The room was full, but you couldn't really call it lively. The air conditioner spat out artificial wind, a soulless breeze that only stirred loose papers and stray hair, as if it could somehow blow life into the collective corpse that was the class.
The dry sound of pages being flipped without conviction mixed with the muffled clicks of cell phones hidden under desks, disguised by strategically placed bags.
A secret rhythm everyone pretended not to hear, but loud enough to betray the apathy in the air.
Some students pretended to write, scribbling meaningless words, as if the movement of the pen alone was enough to fool themselves. Most just stared at the board with empty eyes, pupils lost somewhere between the marker's ink and absolute nothing.
It felt like just showing up physically was enough to fulfill their social role: be there, breathe, take up space. The professor at the front spoke in a flat monotone, carried more by the habit of repeating the same lesson every semester than by any trace of conviction.
I was in my usual spot, at the farthest edge of the room. College had already taught me this was the perfect place for anyone who likes to look invisible.
Not that I really was invisible — of course not. But it's easier to pretend you're part of the furniture.
That corner gave me silence, shade, and a natural barrier against unnecessary questions.
Meanwhile, my eyes drifted to the window. Seoul's sky, gray and heavy, threatened rain; a liquid weight ready to fall.
I preferred looking out there; at least the sky was honest enough to look as tired as I felt. More sincere than the people inside this room.
There was this invisible routine binding everyone together: wake up early, rush to class, drink too much coffee, cram into the subway, go home, repeat the next day.
A choreography everyone repeated, and no one resisted. Like invisible strings dragging each person down the same path.
I sometimes wonder if I'm the only one who notices, or just the only one who bothers to look.
The world, to me, has always felt a little too fake; or maybe I'm the fake one among everyone else. Hard to say.
"Yo, Haejun-ssi."
The side character in my life called me back. Dong Minseok, always carrying that friendly vibe, like the whole world was one big group therapy session and he was the official facilitator.
He gave a half-smile, leaning on the desk before speaking.
"Did you write down the last part?"
"I did… but I'm not sure it's worth reading, Minseok-ssi," I answered in a calm, almost sleepy tone, like I had just woken up.
Thinking too much sometimes left me like that — half-distant and numb.
He laughed, unsure if I was joking or just dismissing him.
"Either way, send it to me later, yeah?"
"Sure," I nodded before he even finished his sentence, already turning my eyes back to the window.
The professor was still up there, indifferent, used to the social buzzing of the class.
Exchanges like that always leave me with the same feeling: pointless and shallow, like oil poured on an old gear just to keep it turning a little longer.
Nothing against Dong Minseok, but I don't see a reason to invest in a conversation that changes nothing.
College life — the thing I was supposedly meant to be grateful for — was nothing more than a cheap stage play. Tired characters repeating memorized lines, all waiting for the curtain to drop fast.
If anyone asked me, I'd probably say something like: "I just find it funny how everyone's rushing to end up in the same place."
But no one ever asked.
Only then did class end, marked by that collective sound of chairs dragging and muffled sighs.
It was always funny to watch how everyone freed themselves at the same time, like the end of class was the release of temporary prisoners.
A rehearsed relief, almost perfectly in sync.
I closed my book without hurry. There was nothing in there I'd actually reread later, but the act of closing it mattered for appearances. A hollow ritual, but socially acceptable.
That's when I noticed Kim Jiwon moving toward Dong Minseok's desk.
Loud and smiling, the kind of person who seems to carry the sun in his pocket even on cloudy days. He looked like the embodiment of the energy the class never had, walking down the hall as if the corridor were a stage built just for him.
Today, though, something was off. The smile was still there, but it trembled at the edges. A thin coat of polish, like glossy paint covering deep cracks.
He'd been away for days since his older sister died. Isolate, no more of his usual laughs, no more of those over-the-top invites that typically filled the silence.
Kim Jiwon was the sort of guy who turned every moment into a show, but suddenly he'd disappeared as if swallowed by grief.
And now he popped up out of nowhere, calling the group to hang out: him, Dong Minseok, Yi Yerin… and me, dragged along by the same invisible force that keeps planets in orbit.
Social gravity.
I didn't really know his sister well. I remember seeing her a few times at random get-togethers, always with that easy glow people have when they know how to fill a room.
Personalities that light up a space and outshine people like me.
But when Kim Jiwon suggested meeting up today, I saw something cross his face: a barely noticeable flicker where he faltered.
A short insecurity, followed by regret. Like, at the exact moment he invited us, he wondered if maybe he was making a mistake.
Most people wouldn't notice. But of course I did.
And that's when my cursed mind starts working.
Grief triggers a bunch of strange reactions. People say it only hurts, but that's not true. It also eats away at you and reshapes you. The brain, in shock, dumps excess cortisol, serotonin tanks, sleep breaks into pieces.
Reactions vary: some get aggressive, like cornered animals. Others dive into meaningless distractions, trying to fill every empty minute. And there are those who fall into vices, trying to quiet the noise inside.
It's weird to watch the human body react to suffering like an infection: always trying to survive, even if clumsily.
