Mr. Choi is talking about Victorian women like they personally wronged him.
Something about restrictive expectations, rigid gender roles, and how verbs in nineteenth-century literature carried "moral weight."
He's pacing slowly at the front of the room, chalk tapping the board every few seconds, voice calm and steady like this isn't first period and like half the class isn't fighting for their lives.
I sneeze.
Hard.
The kind that snaps your spine a little and makes your soul leave your body for half a second.
I barely manage to bury my face in my sleeve before it explodes out of me. My nose burns immediately, throat scratchy, eyes watering like I've just gone through an emotional breakup with oxygen itself.
Great. Amazing. Fantastic.
Yesterday's rain is still living rent-free in my sinuses. Thanks a lot, Yu Enhyeok. Hope you're happy. Hope your bones are cold. Hope your pillow is warm on both sides forever.
I sniff, already annoyed, already miserable, already plotting mild crimes.
Mr. Choi doesn't even pause. He just keeps talking about verbs like I didn't just sound like a dying Victorian child in the back row.
I reach for a tissue, miss, knock my pen onto the floor, swear under my breath, and freeze when Mr. Choi glances vaguely in my direction.
He doesn't say anything. Just keeps going. Figures. This man once let three people sleep through an entire lesson on Shakespeare without blinking.
Another sniff. I hate everything.
From in front of me, Haerin shifts slightly. Not enough to get caught, just enough that I see her shoulder tense. A second later, her head tilts just a bit, and I catch her mouth forming words without sound.
Psst.
I lift my eyes, confused, My lips move back.
What?
Her eyes widen, the whites showing like she's about to explode with information. She leans her head to the side, pretending to stretch, and whispers so low it's basically a thought.
"Did you hear?"
I frown. Hear what? My nose runs. I hate everything.
She inhales like she's about to say something life-altering. "Jeonhwa is in the basketball team."
My brain stalls.
Like, fully blue-screens.
"…What?" I whisper back, probably too loud.
Haerin nods fast, eyes shining. "Just got confirmed this morning."
I stare at her for a second, then blink again, slower this time, like that might fix reality. "You're joking."
My brain freezes. Like actually blue-screens.
Really?
She nods again. Slow. Confirming. Evil.
I stare at the back of her head like it's going to turn around and explain itself. Jeonhwa. Basketball team. That sentence does not make sense. That sentence should not exist.
He transferred yesterday.
Yesterday.
And he's already on the basketball team?
My mind starts sprinting without my permission. He just transferred. Yesterday. He barely knows where the bathrooms are. And now he's already on the basketball team? I swallow, throat tight. So what, he's playing on Friday? Just like that?
What the hell.
I turn my head slowly to the right.
Jeonhwa's seat.
He's asleep.
Fully asleep. Face turned slightly toward the window, head resting on his folded arms like he doesn't have a single worry in the world. Hair messy in that unfair way. Breathing slow and even. Peaceful. Comfortable. Criminally calm.
I feel rage.
Pure, irrational rage.
This fucker, I think, gripping my pen harder than necessary. He knows my secret. Knows exactly who I am. Knows what I did. And he's sleeping. He's actually sleeping.
Mr. Choi drones on about verbs again, and I watch Jeonhwa not get scolded for a single second. Of course. Of course he isn't. Money definitely influences everything. There's no other explanation. If I slept like that, I'd be publicly executed.
I sneeze again, quieter this time, and curse internally.
Then—like the universe is personally invested in my suffering—I glance left.
Enhyeok.
He's sitting exactly how he always does. Straight posture. One arm resting casually on the desk. Eyes forward. Listening. Or pretending to.
His expression is neutral, unreadable, like yesterday never happened and like he didn't say something that rewired my brain chemistry in the rain.
And of course, my brain decides now is the perfect time to replay it.
That'll be hot.
I feel my ears heat up instantly. My jaw tightens.
Why the fuck did I even say that? I think, staring at the board but seeing nothing. Who does that? Who challenges someone like that? "I'll wear your jersey." What was that? Adrenaline? Temporary insanity? A cry for help?
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second.
I'm going to the match for Jiho. That part makes sense. That part is normal. But wearing Enhyeok's jersey? While cheering for Jiho? That's not a statement. That's a psychiatric evaluation waiting to happen.
It doesn't even line up. The logic is broken. The math is wrong. The universe would laugh at me.
I risk another glance at Enhyeok. He hasn't looked my way once. Not even accidentally. Like I'm not there. Like yesterday didn't end with me soaked and furious and flipping him off in public.
Good. Fine. Perfect.
I swallow and sit up straighter.
No, I tell myself. I don't back off. I don't undo things. I don't panic. I'm already panicking, but that's beside the point. I'll figure something out. There's always a way out.
