Morning comes in layers.
First is the ache.
It settles into me before my eyes even open, deep, dull pressure along my ribs, a tight pull across my lower back, a sting in my right hip when I shift.
The kind of pain that doesn't announce itself loudly. It just exists, constant, waiting to be acknowledged. I lie still and inventory it. No sharp pain. No dizziness. Breathing is clean, if shallow.
My shoulder complains when I roll it, but the joint holds. Nothing broken. Nothing urgent.
Bruises bloom slower than I expect. That's what surprises me. The fight behind the gym felt brief, contained. One shove. One near miss. Adrenaline carried me through it like a lie.
Now my body tells the truth.
I sit up carefully, planting my feet on the floor one at a time. Cold seeps up through my soles, grounding me. When I stand, there's a flash of discomfort that makes my vision narrow for a second. I breathe through it.
Pain is information.
I move to the bathroom and lift my shirt in front of the mirror. Purple and yellow are already spreading across my right side, uneven like spilled ink. My ribs are tender to the touch. I press lightly, testing.
I hiss despite myself.
Good. It hurts where it should.
I dress more slowly than usual, choosing a thicker uniform jacket even though the forecast says it'll warm up by noon. Fabric matters. Padding matters. Appearances matter.
At breakfast, I eat standing up again. Sitting compresses my hip in a way I don't like. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. No one asks why I'm standing. No one looks closely enough to notice.
That's fine.
On the walk to the bus stop, I adjust my stride. Shorter steps. Less sway. I keep to the curb side, scanning reflections in parked car windows as I pass.
Nothing unusual. No one is trailing me.
The street smells like damp pavement and fried dough from a shop opening early.
The bus ride is uneventful. I sit in my usual seat, back, window, wall to my left. When the bus hits a pothole, the jolt sends a spike of pain up my side. I keep my face neutral.
By the time I reach school, my body has warmed enough that the pain dulls into background noise. Not gone. Just quieter.
The building looms the same as always, gray concrete, narrow windows, banners peeling at the edges. Students funnel through the gates in clusters, laughter bouncing off walls, voices overlapping. Normalcy layered over something else. I enter with the third wave.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzz faintly. Lockers slam. Shoes squeak against tile. The smell of instant coffee and floor cleaner mixes in the air.
I walk carefully.
Sitting hurts more than fighting did.
When I reach my classroom, I choose my seat as usual. Back row. Right side. Third desk from the window. The chair scrapes softly as I sit, and my hip protests immediately. I adjust, shifting my weight onto the left side, angling my torso slightly.
Stillness is work.
As students file in, I keep my gaze low, focused on the surface of my desk. Scratches. Ink stains. Someone carved a heart into the wood years ago and then scratched it out.
Whispers start before the bell. They move like drafts, felt more than heard.
"…behind the gym…"
"…said he ran…"
"…no, I heard Min Sang-ho tripped…"
"…still though…"
I don't look up. Rumors don't need confirmation to live. They only need interest. The bell rings. Sharp. Clean. Mr. Han enters late again, coffee in hand, papers tucked under his arm. He looks more tired than usual. Or maybe I'm just paying closer attention now.
"Settle down." He says.
Some do. Some don't.
As he starts the lesson, I feel eyes on me. Not directly. Glancing. Testing. Students who didn't look twice yesterday now flick their gaze toward my corner and away again, like touching a hot surface to see if it still burns.
I track it all through peripheral vision.
Front row stays compliant. The middle rows hum with low conversation. The back row, my row, holds a different tension today. Not louder. More deliberate.
Someone drops a pen near my desk. It rolls, stops against my foot.
I don't pick it up.
The owner hesitates, then leans down to retrieve it himself, avoiding my eyes.
Good.
Pain flares when I lean forward to write. My ribs complain with every breath that's too deep. I shorten my strokes and keep my posture contained. Mr. Han drones on about literary devices. Metaphor. Foreshadowing. I think about positioning.
About how Min Sang-ho's punch telegraphed itself.
About how easily balance can be taken.
