HAEUN.

───────────────────────‧★ ˎˊ˗

     As we finish with the last classroom in our year group—and I swear, it took way too long, cutting into the last period—I step out into the hallway, only to immediately crash into someone.

     I wince, rubbing my head and looking up to find a student from Leeseo's year. His uniform is a disaster—his tie hung loose and his shirt untucked, like he just rolled out of bed.

     I'm confused as to why anyone would be out of class at this time, but I decide not to dwell on it. "Oh, sorry."

     "No prob—" And suddenly, he gasps, his eyes going wide, and he's right up in my face, like I'm some kind of famous celebrity. "Oh my god, you're Haeun, right?! Choi Haeun?!"

     "Ni-ki, calm down." Sunghoon sighs, putting a hand out in front of the overly excited boy.

     "As far as I'm aware... yes, I am," I say, my brows knitting together in confusion.

     Ni-ki's face lights up even more. "Oh, sick! What you did was totally dope!" His excitement is almost contagious, but I'm still kind of lost.

     "What I did?"

     "Yeah! The broadcast! You totally owned Sunghoon and Mr. Han! Oh, and Mrs. Yoon—I hate her..." He trails off, scrunching up his face in disgust. "Either way, that was amazing!"

     My lips part in shock, and my eyes widen. This is the first positive feedback I've gotten since my broadcast, but I'm not sure whether to count it as "positive." "Thank you...?"

     "Ni-ki, why aren't you in lesson? I told you to stop bunking class." Sunghoon says firmly, giving him a stern look. "Go. Come on."

     "Why are you such a killjoy?" Ni-ki whines, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

     "Ni-ki." Sunghoon's tone is sharper now, and it's enough to make Ni-ki roll his eyes.

     "Fine, fine." With a sigh, Ni-ki shuffles off to his lesson.

     I watch him go and mutter under my breath, "Well, he's something."

     "Something indeed." Sunghoon smirks, his voice full of amusement.

───‧★ ˎˊ˗

     After our last-period math class ends, I grab Sunghoon's arm and practically drag him into an empty classroom. If I don't, he'll show up late with enough snacks to open a convenience store. And I assure you, he would not leave that classroom alive.

     Now comes the most tedious part—sorting through the responses.

     The first five minutes are excruciating. Out of the dozens of submissions, only seven so far are actual suggestions. The rest are thinly veiled love letters to Sunghoon, each one ending with some anonymous person's phone number. I want to roll my eyes into another dimension.

     I pluck another card from the stack and barely hold back a gag. "Oh, this one's special," I say, unable to resist tormenting him. I clear my throat theatrically. "Dear Sunghoonie oppa—"

     "Haeun, don't—" he warns, his eyes wide with horror.

     "I hope you've eaten today, oppa!" I chirp, ignoring him. "Please make sure to stay fit and healthy. You're so, so, so, so, so handsome and gorgeous. Have a wonderful day, oppa! Please text or call my number if you need someone to—"

     "That's enough!" he yells, his voice cracking slightly as he lunges for the card. His face is a mix of mortification and defeat, and it's glorious.

     I can't help but burst into laughter, clutching my stomach as I add the card to the ever-growing "Sunghoon's Fangirls" pile. "They're relentless," I tease. "How does it feel to be so deeply loved?"

     He groans, running a hand through his hair. "I'm never looking at those again after today."

     The rest of the sorting process drags on, but we manage to narrow down a few legitimate suggestions. One card describes some cabins by a beach, just a couple of hours away. I look into it for a second, and it's affordable, the reviews are practically perfect, and for a brief moment, I think this might all be worth it.

     But then we reach the last card.

     I pull it from the mailbox, expecting more of the same nonsense. Instead, the words written on the card feel like they're screaming at me.

     Youre a piece of shit Choi Haeun.

     My breath catches. The words dig into me, sharp and unrelenting, and I hate that they sting as much as they do. The lack of punctuation is almost more offensive, as if I wasn't even worth a single apostrophe or comma.

     I clench the card in my hand, my chest tightening. Forcing a smile, I stand abruptly. "We're done," My voice wavers slightly, but I swallow the lump in my throat. Crying in front of Sunghoon is not an option.

     "No we aren't." His gaze flicks to my hand, where the crumpled paper sits clenched. "You didn't sort that one into any of the piles."

     My heart hammers. Of course, he noticed. "It's nothing. Just a troll."

     He doesn't buy it. "Let me see."

     "No." I jerk back, too quick, too sharp. His brows furrow, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

     "Haeun." His tone shifts, softer but insistent. "Let me see it."

     "I said no," I snap, stepping back instinctively. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat louder than the last. Why does he care? Why does he have to see?

     Then, before I can react, his hand reaches out and curls around my fist.

     His touch is warm, steady, and far too confident. My breath catches as his fingers press against mine, firm but careful, like he's testing the limits of how much resistance I'll give. A shiver shoots down my spine, and I instinctively try to pull back, but his grip doesn't budge.

     "Let go," I whisper, but it's a feeble protest, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears.