I tap my pen against my notebook, pretending to write notes about Victorian verbs while my brain plots survival.
I'm mid-note, mid-sniffle, mid-mental rant about how Victorian women probably also hated mornings, when something moves in my peripheral vision.
A hand.
Sliding onto my desk.
From the right.
I flinch so hard my pen jerks a line straight through my notebook like it panicked with me. My shoulders shoot up, heart stuttering, every nerve screaming what the hell was that.
I turn my head slowly, already annoyed, already ready to bite.
It's Jeonhwa's arm.
Not him sitting up. Not him awake. Just his arm, long and annoyingly casual, stretched across the aisle onto my desk like it belongs there.
He's still slumped over his own desk, head down, breathing slow, body relaxed. Asleep. Or pretending to be. Either way, unbothered.
The arm pauses. His fingers open.
Then he pulls his hand back.
Something is left behind.
A folded piece of paper sits near my notebook like it just spawned out of thin air.
I stare at it.
Then I stare at him.
Then back at the paper.
My eyebrows pull together slowly. I don't touch it. Absolutely not. I poke it with the tip of my pen like it might explode or curse me or contain anthrax.
Nothing happens.
I sigh, irritated beyond reason, and finally pick it up with my fingers because this day has already violated me in enough ways.
I unfold it.
My eyes scan the words.
Buy me a coffee and a sandwich in the break. In 5 minutes.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Then my jaw actually drops.
I look at the paper again like maybe I hallucinated it. Like maybe the sniffles have progressed to full delusion.
He transferred yesterday.
Yesterday.
And this man—this absolute audacity in human form—just ordered me around like I'm his personal errand runner?
I whip my head to the right.
Jeonhwa has shifted. His head is no longer buried in his arms. One cheek rests against them now, face tilted toward me. His eyes are open. Awake. Sharp. Watching me like he's been waiting for this exact moment.
He smirks.
Low. Slow. Infuriating.
"Stalker," he whispers.
My entire body locks up.
Every muscle freezes like my system just hard-reset.
He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't move closer. Just looks at me, eyes amused, clearly enjoying every second of my internal collapse.
"Make it quick," he adds quietly, like this is a normal request between acquaintances and not blackmail flavored with caffeine.
I stare at him, mouth still open, words absolutely gone. In my head, I am grabbing my chair and smashing it over his skull. In reality, I am sitting perfectly still like a hostage negotiating silently with the universe.
I crumple the note.
Not neatly. Violently. The paper folds in on itself until it's a tight ball in my fist. My nails dig into my palm. I tear it once. Then again. Then again, shredding it into tiny, angry pieces like that will somehow restore my dignity.
There is no way I'm buying him anything.
No way.
I don't even know him. I don't owe him. And I hate being ordered around, especially by someone who thinks secrets are a personality trait.
The bell rings.
Sharp. Loud. Freedom.
Chairs scrape back. The room explodes into movement. Bags zip. Voices overlap. Bora's laughter drifts in from the door, and Haerin turns, already looking for me, eyes questioning.
I stand up fast, shoving the paper bits into my pocket like they might be evidence.
I take one step—
—and stop.
Something blocks my path.
I look down.
Jeonhwa's leg is stretched out, foot hooked casually around the front leg of my chair. A physical barrier. Deliberate. Lazy. Infuriating.
I look at him slowly.
He looks back, calm as ever.
"Buy me the coffee," he says under his breath, tone flat. "And the sandwich."
I lean in just enough for only him to hear me. "Over my dead body."
His smile widens, just a little. "Then I'll tell everyone you followed a boy down the street in the middle of the day."
My stomach drops.
"You won't," I whisper, voice tight.
He shrugs lightly. "Try me."
I hate that he's sure. I hate that he's comfortable. I hate that I don't know how far he'll push it.
Bora calls my name from the hallway. "Jiah! You coming?"
I close my eyes for half a second, breathe in, breathe out, and feel something bitter settle in my chest.
"Fine," I mutter. "Just this once."
His leg moves instantly, like he'd been waiting.
I grab my phone, force a smile at Bora and Haerin. "I'll catch up. Forgot something."
They nod, already distracted, and disappear into the crowd.
I bolt.
Down the stairs. Through the hallway. The steps feel endless, my legs burning like I'm eighty years old and made of regret. Students crowd the corridor, bumping shoulders, laughing, shouting.
I clutch the coffee cup and sandwich like fragile evidence, heart pounding, careful not to spill a single drop.
By the time I slow near the corner, lungs aching, my eyes catch on something small and bright near the lockers.
A hairpin.
My steps falter.
My pupils widen.
A pink bow .
__________________
DON'T FORGET TO COMMENT AND VOTE 🤍🍧