The classroom smells like disinfectant and old paper when I step in.
Morning light cuts through the windows at an angle that makes the dust visible. It hangs in the air, slow and suspended, like nothing in this place ever fully settles. Chairs are still out of place from cleaning.
A few desks are crooked. Someone's bag is already under a seat that isn't theirs.
I scan automatically.
Front rows are filling first, same as always. The kids who want to be seen arrive early. They sit straight, pull out books they won't open, and make small talk that sounds like it was practiced the night before.
Middle rows fill in clusters. Groups, not individuals. Laughter that overlaps, hands slapping shoulders, shoes hooked around chair legs. Energy spreads sideways here, not forward.
The back row is last.
That's where I go.
Right side. Third desk from the window. Same spot as yesterday. I slide my bag down carefully, making sure it doesn't scrape too loudly against the metal leg. Noise draws eyes. Eyes invite interest.
I sit.
The wall presses lightly against my shoulder blade. I adjust my posture until it's even. Not slouched enough to look weak. Not straight enough to look defiant. Neutral costs less.
I breathe out through my nose and let my gaze drop to the desk.
Prepared for inconvenience.
That's my baseline now.
The bell hasn't rung yet, but the room is already loud. Not chaotic. Confident. Conversations overlap without clashing, like everyone knows how far they can push before it becomes a problem.
I listen without looking.
Someone complains about homework. Someone else laughs about a video from last night. A chair tips back, catches itself. Sneakers squeak against tile as someone leans too far. I catalog it all.
Who's here early.
Who's late.
Who sits alone.
Who sits with their back exposed.
Min Sang-ho comes in five minutes before the bell. I don't look at him directly, but I know it's him by the way the noise bends when he enters. He doesn't need to announce himself. People make space without realizing they're doing it.
He's small. Not short, but narrow. All sharp movements and restless energy. The kind of kid who's loud because silence makes him nervous.
He laughs too hard at something someone says. Slaps a desk as he passes. Kicks a chair leg out of alignment and doesn't bother fixing it.
He's hunting for a reaction.
I keep my eyes on the grain of the desk. There's a shallow scratch near the corner. Someone carved their initials into it years ago, then scratched them out. Min Sang-ho drifts closer.
I feel him before I see him. A shift in the air. A pause in the noise around me. Someone nearby goes quiet, like they're holding their breath. I don't move. My pulse stays steady. Slow enough to keep thinking.
He stops at the desk in front of mine. Leans back against it with his hip. The chair creaks under the sudden weight.
"Yo." He says to no one in particular. No response. He pushes off the desk and turns sideways. That's when it happens. His knee clips the corner of my desk. Not hard.
Just enough.
The metal leg scrapes against the floor with a short, sharp sound. My desk jolts. The edge bumps into my thigh. I register everything at once. Angle. Force. Intent. This isn't an accident.
I lift my eyes.
Min Sang-ho is already looking at me.
He's smiling.
Not wide. Not friendly. Just enough to show he's waiting. Around us, the room shifts. Conversations thin out. A few heads turn, then stop turning, like they don't want to be caught watching.
Public eyes.
This isn't about me. It's about entertainment. I take in the details fast. Min Sang-ho's posture is loose, but his shoulders are raised slightly. Anticipation. His weight is on his back foot. Ready to move if he needs to.
Two desks over, a guy I recognize from the middle-left cluster is watching openly. Elbows on the desk, chin resting on his hands. Curious.
Near the window, a girl pauses mid-sentence, eyes flicking toward us before snapping back to her friend. She doesn't want to be involved, but she wants to know how it ends.
The teacher isn't here yet. No authority buffer. I have three options.
React. Say something sharp. Push back verbally, maybe physically if he escalates.
Ignore it. Pretend it didn't happen.
Or defuse it.
Reacting costs the most. Even if I win the exchange, I lose anonymity. People remember defiance. They test it again. Ignoring it looks weak if done wrong. Silence can be read as fear, and fear attracts worse things.
Defusing costs pride. Pride is cheap compared to safety.
I breathe in slowly. Count two seconds. Long enough to show I noticed. Not long enough to look stunned.
Then I speak.
"Sorry."
My voice is calm. Level. Loud enough for him to hear, not loud enough to carry. I reach down and slide my desk back into place. Carefully. The metal leg scrapes again, but softer this time. Controlled.
I don't look at his face when I do it. I keep my eyes on my hands.
No sarcasm. No edge.
