The classroom buzzed with an electricity far different from the hushed dread that usually filled its corners. Yoon Seongah, perched at her desk at the back, surveyed her classmates with a predatory grin. Today's game would be her masterpiece of social theater.
Seongah stood, smooth as silk in her uniform skirt and crisp blouse, and tapped a pencil against her desk.
"Alright, everyone," she called, voice dripping confidence. "Time for Confession Roulette!"
A collective sigh and a ripple of excitement ran through Class 2‑3. The rules were simple: pick a name from the hat, then stand in front of the class and confess a "fake" crush. Laughter and teasing guaranteed.
Seo-joon sat near the window, arms folded, expression neutral. His eyes tracked Seongah's every move, but he said nothing.
Seongah swept her long hair out of her face and tapped a decorated cardboard hat. Colorful hearts and glitter spelled out the game's name.
"Who wants to go first?" she cooed. Several girls volunteered eagerly. One by one, they drew names, mostly classmates with quiet crushes or little-known reputations, stepped forward, blurted absurd "confessions" ("I adore Mr. Min's mustache!"), then scampered back, cheeks flaming, amid a storm of cheers and jeers.
Finally, only one name remained in the hat. Seongah's dark eyes gleamed as she peeled the slip of paper from the brim and read it aloud:
Han Seo‑joon
A hush fell. Even the fluorescent lights seemed to dim in anticipation. Every pair of eyes locked on him.
Seongah stood and sashayed through the aisle, flicking an imaginary lock of hair. "Well, Han Seo‑joon," she purred, extending her hand theatrically, "care to tell us whom you're in love with?"
Seo-joon remained seated. His gaze met hers, unblinking. He took the proffered slip of paper, folded and refolded it slowly, as if weighing its significance.
Tension climbed. A few braver girls scoffed. "Bet it's someone crazy," one whispered. "Maybe Yuri Lee?"
Seongah crouched low, bringing her face close to his. "Tell us, Mr. Transfer. Who's the lucky girl?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The room leaned forward as though they could witness his very thoughts.
"I don't play games," he said softly, voice carrying the weight of a verdict.
Seongah's lips twitched in surprise, no one had refused outright before. She straightened and crossed her arms. "Oh? And here I thought everyone liked a little fun."
Seo-joon stood, slipping the paper into his pocket. "Your game is a clown show," he said, voice flat. "I'm not interested."
A stunned silence. Then laughter, sharp and mocking, broke out, every eye turned to Seongah. Their laughter wasn't warm; it was triumphant, hungry. She straightened her posture, shoulders squared.
"Fine," she snapped, voice brittle. "Don't want to play? Be a spectator, then." She waved her hand, dismissing him like a bad joke.
The rest of the class hooted and clapped. Seongah's cheeks flared red, but she held her ground. Instead of crumpling, she lifted her chin and met Seo-joon's eyes with a spark of challenge.
As the game resumed, the energy shifted. The confessions that followed felt smaller, flatter, nothing could recapture the shock of his refusal. Finally, the bell rang, and the class emptied in a rush of gossip and lingering glances.
Seongah gathered her things slowly, her composure a mask over her fury, and something else: curiosity. She watched Seo‑joon pick up his bag at the door, listening politely to a fellow student's question about the game.
Once he walked out, she slid from her desk. A hesitant voice called after him, but he didn't turn.
She caught up in the hallway, heart pounding. "Han… Seo‑joon!" She fell into step beside him. His pace didn't change, but she cleared her throat. "About earlier, I… apologize. That got out of hand."
He glanced at her, expression unreadable. "You wanted attention," he said simply. "You have it."
Seongah's breath caught. "I-" She stopped. There was no snark in his tone, only observation. She bit her lip. "You're not like the others."
He shrugged lightly. "I'm not like most people."
She slowed, matching his stride, then stopped in front of him. "Why say that? Why risk looking like, like a fool?"
Seo-joon paused, considering. "Because your game was a test. I don't waste my time on tests."
Her chest tightened. She had never wanted a test, only control. And yet… what if this boy could never be controlled? The idea sent a rush of adrenaline through her.