About how rumors spread faster than consequences.
Between sentences, I hear my name. Not spoken directly. Passed along in pieces.
"…Joon-seok…"
"…didn't even fight…"
"…still though…"
The words don't matter as much as the tone. Uncertainty. By the second period, the whispers have grown teeth. Civics class with Ms. Kwon is louder than usual. She raises her voice more often, calls out names more sharply. It doesn't change much.
I sit, listening, observing.
Hye-rin is three rows ahead and to the left. Normally, I feel her eyes on me, measuring, dismissive, bored. Today, she doesn't look back once. Not even accidentally. That absence is louder than attention.
Se-yeon, on the other hand, does look.
Once.
It's brief. A glance, quick and precise, like checking a variable on a screen. Her expression doesn't change. She looks away before I do.
I file it away.
When the bell rings for lunch, standing is easier than sitting. The relief is immediate, even if my muscles protest the sudden movement.
I don't go to the cafeteria.
Instead, I take the long hallway toward the old science wing, where one classroom stays empty during lunch because the projector is broken and no one bothered to fix it. I eat there most days now.
The room smells faintly of dust and cleaning solution. Sunlight filters in through tall windows, casting pale rectangles on the floor. I sit on the edge of a desk instead of a chair, keeping pressure off my hip.
As I eat, I listen.
Footsteps pass by the door. Voices rise and fall. Laughter, sharp and sudden.
No one comes in.
Halfway through my meal, pain blooms again, deeper this time. I pause, pressing my fingers lightly into my side, breathing shallowly until it recedes.
This is the cost.
Not the shove. Not the almost-fight.
The aftermath.
In the afternoon, my concentration frays. Every time I sit, I'm reminded. Every time I stand, I'm careful. Teachers talk. Students respond. The routine continues like a well-oiled machine, grinding quietly.
In history class, the boy two desks ahead of me keeps twisting around, like he wants to say something but can't decide how. Finally, he turns fully, resting his elbow on the back of his chair.
"Hey." He says, low. I meet his eyes briefly, then look back at my notebook. Not dismissive. Not inviting. "What?" I ask. He hesitates. Swallows. "You…you good?" The question is vague on purpose.
"I'm fine." I say. He nods, like that's what he expected, and turns back around. That's it. No challenge. No follow-up. Word spreads faster when it's incomplete. By the last period, my presence feels heavier.
Not respected. Not feared. Considered.
Students adjust their behavior around me in small ways. They don't bump my desk as often. Conversations drop a notch when I pass. No one jokes loudly in my direction. No one confronts me either.
I let it drift.
Correcting rumors takes effort. Effort draws lines. Lines invite testing. Ambiguity does the work for me. After school, I leave with the fourth wave. The building exhales as students spill out, energy turning restless. I keep to the wall, eyes forward.
Near the lockers, I hear Min Sang-ho's name.
"…says he slipped…"
"…nah, Joon-seok pushed him…"
"…why didn't he do anything after?"
I don't slow.
Outside, the sky is overcast, light diffused into a dull gray. The air smells like rain that hasn't started yet.
On the walk home, I take a different route than usual. More open. Fewer blind spots. My body is tired, reaction time dulled by pain. I compensate by giving myself space.
At home, I lie on the floor instead of the bed, knees bent, letting gravity pull my back flat. The ceiling fan spins slowly above me, clicking faintly with each rotation. I replay the day.
Hye-rin's absence.
Se-yeon's glance.
The way people looked at me without looking. Bruises don't stay quiet. They speak through posture, through hesitation, through rumor. I touch my side again, pressing gently into the tender spots. The pain answers, muted but present.
Good.
Pain means I remember.
As evening settles, my phone buzzes once. An unknown number. I stare at the screen until it stops vibrating. No message. Just a missed call. I don't call back.
Some narratives are better left unfinished.
Lying there, staring at the slow blur of the fan blades, I realize something that makes my chest tighten, not with pain this time, but with understanding. People don't fear what they know.
They fear what they can't categorize.
And right now, no one knows what to do with me.