Just an apology.
For half a second, nothing happens. That half-second stretches. I can feel the room leaning in. Waiting to see if he takes it. Min Sang-ho blinks. It's subtle, but I catch it. He wasn't expecting that.
He laughs, sharp and sudden. "Watch where you're sitting, man." A few people chuckle. Not loud. Nervous laughter. The kind that follows cues. I nod once. Small. Accepting.
"Yeah. My bad." I say.
That's it.
I turn my attention back to my desk. Open my notebook. Pick up my pen. The moment ends. Noise seeps back into the room like air filling a vacuum. Conversations resume. Someone behind me exhales loudly, like they'd been holding it in.
Min Sang-ho lingers for another second.
I don't look up.
Eventually, he moves on. Kicks another chair leg. Says something to someone near the aisle. The sound of his laughter drifts away.
But the room doesn't fully forget.
I feel it in the way people glance at me when they think I'm not looking. The way someone whispers something, and another person snorts.
Laughter follows. So does memory. The bell rings. Sharp. Clean. The teacher walks in late, same as yesterday. Drops his bag on the desk. Clears his throat. Starts talking like nothing happened.
I take notes. Not because I care about the material, but because writing gives my hands something to do. Stillness is harder when adrenaline hasn't fully drained.
My thigh aches where the desk bumped it. Not pain. Just awareness.
I replay the moment in my head while the teacher drones on. The timing was right. If I'd apologized too fast, it would've looked desperate. Too slow, and it would've turned into a stare-down.
I chose the narrow middle. Preserve anonymity instead of pride. It works.
For now.
I don't feel relief. Relief is dangerous. It makes you sloppy. What I feel is something colder.
Confirmation.
Min Sang-ho didn't push further, but he didn't lose interest either. His laugh wasn't satisfied. It was surprised. He won't forget me. People like him don't forget anomalies.
Second period passes without incident. Different classroom. Different teacher. Same undercurrent.
I sit in the back again. This time left side. Last desk near the door. Doors are exits, but they're also choke points. I keep my chair angled slightly, so I don't have to twist if I need to stand fast.
A girl in the row ahead keeps glancing back at me. Not interested. Curious. Like she's trying to place me in a category and failing. I don't meet her eyes. At lunch, I don't go to the cafeteria.
Too many variables.
I take my food tray to an empty classroom on the third floor. Windows overlook the sports field. It's quiet up here. Too quiet for most people. Silence makes them uneasy. I eat slowly. Rice first. Then the protein. Vegetables last.
My hands shake a little when I'm done. Adrenaline residue. I flex my fingers until it fades.
Through the open door, I hear footsteps pass. Voices. Laughter. Someone is arguing about a game. Non-stop.
Good.
In the afternoon, my body feels heavier. Not tired, alert fatigue. The kind that comes from paying attention for too long without release. In math class, someone drops a pen near my desk.
I watch it roll. It stops just short of my foot. I don't pick it up.
After a few seconds, the owner leans down and retrieves it himself. No comment. Just a glance that lingers a beat too long.
Testing boundaries doesn't always look like aggression. Sometimes it's seeing how much space you'll take up. I take up exactly what I need.
Nothing more.
The day stretches. Periods blur together. Teachers talk. Students decide. By the time the final bell rings, my shoulders are tight. My jaw aches from clenching without realizing it. I pack my bag deliberately. Not too fast. Not too slow.
Min Sang-ho leaves with a group again. I spot him in the reflection of a glass case near the lockers. He doesn't look back.
That doesn't mean anything.
Outside, the air is cold. It bites through my uniform and into my lungs. I breathe it in deep. Let it ground me. On the bus ride home, I take my usual seat. Back. Window. Wall. I rest my forehead lightly against the glass and watch the city slide by.
The apology replays in my mind. The word itself feels strange.
Sorry.
It ended the moment. Or delayed something worse. I don't know which yet. What I do know is this: today, I chose to bend instead of break. Bending leaves marks.
Invisible ones.
At home, I set my bag down and go straight to my room. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the floor. I don't feel weak. I don't feel strong.
I feel…noted.
In this place, that might be the most dangerous state of all. Tomorrow, someone else might test me. Or Min Sang-ho might. Or no one will, and that will mean they're watching instead. Either way, I'll be ready. An apology can end a moment.
Or teach people where to press next time. I lie back and close my eyes. I don't promise myself anything. I just breathe.
And wait.