Morning doesn't feel like morning anymore.
It feels like a continuation.
I wake before my alarm, body already half-alert, the way it gets when it learns a pattern and stops trusting rest. The ceiling above my bed is still dark, but my mind is running inventory. Yesterday's whispers.
Min Sang-ho's unresolved presence. The way people looked at me was like I was a word they couldn't translate.
I sit up slowly.
The bruise along my ribs has deepened overnight, purple darkening toward black near the center. When I breathe too deeply, there's resistance—not pain sharp enough to stop me, but enough to warn me.
My hip is stiff. My shoulder feels tight, like it's holding something it doesn't want to release. I stretch carefully, testing limits without crossing them. Today isn't about recovery. It's about attention.
At school, attention flows downhill. From those above to those below. From names that carry weight to faces that blur together. You don't choose when it finds you. You only choose how you carry it.
I shower, dress, and eat standing up again. Same routine. Same precautions. I check the mirror before leaving—neutral expression, posture controlled, no visible signs of injury beyond what the fabric hides.
On the bus, I sit in my usual seat. Back. Window. Wall.
The city passes in gray slices. Concrete, storefronts, alleys still wet from last night's rain. A group of middle schoolers piles in halfway through the route, loud and careless. I watch them through the reflection in the glass, noting how they take up space without thinking about it.
Ignorance is a luxury.
At the school gate, the air feels heavier than usual. Not hostile. Expectant.
I feel eyes before I see faces.
Inside, the hallway noise swells and settles in waves. Lockers slam. Shoes scrape. Someone laughs too loudly and gets shushed, not by a teacher, but by another student who doesn't want competition.
I move through it without changing pace.
That's when I notice her.
Seo Min-ji stands near the stairwell, half-leaning against the railing, phone in one hand. She's not looking at the screen. She's watching people pass, expression relaxed, mouth tilted in something that might be amusement.
She notices me noticing her.
Her eyes meet mine briefly. Not long enough to be a challenge. Not short enough to be accidental.
She looks away first.
That's deliberate.
Seo Min-ji doesn't sit near me in class. She doesn't need to. Her presence carries differently. She's one of those students everyone knows without quite knowing why—good grades, clean record, no obvious affiliations, but never alone unless she wants to be.
Curiosity from above.
I take my seat before the bell. Same desk. Same angle. I adjust the chair slightly to ease pressure on my hip. The bell rings. Class begins.
I write when I'm supposed to write. I listen when it's required. My attention, however, is split. Part of me tracks the room the way I've learned to—posture, spacing, micro-reactions. Part of me waits. Seo Min-ji doesn't approach during the first period.
She doesn't need to rush. By the second period, the rumors have evolved. They always do. Yesterday it was uncertainty. Today it's shape.
"…heard he didn't even fight back…"
"…no, Min Sang-ho almost fell…"
"…teacher would've stepped in if it was serious…"
That last one makes me almost smile. Teachers don't step in. They arrive after.
In civics, Se-yeon glances back once, then doesn't again. Hye-rin still doesn't look at me at all. That absence feels intentional now, like she's refusing to acknowledge a variable that didn't behave as expected.
Seo Min-ji sits two rows ahead of me, to the right.
She doesn't turn around. I feel her attention anyway. At lunch, I'm halfway through eating in the empty classroom when footsteps stop outside the door. I don't look up immediately. Timing matters. The door slides open without knocking.
Seo Min-ji steps in like she belongs there.
She doesn't ask.
She glances around the room, taking in the empty desks, the dust motes floating in the sunlight, the way I'm sitting on the edge of a desk instead of a chair.
"Thought so." She says. I swallow my food before answering. "Thought what?"
"That you'd be hiding. No offense." She smiles faintly. "None taken." She walks closer, slow, unhurried, then leans back against the desk opposite mine. Casual. Comfortable. Like this is just another conversation, not a deviation.
"You know people are talking about you, right?" She says.
"I assumed."
She raises an eyebrow. "That's it?"
I shrug. Small movement. Controlled. "Talking doesn't cost them anything." She studies me more openly now. Not rude. Assessing. "You're calm. For someone who supposedly got into something behind the gym." She says.
"Supposedly."
She laughs softly. "See? That."
"What?"
"That non-answer." She tilts her head. "Most people rush to correct the story. Or exaggerate it."
I don't reply. Silence stretches. She doesn't fill it immediately. That's interesting. Finally, she pushes off the desk and walks closer, stopping beside mine. She rests her hand on the desktop, leaning in slightly.
Close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Clean. Citrus. "Can I ask you something?" She asks.
"You already are."
Another small laugh. "Fair." She pauses, then reaches out. Her fingers brush my arm lightly, just below the sleeve of my jacket. It's not an accident. It's a test. My body registers the contact instantly.
Every nerve tightens, instinct flaring, old reflexes urging me to pull away, to create space, to assert a boundary.
I don't move.
Not a flinch. Not a shift. I keep my posture exactly as it was, eyes steady, breathing even. Time slows. I feel the warmth of her fingers through the fabric. The pressure is minimal, barely there, but the intent behind it is clear.
She's checking for fear.
For tension.
For reaction.
After a second, she withdraws her hand. Her smile changes. Satisfied. "You're calmer than you look." She says. I meet her eyes now. Just for a moment. Not challenging. Not submissive. "Looks can be managed." I say.
She hums thoughtfully. "That's dangerous thinking."
"Only if you believe appearances."
She straightens, crossing her arms loosely. "You know what people think now?"
"That I'm something I'm not." I say.
"And what are you not?"
I consider the question carefully. "Simple." I answer. That seems to amuse her. "Well, I'll let you get back to hiding." She says, grabbing her lunch from the desk behind her.
"I'm not hiding." She pauses at the door, glancing back. "Sure you are. Just not from the same things as everyone else."
Then she leaves. The room feels quieter after. Not empty, emptier. I exhale slowly, tension I didn't realize I was holding easing out of my shoulders. That could've gone differently.
If I'd flinched.
If I'd pulled away.
If I'd reacted at all.
Attention like hers isn't hostile, but it isn't neutral either. It comes with expectation. With curiosity that doesn't know where to stop. In the afternoon, I notice changes. Students who used to whisper now glance at me openly. Not often. Just enough to register.
Seo Min-ji doesn't speak to me again, but I catch her watching from across the hallway once, expression unreadable. My presence feels…elevated. Not respected. Not feared. Interesting. That's a dangerous place to be.
After school, I leave early. The hallway is crowded, energy restless. I keep to the wall, scanning corners, stairwells, blind spots. Nothing happens. That's also information.
On the walk home, I replay the lunch conversation. The touch. The way she withdrew when she got her answer. She wasn't testing my strength. She was testing my boundaries. I allowed closeness without reciprocating. No leaning in. No tension. No invitation.
That keeps the balance unclear.
At home, I sit on the floor again, back against the bed, legs stretched out carefully. The bruise aches dully, like it's reminding me not to forget it exists.
I don't.
As evening settles, my phone buzzes. A message this time.
'Unknown number.
You're interesting.
No name. No follow-up. I stare at the screen, then lock it without replying. Attention isn't always hostile. But it's never free. And now, I'm starting to feel the cost.