Seongah's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "What are you, then?"
Seo-joon met her gaze, the hallway noise fading around them. "Someone who's done pretending."
She studied his profile, sharp jaw, dark eyes, restless tension in his shoulders. Intrigue flickered into something deeper, more personal.
"Then… maybe you can teach me," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Teach you what?"
"To stop pretending," Seongah replied, a small, genuine smile breaking through. "But only if you want to."
He considered her for a long moment, then nodded once. "Maybe."
Seongah paused at the classroom door, her hand still on the knob, and turned back to him. The corridor had emptied slightly, just a few stragglers hurrying to their next period. She studied him, as though trying to read a code written in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.
"What do you want in return?" she asked quietly, almost too soft to hear.
Seo-joon met her gaze evenly. "Nothing," he replied after a moment. "I don't make deals."
Her brow furrowed. "Then why agree at all?"
He slid a hand into his pocket, thumb brushing against the folded edge of the note she'd forced him to keep. "Because I'm curious."
Seongah's breath caught. Curiosity: a dangerous thing in her world of certainty and control. And yet…
"Curious how?" she prodded.
He shrugged, that effortless gesture that made her feel oddly exposed. "To see if you can actually stop pretending."
Her heart hammered. She forced a laugh that came out hollow. "You know, most people pretend because it's safer."
"Not always," he said. His voice was low and calm, but it carried an undercurrent of something far stronger, something like conviction. "Sometimes it takes more courage to be yourself."
Her chest tightened at the unexpected sincerity. No one had ever said that to her, in public, or in private.
A bell rang in the distance, reminding them both of time slipping away. Seongah straightened her uniform skirt and smiled, a real smile this time, hesitant but bright.
"All right, Mr. Transfer," she said, voice regaining its playful lilt. "I accept your challenge. But don't think this means I'll go easy on you."
He allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She turned the knob then, but paused again. For a fleeting second, she looked genuinely uncertain, as if she wanted to say something more. But the moment passed. With a nod, she stepped inside the classroom and closed the door softly behind her.
Seo-joon stood alone in the corridor, the echo of her footsteps fading. He exhaled slowly, then reached up to push his hair back from his forehead, an unconscious gesture of relief or anticipation, he didn't know which.
As he walked away toward his next class, his thoughts were uncharacteristically unsettled. Seongah had always been someone who wielded power effortlessly; now she was offering him a different kind of power, the power of honest connection.
A small weight lifted in his chest at the thought. Maybe teaching her to stop pretending could teach him the same.
Seo-joon paused by his locker, sliding the "Confession Roulette" slip from his pocket. He stared at the word "Clown" someone had scrawled next to his name in black ink. Then he tore the paper in half, dropped it in the bin, and closed the locker.
He walked toward the next class, shoulders straight, silent, but not alone.
...
The rooftop was quiet, the sounds of the school muffled beneath layers of concrete and distance. A soft breeze tugged at the hems of the school flag above, fluttering weakly against the cloudy sky. Joo Yu-rim sat curled into herself near the edge, knees drawn up to her chest, hoodie pulled over her head despite the humid spring air.
Her breathing was shallow.
Another gym class avoided.
Another day evading whispers, stares, footsteps that always seemed too close behind.
She hadn't planned on being found. She was good at hiding. Especially here.
But the door creaked open.
She didn't flinch, though her fingers dug harder into the fabric of her sleeves.
Footsteps, steady, unhurried. Then silence.
She glanced sideways.
Han Seo-joon stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the sky, not her. He didn't ask what she was doing. Didn't comment on the absence of her gym uniform. Didn't make some crude joke or smug observation.
He just walked over and sat beside her. Not close, but not far either.
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, but unfamiliar.
Yu-rim closed her eyes.
It had been a long time since someone didn't expect anything from her.
...
[Flashback – Three Years Ago]
The hallway lights in her old elementary school were tinted yellow and smelled of mop water. She walked slower than usual, trying to drag out time.
Her homeroom was at the far end. She could already hear the laughter.
