Nari Kang believed some things in life were better folded than spoken.
Like paper cranes.
Her window sill was home to hundreds of them—tiny wings frozen mid-flight, tucked into a glass jam jar that used to smell like strawberries. They weren't made from fancy origami paper, but from candy wrappers, test paper corners, receipts, even an old love letter she never sent. Each one held a wish.
She hadn't reached a thousand yet. And she wasn't in a rush.
Some people wished on stars.
Nari folded her wishes by hand.
She smiled as she pressed the final crease of a crane, then scribbled in her notebook:
"Wish #433: I hope I never stop smiling like this".
Her room was a beautiful kind of mess. Sticky notes with doodles, math awards forgotten under books, and a shelf lined with novels she always meant to read.
She pinned her school badge to her uniform—Class President. Top of the class. School sweetheart. It still felt weird sometimes, like wearing shoes one size too big.
Downstairs, as always, chaos reigned.
"Nari!" her brother shouted from the kitchen. "If you're late again, I'm not writing your fake sick note!"
"You're the reason I burned my toast last week!" she yelled back, grabbing her bag.
"You weren't supposed to make toast while straightening your hair!"
She laughed. The house always sounded like this—bickering, laughter, love layered beneath sarcasm. Her blazer still smelled like cherry shampoo and fabric softener. She tied her hair into its usual side ponytail and gave the crane jar a quick tap for luck.
Then she stepped out into spring.
School was loud. Alive.
Students flocked through the gates. Boys with oversized backpacks, girls with ribboned hair fixing each other's bangs by the windows. Laughter bounced off walls. Nari waved at the security guard—he gave her a fond smile.
She was halfway to the school steps when she saw him.
Choeng San.
He stood alone, arms crossed over a black hoodie, jeans faded and torn at the knees. No uniform. No care.
Just a stare that seemed to cut through the crowd—cut through her.
Nari stopped in her tracks. Her heart jumped, though she didn't know why.
She stepped forward, voice steady but light.
"San, you're not wearing your uniform."
He didn't look at her.
"I don't have to," he said, cold and clipped.
"You do," she said gently. "It's school rules."
He scoffed, the sound bitter. "Rules don't mean anything when your family's the one breaking everything that mattered."
Her brows furrowed, her stomach twisting.
"What do you mean?"
His eyes met hers for the first time. Dark. Stormy. Familiar in a way that made no sense.
"You don't get to talk to me, Kang," he said. "Not after everything."
She blinked. "I don't even know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't." His sneer was sharp. "Your family owns this town now."
That stung. Not just the words—but the venom behind them.
"San, don't talk about my family like that," she said, voice soft but firm. "Please—just wear the uniform."
"Don't tell me what to do."
Then he shoved past her.
She stumbled, caught off guard, but reached out, grabbing his sleeve.
"Wait—"
He yanked away. His eyes flared—raw, angry.
"I hate you," he said. Barely above a whisper.
But it hit harder than a scream.
And then he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, leaving her frozen at the front steps.
Nari didn't move for a long moment.
Her hand hovered in the air like it was still reaching for something. Her heart was pounding—not because he said he hated her, but because she didn't understand why.
It didn't make sense.
They'd never spoken before. Not really.
She knew his name. Knew he used to smile, once. She'd heard whispers in the halls—about his father, the accident, the coma. His mother falling sick after. Quiet things people said when they thought no one was listening.
But none of it explained this.
That look. That anger.
Like he'd been waiting to say those words.
They weren't friends. They weren't anything.
So why did it feel like he hated her for something she didn't even know she did?
She stepped away from the stairs, the morning sun suddenly too warm. Her blazer weighed heavier on her shoulders, her "Class President" badge cold against her chest.
What did I do?
She had no answer. Only questions. And the strange, aching sense that somehow—without knowing it—she'd walked into the middle of someone else's story.