing that annoying thing where it acts like it's about to escape my chest.

Faye

Okay then.

I blink. That's it? Just "okay then"?

Yoko

Are you sure? No pressure. You can totally reject the invite, like... it's fine. Really. Like SO fine. Beyond fine. Astronomically fine.

Faye

Nope, I'm all good. Time to meet your father for real—as your girlfriend.

I'm sorry, WHAT?

My face heats up instantly, and I can't stop the smile spreading across my face like it has a mind of its own. My heart? Oh, it's gone. Out the door. Probably doing cartwheels down the street.

Yoko

Okay... see you later for dinner then. 😳

Her reply comes almost immediately.

Faye

See you later, baby. ❤️

DEAD. I AM DEAD.

I let out a small, undignified squeal, hugging my phone like it's the source of all happiness.

Dad peeks over from the kitchen. "So... she's coming?"

I clear my throat, trying to play it cool, even though my face is basically a tomato. "Yeah. She is."

Dad grins. "Great. Time to whip up some nice dishes for dinner."

He heads off to the kitchen, already pulling out ingredients like this is MasterChef: Dad Edition. Meanwhile, I sit there, staring at nothing in particular, my heart doing somersaults.

Oh my god. I'm nervous.

But not the bad kind of nervous. The good kind. Because tonight, it's not Ms Peraya. It's Faye. My Faye. Not the teacher with the report card. Just my girlfriend.

I continue sitting there, staring at the empty space where my dad just disappeared into the kitchen, his voice faintly drifting back as he mutters to himself about spices and "perfect presentation."

Meanwhile, my brain is a full-blown circus.

She's coming. Faye is coming. TO. MY. HOUSE.

Not Ms Peraya with her sharp critiques and professional poker face. No. This is Faye—the woman who kisses me like I'm the only thing in the universe, the one who teases me with those smug little smirks, the one who makes my heart do unnecessary gymnastics with a single look.

And she's going to sit across from my dad. At my dining table. Tonight.

I sink deeper into the sofa, pressing my palms against my burning cheeks. My heart is racing like it's trying to win an Olympic medal.

What if he grills her with weird dad questions? What if he brings up that time I cried over a poetry book? What if—

I shake my head. No. No spiraling.

Because despite the nerves clawing at my chest, there's this little flicker of excitement buried underneath. The kind that makes my stomach flutter and my heart ache in the best way.

I glance at my phone again, reading Faye's message for the tenth time.

"See you later, baby."

I bite my lip, smiling like an idiot. Yeah.

I'll see her later. Not in a classroom. Not under the fluorescent lights of mid-year reviews. But here. At home. And maybe—just maybe—tonight won't be so scary after all.

Okay, that's a lie. I'm terrified.

But I can't wait to see her.