Yu-rim clutched the drawing she had made in art class, a portrait of her mother holding her as a baby. Crayons smeared the edges, but she had tried hard to make the smiles just right.
It had been Parent Observation Day. But her mom hadn't come.
"I'll make her happy after school," Yu-rim whispered, squeezing the picture.
She opened the door.
They were waiting.
"Hey, it's the crybaby again."
"She smells weird."
"What's that? A baby drawing?"
Hands snatched the paper before she could react. The drawing ripped in two.
"You think your mom would even want this? I heard she works at that bar. My dad said she's always with different men."
Yu-rim stood frozen. Her throat locked up. She wanted to scream, to hit them, to say it wasn't true.
But the teacher was looking the other way.
So she did what she always did.
She stayed quiet.
Now, years later, the rooftop was silent again.
But different.
Seo-joon said nothing. He leaned back on his elbows, eyes half-lidded against the overcast sky.
She finally spoke.
"They follow me after school."
His eyes moved toward her, just barely.
"They think I don't notice," she continued. "But I do. I always do."
A pause.
"I know."
His voice was low, even. No pity, no surprise.
She turned to him, studying his profile. He looked older when he wasn't looking at anyone.
"Why did you come here?" she asked.
"Needed quiet."
"...You could've used the library."
He shrugged. "Didn't want to be around people."
Yu-rim let out a breath that was almost a laugh. It trembled on the way out.
"You're weird."
"So are you."
She blinked. No malice. No judgment. Just a flat truth, delivered plainly.
And then, for the first time in months, her lips lifted slightly.
A smile, brief and flickering like a candle in wind.
...
The class was buzzing by the time they returned. Seo-joon entered a few seconds after Yu-rim, and though they didn't walk together, the space between them was too short to be coincidence.
It didn't go unnoticed.
"Wait, was she with him?"
"They came in from the same door."
"No way… you think they're...?"
Theories bloomed like weeds.
Joo Yu-rim sat in her usual spot. But her posture was subtly different, less folded in on herself, less invisible.
Seo-joon, as usual, dropped into his seat next to Yuri Lee without comment.
But even Yuri seemed to notice something was different. She glanced at Yu-rim, then at Seo-joon.
The classroom's mood was shifting.
Han Seo-joon didn't talk, didn't smile, didn't insert himself.
But wherever he went, trouble began to hesitate.
...
[Seo-joon's Internal POV – After School]
He walked with his hands in his pockets, cutting through the side alley behind the school. The sky had turned gray-blue, the first signs of twilight pressing down on the rooftops.
Each footstep echoed a little louder when there was no one else around.
He liked that.
Silence gave him time to process.
Joo Yu-rim exhibits heightened hyper-awareness. Common signs of trauma response: monitoring footfalls, consistent checking of surroundings, preference for isolated spaces.
He paused to adjust his notebook.
Doesn't respond to kindness with expectation, only suspicion. Conditioned not to trust it.
He recalled the slight curve of her lips, the ghost of a smile that had slipped past her defenses.
Vulnerability surfaced briefly. Trust, potentially forming.
He turned the corner, boots scraping gravel.
Also... she's not alone anymore.
He didn't write that part.
But he thought about it.
Thought about how Yuri had started to glance at him during class. How Yu-rim spoke, however briefly. How even the class bullies were whispering instead of sneering.
He wasn't trying to change anything.
He didn't see himself as a protector.
But he knew what it felt like to be the one everyone avoided.
The one rumors swallowed whole.
And when he looked at them, Yuri, Yu-rim, he didn't see broken girls.
He saw reflection.
He stopped by a vending machine, slid in a few coins, and pressed the button for coffee milk. The can thudded into the slot below.
He took a slow sip.
Warm. Sweet. Comforting in a way that made his stomach tighten.
People don't want to be saved. They want to be seen.
Seo-joon tilted his head up, watching the clouds churn.
He wasn't here to rescue anyone.
But he could listen.
He could stay.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
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Thanks for reading. You can also give me ideas for the future or pinpoint plot holes that I may have forgotten, if you want.