And Kim Jiwon looked like someone about to do something really stupid on a large scale.
Next to me, Dong Minseok seemed calm. Big and muscular, the kind of guy who makes you feel safe just by being there. Who acts too kind for his own good.
He could probably handle one or two people in a fight, but he wouldn't prioritize protecting me. He'd pick Yi Yerin without a second thought.
Nice picture of chivalry. Useful for her, useless for me.
But if I used them as a distraction… maybe I could make it work. Not classy, I know. But survival is never classy.
And at least I'd make sure to avenge their deaths afterwards, if it came to that. A twisted sense of justice, but enough to settle my nonexistent conscience.
Or maybe nothing would happen. Maybe it was all just my bored mind staging scenarios where every person shows their rotten side and sacrifices others without blinking.
Maybe I should stop assuming everyone hides some secret cruelty, just waiting for the right moment to show itself.
Maybe Kim Jiwon just wanted to go out and forget for a few hours, to pretend life was light again.
Or maybe not.
We left the classroom as a group that, to any outsider, looked like just another trio of ordinary college students.
In the middle of the hallway we found Yi Yerin already waiting for us, always punctual. Of course she'd gotten Kim Jiwon's message earlier and adjusted her plans accordingly.
She smiled with the polite kind, not as wide as Kim Jiwon's, but still the sort that says, "I belong here." Perfect for fitting in, subtle enough not to seem forced.
She'd probably practiced that smile as many times as I'd practiced mine.
"Kim Jiwon, you disappear for days and now you just show up out of nowhere inviting everyone to hang out?" Yi Yerin tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her tone balanced between curiosity and mild scolding.
"Yeah, I know," Kim Jiwon raised his hands like he was surrendering, laughing. "I needed some time, but I'm back. And seriously, I couldn't stand being locked in my room anymore."
"You should've used that time to review the material," she sighed, heavy with the kind of obviousness that comes from saying it more than once. "Midterms are earlier this semester. If you keep leaving things to the last minute, you're going to regret it."
"Grades, grades, grades," Kim Jiwon pulled a theatrical face. "Life can't just be about that, right? What's the point of getting an A in calculus if I can laugh with you guys right now?"
Dong Minseok laughed too, cutting in before the tone could shift into an argument.
"He's got a point, Yerin. Relaxing matters too. You study so much you almost sound like a substitute teacher."
Yi Yerin sighed and shook her head.
"You guys should take this more seriously. Grades aren't just about transcript, they matter for internships, grad school, jobs… everything. People forget this is the time when you build the foundation."
"And people forget life isn't just exams, Yerin," Kim Jiwon laced his hands behind his head as he walked, acting out his own lightness.
Dong Minseok laughed again, the effortless mediator.
"You two always end up in this kind of debate. In the end, everyone just has their own way of handling things, right?"
And so they went on, talking in predictable harmony, like a trio that had rehearsed. Voices blending into the same rhythm, like strings of the same instrument.
"Hey, Haejun-ssi." It was Kim Jiwon who broke the flow, suddenly remembering my unfortunate existence. "You're way too quiet. What are you thinking about?"
I lifted my eyes slowly, looking at the trio.
"Just the weather… looks like it's going to rain soon."
They laughed. Simple, unsuspecting. To them, I was just the quiet classmate, too distracted to matter.
And I let it stay that way. It was easy to be invisible while everyone else was busy with their own distractions.
...
The restaurant Kim Jiwon picked to take us to wasn't anything special, and maybe that was exactly the point.
It was one of those places you find on every corner in Seoul. Always kind of crowded, always noisy, always carrying that smell of hot oil that sticks to your clothes for hours afterward.
The wooden tables were worn down, scratched with the names of couples who had probably already broken up, and the chairs creaked at the slightest shift.
Voices overlapped in waves: louder groups talking over each other, bursts of laughter, silverware clinking against metal plates. A messy symphony of ordinary life.
The four of us sat at a table by the window, where I could see the streetlights growing brighter as night settled in.
The waiter, moving quickly with a tired expression, dropped plastic menus in front of us, bent and greasy with an invisible film that seemed permanent.
They were physical proof of how many groups like ours had sat there before, performing the same social play.
Kim Jiwon, of course, was the first to break the silence. He couldn't handle silence for more than a few seconds.
"I'm getting bulgogi. Meat always helps recharge your energy, right?" He said it with enthusiasm that almost sounded genuine.
Dong Minseok just smiled, answering predictably.
"I'll go with that too."
As expected. You need plenty of protein to sustain muscles that seemed to exist more to reassure others than for himself.
"I'll take jjigae," Yi Yerin replied without lifting her eyes from the menu. "I need something with more nutrients."
I didn't have any preferences. I ended up ordering the simplest thing: ramyeon. A choice that, in its own way, fit perfectly with my role in that group.
The conversation started out light, almost rehearsed. It was like everyone had silently agreed to keep things easy — a quiet pact not to drift into uncomfortable depths.
Jokes about professors who talked too much, complaints about the crowded, slow subway, comments about TV shows no one actually had time to watch but everyone mentioned anyway just to sound normal.