     He doesn't let go. Instead, his thumb brushes against my knuckles, sending another jolt through me. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to uncurl my fingers. His touch is unnervingly gentle, as if he's handling something fragile.

     My chest tightens as I watch, helpless, as he pries the crumpled card from my grasp. The moment feels suspended in time, my pulse thrumming in my throat.

     I stand frozen, my heart hammering as he smooths out the card. His eyes scan the words, and for a moment, I brace myself for the laughter, the mockery I'm sure is coming.

     But it doesn't.

     "Kwon Hajoon," he says finally, his voice dripping with disdain. "Always pathetic."

     My eyes widen. Kwon Hajoon—the same guy I tore into during my broadcast for contributing absolutely nothing for our religious studies project.

     Sunghoon's jaw tightens as he studies the card again. "His handwriting is an eyesore. And he didn't even bother with punctuation. If you're going to write an insult, at least do it right."

     The corner of my mouth twitches, but I can't bring myself to laugh.

     And then, he tears the card clean down the middle. The sound is sharp and final, like the snap of a brittle branch underfoot. But he continues. His hands move methodically, almost violently, ripping the pieces into quarters, then eighths. The tearing sounds fill the room, each shred of the card feeling heavier than it should.

     His movements are deliberate and intense, his fingers flexing with purpose as if the act of destruction is the only thing keeping him grounded. I watch, unable to look away, as the fragments of the card grow smaller and smaller, falling from his hands like snowflakes into a growing pile on the desk.

     For a moment, he just stands there, staring at the tiny pieces scattered before him. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling as if he's just run a marathon. Then, as if the sight of the remnants disgusts him, he sweeps them into his palm and walks to the trash can.

     He brushes his hands on the sides of his blazer as if to rid himself of the entire ordeal. "Done," he says flatly, turning back to me.

     I open my mouth to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

     "Thanks," I croak finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

     He nods, but his jaw remains clenched, his fists still tightly curled. "Go home," he says abruptly. "I need to do something first but I'll take all this to the principal and clean up after."

     "What? No, I can—"

     "Haeun." His voice is sharper now. "Go home."

     His tone leaves no room for argument. I nod, stunned into silence.

     Without another word, he strides out of the room.

     But it's not his usual confident gait, the one that screams he owns every hallway he walks down.

     No—he walks like a person with a purpose, his shoulders tense, his steps hurried.

     Like he has somewhere he needs to be.

───‧★ ˎˊ˗

     "But we had like, ten suggestions of going to Jeju," I say, handing a stack of religious studies flashcards to Wonyoung while balancing my laptop on my lap. My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out search queries as I continue. "Like, where the heck would the school even get that money from?"

     "I mean, unless they turn this place into a drug factory," Yujin jokes, her voice laced with sarcasm as she shuffles through her pile of papers.

     "Or auction off all our organs, yeah," Wonyoung adds with a scoff, clicking her tongue in mock disbelief. "Didn't you say there were some nice cabins by a beach, though?"

     "Oh, yeah!" I pull up the resort's website. The home page is unreasonably cheerful, all bright blues and sunny yellows, as if the screen is trying to scream optimism at me. The scenery is stunning, though—crystal-clear waters, sprawling sandy shores, and cosy wooden cabins that dot the beach like something out of a brochure promising paradise.

     I skim through the options, pulling up a gallery of the best shots. "What do you thin—"

     The sentence dies in my throat as the door crashes open, the sound echoing across the room like a gunshot.

     Kwon Hajoon.

     Gasps and whispers ripple through the classroom, spreading like wildfire as every head turns toward the doorway. Even Mr. Ahn freezes, his words caught mid-sentence, his chalk poised above the board as if time itself has paused to take in the sight.

     Hajoon's face is a canvas of damage. A cotton bandage covers his right eye, but it does little to conceal the swollen, purple bruise that blossoms around it like an ugly flower. His left cheekbone is no better—puffed and discoloured, an angry shade of blue-black that contrasts sharply with his pale skin.

     He moves past Mr. Ahn without so much as a glance, his shoulders hunched as though bracing himself against the weight of the stares burning into him. The teacher opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out. Maybe it's the sheer audacity of Hajoon walking in this late—or maybe it's the state of his face—but Mr. Ahn doesn't even bother asking him for an explanation.

     Hajoon slumps into his seat at the back, dropping his bag beside him with a heavy thud. For a moment, it's unclear whether he's so out of it that he doesn't notice the gawking and whispering—or if he's simply past the point of caring.

     My stomach twists. The sight of him like this stirs something uncomfortable in me. A strange, conflicting mix of satisfaction and unease coils in my chest, heavy and hard to ignore.

     Wonyoung leans closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "What on earth happened to him?"

     I press my lips together, my fingers tightening around the edge of my laptop. "No idea," I reply, though the words taste bitter.

     I'm not sure I want to know either.

───────────────────────‧★ ˎˊ˗

please lmk ur thoughts on this chap!!

word count; 1999
edited; ✘

thank you for reading, 
nana<3