The rumor started with a vending machine.
By Monday morning, half the school was talking about how the new transfer student had nearly died in the hallway. The fact that he hadn't was apparently less interesting than the way it looked when it happened.
"Did you hear?"
"I heard it almost crushed him."
"Someone said they saw it already falling, but when they blinked, it was back in place."
Ara tried not to listen. She slipped past clusters of gossiping students, hugging her books to her chest.
She had learned to ignore rumors. Ignoring things kept her safe.
But when she stepped into her classroom and saw Kang Joon sitting at his desk like nothing had happened, a small, sharp worry crawled up her spine.
It wasn't her business if he almost got hurt. He was nothing to her.
Nothing.
"Hey."
He turned as she approached, as if he'd been waiting. "Morning."
"Morning," she replied, then, before she could stop herself, "Are you okay?"
His eyebrows lifted. "Why wouldn't I be?"
She stared at him. His uniform was neat, his face unbruised. No bandages, no sling. If there had been an accident, it hadn't left a mark.
"…Nothing," she said quickly, looking away. "Forget it."
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then he let it go. "If you're asking because of the vending machine thing, it wasn't a big deal."
So it was true.
She swallowed. "What happened?"
"Are you worried?" he asked instead, voice light.
"I'm just… curious," she lied.
His lips quirked. "I was getting a drink. The machine moved. It didn't fall. End of story."
"That's not what people are saying."
"People like to exaggerate."
He said it so casually, like his almost-accident was nothing.
Ara pressed her fingers into the edge of her desk until the wood bit into her skin.
In her mind, she could see it: metal tipping, screws slipping, weight crashing down. She'd seen enough real accidents in her nightmares to fill in the gaps.
"Did you get hurt at all?" she forced out.
His eyes flicked to her hand, then back to her face. "Do I look hurt?"
No.
He looked frustratingly fine.
The bell rang. Their teacher walked in, and the class scrambled for their seats.
As the lesson began, Ara tried to focus on the board. On formulas, on dates, on anything that wasn't the image of Kang Joon pinned under a vending machine that never actually fell.
If she had been there, would she have seen numbers counting down above his head?
The thought made her throat tighten.
But there had been nothing there.
Nothing.
Because she didn't love him.
She repeated that to herself until the words lost meaning.
During break, the classroom emptied. Her deskmate waved, heading off with friends.
Ara stayed, flipping through her notebook, pretending to review.
"Ara."
She looked up.
Kang Joon stood beside her desk, hands in his pockets.
"Come with me," he said.
Her guard went up. "Why?"
"You're curious," he said simply. "It's written all over your face. I'll show you."
"Show me what?"
"The vending machine."
She hesitated.
She shouldn't go. It had nothing to do with her.
But the missing day on her mother's timer, Jaemin's zero, and now this not-quite-accident tangled together in her chest.
She stood up. "Fine. Just for a moment."
He led the way down the hallway. The chatter of other classes faded behind them, replaced by the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the squeak of their shoes on the floor.
They turned the corner into a quieter wing of the building. The offending vending machine stood against the wall, humming innocently, as if it had never tried to kill anyone.
Ara stopped a few steps away. "This is it?"
"Disappointed?"
"Yes."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
For a moment, they just stood there.
Students walked past without sparing them a glance. Coins clinked, cans dropped. The machine did its job.
"What exactly happened?" Ara asked, staring at the metal box.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he replied.
"If you brought me here just to be vague, I'm going back."
"You're always threatening to leave, but you never do," he said mildly.
She glared at him.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms. His expression was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp.
"I put my coins in," he said. "Pressed the button. The machine whirred. Normal so far."
"Then?"
"Then it tilted."
He said it so calmly that Ara almost missed the weight of the word.
"Tilted?" she echoed.
"Like it was about to fall." He shifted his gaze to the machine, as if expecting it to move again. "I heard the screws strain. The whole thing came forward."
Her fingers clenched. "And you just stood there?"
"That's what they say." His mouth twisted slightly. "I remember moving."
"How?"
"I stepped back. Or I thought I did."
"You thought?"
He looked at her. "The next thing I knew, I was standing where I am now."
He tapped the floor with the tip of his shoe, a safe distance from the machine.
"No one shouting, no metal falling. The vending machine was upright, like it hadn't moved at all."