I let myself laugh here and there, just enough so I wouldn't seem like a ghost at the table.
But, inevitably, Kim Jiwon broke the rhythm. He never allowed long stretches of normalcy.
"So…" he began, leaning back in his chair with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Do you guys ever plan on starting a relationship someday?"
His tone sounded casual, but his eyes gave him away. They weren't on me. Not on Yi Yerin either. They were locked on Dong Minseok, sharp and deliberate. A calculated jab disguised as a joke.
"Me?" Dong Minseok laughed, scratching the back of his neck with that mild embarrassment that came so naturally to him. "I don't know, I don't really think about that right now. I'm focused on classes, on training…"
"Training," Kim Jiwon repeated the word like he was tasting it, one eyebrow raised. "You always have an excuse ready."
"It's not an excuse," Dong Minseok countered, still smiling, trying to defuse the jab before it could turn into something bigger.
Yi Yerin, meanwhile, pretended to look at her phone, but her ears gave her away. It was obvious the two of them had feelings for each other, stuck in their little play of mutual denial.
Pride, fear, or just inexperience — take your pick. I could almost bet how many weeks it would take before one of them broke the ice.
I was, of course, included in the question too, but any answer from me would've been irrelevant. My practical experience in that field was basically nonexistent.
What I had came from cheap self-help books and clinical observation of failed couples, more a study of dysfunction than romance.
"Maybe, if it's statistically inevitable."
A phrase vague and generic enough to fit any context, absurd enough to pass as irony.
They laughed, exactly as I expected. I smiled too, pretending that had been my intention all along.
In that atmosphere, time moved at an almost comfortable pace. The laughter blended with the metallic clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the repetitive sound of pots being stacked, and orders being shouted over the murmur of voices in the dining room.
It was an ordinary scene, but with just the right amount of noise to cover up awkward silences.
It was in the middle of one of those rounds of silly jokes — the kind everyone knew weren't actually funny but filled space and simulated normalcy — that Kim Jiwon finally revealed the card he'd been hiding.
"After this, I've got a place to take you guys. Nothing serious, just… I think it'll be fun."
The words dropped onto the table like a stone thrown into calm water. Nobody reacted right away, and for a few seconds the only sound was the clinking of silverware.
I glanced at my wrist which had the pendant and my watch.
The hands on the clock were already tilting dangerously toward night. Time, the most relentless judge. A rational part of me wanted to object right then.
To say it was late, that the day had been too long, that my patience with the social performance had run out. But the words didn't come.
Because there was a problem. Objecting would make me stand out. It would be like turning a spotlight on myself on a stage where I was only ever meant to be an extra.
And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that attention is the first step to questions. Questions lead to judgment, and judgment is dangerous.
I needed someone else to take that role, and my best bet was Yi Yerin. She was predictable that way.
Her life ran in a straight line of schedules, timetables, reviews, and almost military discipline. Study, sleep, meals… everything organized like the gears of a Swiss watch.
So naturally, any suggestion that threatened the carefully built order of her day should have triggered resistance.
For a moment, it looked like that's exactly what would happen. Her eyes dropped to her phone, like she was checking something. His lips pursed slightly with a silent calculation underway.
I could almost see the word "no" forming. One more second and it would be out.
But then, as always, other people's unpredictability ruined my plan.
"Good idea, Jiwon," Dong Minseok said before Yi Yerin could open her mouth. "It's been a while since we went out like this. Where were you thinking of taking us?"
That answer landed like a final stamp. Kim Jiwon's smile opened up immediately, wide and relieved, like the approval he'd been waiting to hear from the start.
"You'll like it. It's a surprise."
And inevitably, Yi Yerin's decision shifted. She took a breath, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and forced a small, calculated smile.
"If Minseok is okay with it, then I'll go too."
And with that, three votes were sealed.
Social pressure doesn't need to be written down to be stronger than any law. It's an invisible but crushing force.
Being the only one to refuse at that table would be like ripping off your mask and admitting you didn't belong. Exclusion wouldn't just be likely — it would be certain.
And as much as I like to pretend I'm above that kind of thing, the truth is humans are social creatures.
Even someone like me, who likes to think he's beyond needing affection, feels the weight of loneliness sometimes. No one's immune.
"Fine with me too," the words came out short and quick, with a half-smile I hoped would be convincing enough to end it.
With that, the atmosphere realigned. Kim Jiwon took the conversation back with his usual ease, steering the group toward light comments, as if nothing had happened.
Laughter was pulled back out, the kitchen noise resumed its place, and on the surface we were just four young people enjoying the night.
But under the table, my move was different. I reached for the pair of chopsticks resting on the table and slid them discreetly into my coat pocket, so no one would notice.
A small gesture, almost insignificant. But not to me.
Maybe it was paranoia, something I reluctantly admit happens more often than is healthy, but every part of me whispered that if there was any place I might need an improvised weapon, it would be at one of Kim Jiwon's "surprise plans."
And if his laughter hid something more than sadness, I wouldn't be caught empty-handed.
At worst, I'd have one more awkward moment when I realized it was only another random paranoia of mine.