Ji-ah presses her back against the cold bathroom tiles, knees drawn up, backpack clutched tight. Her short black hair sticks to her neck, damp from sweat, and the fluorescent lights above flicker, buzzing like a mocking echo of all the laughter she endures.
"She's pathetic."
Yoon-hee's voice cuts through the hum, smooth and sharp. Behind her, a chorus of giggles follows, circling like vultures. Her long pink hair falls over her pale shoulders, dark yellow eyes glinting with that smile that never reaches her eyes. Ji-ah doesn't flinch. Not anymore.
From the stall next to hers, a few of Yoon-hee's new friends climb onto the toilet, holding a trash bin. The bag inside has a cut; juice leaks through, stinking of rotten lunches and expired orange juice.
They tip it over.
The bag falls first, bursting on Ji-ah's head. Warm, sticky liquid runs down her face, into her hair, soaking her uniform. She gags.
The girls laugh, phones out, snapping photos. "She's such a whore!" one girl shrieks. Another cackles, "Did you see her uniform? Gross!" The words sting sharper than the juice running down her skin.
Ji-ah stays still. She has learned screaming only makes it worse.
Finally, the girls leave, still giggling, reviewing the photos they've already taken.
Ji-ah wipes at her face with trembling hands, but the stench and shame stick. She presses her forehead to her knees, breath shallow, heart hammering.
Yoon-hee lingers, steps slow, deliberate. Then she turns, a smile curving her lips—not satisfied, not done.
Her dark yellow eyes glint, like she's savoring every moment of Ji-ah's humiliation.
Without another word, she walks away, leaving the bathroom smelling of juice, sweat, and the faint sting of vaping smoke lingering in the air.
Ji-ah slumps against the tiles for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle around her.
Relief is fragile, fleeting—because home offers no safety either.
The moment she opens the door, the house hits her like a wave: the sharp, intoxicating smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and the lingering stench of her soaked uniform. Her father sprawls in his chair, cards scattered across the table, friends laughing and cheering around him.
Betting slips litter the floor like dead leaves.
Some of his friends glance at her, eyes roaming in a way that makes her stomach twist. Their leers are quick, crude, and full of unspoken suggestion.
She shrinks back instinctively, wishing the ground would swallow her.
"Late," her father mutters, voice rough and impatient, nose wrinkling at the smell clinging to her. "And what's that? You're making the house worse." His anger presses down on her chest, suffocating and familiar.
Her mother's absence presses harder than his words.
Illness took her long ago, leaving shadows and silence behind—shadows that follow Ji-ah even here.
She drops her bag on the bed, uniform still damp and sticky, the smell of juice clinging to her. She hasn't showered yet, but she can't bring herself to care.
Her eyes fall on the unfinished novel she always returns to. Its pages feel fragile, like the only thing holding her together in a world that keeps breaking her.
Sleep doesn't come easily.
Shadows shift at the edges of her vision, fleeting and silent. Whispers curl just beyond reach, words she can barely catch, teasing and slipping through her mind.
One figure lingers longer than the rest—pale, hair like liquid white, eyes blacker than ink.
It doesn't move, doesn't speak, but it feels free in a way she isn't.
For a moment, she almost feels it too.
Morning comes too soon. The figure is gone. The world is the same—small, heavy, cruel.
But for a heartbeat, she feels… weightless.