Her skin prickled.
"You're saying… it almost fell," she said slowly, "but when you blinked, it was back in place? Like nothing happened?"
"That's what I'm saying."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Exactly."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of the machine.
Ara's mind raced.
Accidents didn't rewind. Time didn't jump backwards. Numbers didn't change direction.
Except—her mother's timer had skipped.
Except—Jaemin's countdown had marched forward with sickening certainty.
Maybe time wasn't as straight as she thought.
"Why tell me this?" she asked quietly. "You could have laughed it off with everyone else."
"Because you're the only one who looked at me like something was wrong," he said. "Before you even heard the rumor."
Her breath caught.
He had noticed that too.
"You see things differently," he added. "I wondered what you'd think."
What she thought was that the universe had a cruel sense of humor.
She had done everything to avoid strange, dangerous things. She had followed her rule for years.
And somehow, the boy with no time was the one pulling her toward the very thing she'd tried to escape.
"I think," she said, choosing her words carefully, "that if something was going to fall on you, you should be more careful."
He blinked. "That's it?"
"What else am I supposed to say?"
"Most people say I was lucky."
"Maybe you were."
He studied her for a long moment. "Do you believe in luck, Ara?"
"I believe in numbers," she said before she could stop herself.
His gaze sharpened. "What kind of numbers?"
Her heart lurched.
Stupid.
Careless.
She forced a laugh that sounded all wrong to her own ears. "Grades. Scores. Bank accounts. The usual."
He didn't look convinced.
"I think," he said slowly, "that you and I see the world differently from everyone else."
"We don't."
"We do."
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. Not close enough to crowd her. Just close enough that she could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his lashes cast thin lines on his cheeks.
"When that machine moved," he said quietly, "I felt something."
"Felt what?"
"Like the world took a breath," he replied. "And then decided to exhale a different way."
The words made no sense, but they settled into her bones anyway.
A breath held.
A fate almost chosen.
She swallowed, throat dry.
"You think too much," she said weakly.
"I learned it from you," he answered.
He glanced once more at the vending machine, then back at her.
"If something weird happens again," he added, "I'll tell you first."
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to know," she said, clutching her books. "I don't want to be involved."
"You already are."
The simple truth of it stunned her.
She had let him drag her out of class. Let him show her the place it happened. Let him share something no one else would believe.
Whether she wanted it or not, she was involved.
"I'm going back," she muttered.
"Ara."
She paused.
He was still watching her, something unreadable in his eyes.
"If you ever feel like the world is… wrong," he said, "you can tell me too."
She almost laughed.
If she told him what she saw—the timers above her parents' heads, Jaemin's countdown, the missing day—he would either think she was insane, or worse, he would believe her.
Both options terrified her.
"I don't feel that way," she lied. "You're the strange one here, not me."
He smiled slightly. "I know."
She turned away before he could say anything else, walking back down the hallway as if the floor under her feet was steady.
But all day, the image of that vending machine tugged at her thoughts.
Something had almost happened.
Something had almost ended.
And then, somehow, it hadn't.
Her rule had always been simple:
If I don't love, they live.
Now, another thought crept in beside it, quieter but persistent:
Even if I don't love, things still change.
Even if I stay away, time still jumps. Rewinds. Breaks.
That night, Ara lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The room was dark.
Silent.
But her thoughts weren't.
Jaemin.
The numbers.
Her mother's timer skipping.
The vending machine.
The way it almost fell—
and didn't.
Something had changed.
Not just around her.
In the world itself.
Her rule had always been simple.
If I don't love, they live.
But now—
something felt wrong.
Because even when she stayed away—
things still almost broke.
Her fingers curled slightly into the blanket.
And without meaning to—
her mind drifted back to him.
Standing there.
Calm.
Unhurt.
Like nothing could touch him.
Like time itself didn't know what to do with him.
Ara turned onto her side.
No.
She shouldn't think about him.
Shouldn't get involved.
Shouldn't care.
But the thought came anyway—
quiet.
Uninvited.
Why him?
Her eyes slowly closed.
And somewhere between fear and exhaustion—
she didn't notice the answer she was avoiding.
The next day—
when she saw him again—
she didn't look above his head.
She just looked at him.
And that alone—
was enough to break something.