Namra rested her chin against her palm, gazing out the window as the morning sun filtered through the glass. The hum of the classroom surrounded her—quiet chatter, the distant scuff of shoes against the floor, the occasional rustle of paper. She should have been focused on the lesson, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

Sooheon had come early today. That was unusual.

She glanced at him, seated just a few seats away, his expression unreadable as always. He had a habit of looking like he wasn’t paying attention, but she knew better.

It was strange.

She had grown used to his presence, to the quiet familiarity that had settled between them over time. He was different now—less reckless, more thoughtful—but there were still moments when she saw glimpses of the boy he used to be.

The same boy she had once crossed paths with in another school.

Namra lowered her gaze to her desk, fingers tracing the edge of her notebook.

She hadn’t thought about it in a long time. That first meeting. That fleeting moment before she even knew his name.

Yet now, as she sat there, watching him from across the room, the memory surfaced like a whisper from the past.

The first time they met… she hadn’t even looked at him.

Namra never paid much attention to transfer students. They came and went, some blending into the background, others making a loud entrance before fading away just as quickly. She had seen it happen enough times to know that most of them didn’t matter in the long run.

So when she heard about another transfer student coming into her class, she barely reacted. Another face, another name she didn’t need to remember.

She had been on her way to the teachers’ office that morning, a stack of graded assignments in her arms, her mind already focused on the day’s schedule. Her footsteps were quick and precise, practiced from years of efficiency.

And then, as she turned a corner—she bumped into someone.

The impact was sudden but not forceful, just enough to make her stumble slightly. The papers in her arms wobbled, but she tightened her grip before they could fall.

Her shoulder brushed against someone’s chest, her hands tightening instinctively around the stack of papers to keep them from slipping. She froze for the briefest second, the scent of unfamiliar laundry detergent mixing with the crisp morning air.

A presence. Someone tall, standing just in front of her.

But Namra didn’t look up. She never did.

Instead, she took a step back, adjusting her grip on the papers, heart hammering—not from fear, but from the abruptness of it. She could feel the weight of the person’s gaze on her, waiting, expecting something.

She gave nothing.

Without a word, without hesitation, she moved past him, continuing toward the teacher’s office as if nothing had happened.

It was only when she sat at her desk minutes later, listening to the teacher introduce the new transfer student—Ji Sooheon—that she realized.

The boy she had bumped into.

She hadn’t seen his face.

But he had seen hers.

---

In Hyosan High the halls were crowded, the air thick with the noise of students, but despite the commotion, she had always felt alone.

She didn’t have any friends there, not really. There were people she knew, classmates who saw her as the model student—the one who never faltered, who had perfect grades and perfect composure. But no one ever got close enough to truly know her.

There was a part of her that yearned for connection, for something real and unfiltered. But she had always kept her distance, telling herself that it didn’t matter. She didn’t need friends. She didn’t need the distractions. After all, it was easier to focus on her studies, to be perfect, to be the best at something, than to risk getting hurt by people who didn’t understand.

But now, looking back, she realized that the absence of true friendships had left a quiet emptiness in her life. The small gestures of kindness from people like Cheongsan or the fleeting moments of laughter with Sooheon felt like they were the closest thing to what she had missed.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried—sometimes, she had even attempted to reach out, to start a conversation, to be a part of something. But her words always felt awkward, her presence too distant. And over time, she learned to keep to herself.

The few times she had tried to break out of her shell, to allow herself to be part of the group, it always felt like she was wearing a mask. She wasn’t sure how to be anything but the person everyone expected her to be. The quiet, focused girl who never made waves, who never needed anyone.

But as much as she told herself she didn’t need friends, she couldn’t ignore the quiet ache that lingered. The feeling that something was missing—something that might have been there if she had let herself be more, let herself connect.

Maybe, just maybe, she had missed out on the one thing that could have made all the difference.

Namra’s thoughts turned to Onjo, and for the first time in a while, she allowed herself to reflect on their time at Hyosan High. Onjo had been the one person who had always tried to break through her walls. The one person who hadn’t been intimidated by her reputation, her coldness, her quiet exterior.

Back then, Onjo’s kindness had been almost overwhelming at times. She was loud, spontaneous, and always smiling, the kind of person who didn’t need to be perfect to be loved. Her energy had been something Namra admired from afar but never fully understood. Onjo had a way of making everyone feel important, of making them feel seen, and Namra had been no exception. Even when Namra had tried to push her away or keep her distance, Onjo had remained persistent, pulling her into her orbit with patience and warmth.

But Namra had never known how to respond to that. She wasn’t used to people caring without wanting something in return. She hadn’t known how to let herself be open to that kind of friendship. It had felt like a risk, and risks were things Namra avoided.

She remembered the times Onjo had invited her to join the others, to hang out, to laugh and share stories that weren’t about grades or responsibilities. There was a time when Namra had almost gone along with it. A part of her had wanted to be included, to feel like she belonged. But she had always turned it down, not because of Onjo, but because of herself—because she feared what it would mean to let her guard down.

Now, sitting quietly in class, Namra couldn’t help but wonder what might have been if she had allowed herself to be a part of those moments. What if she had let Onjo in, let her see who she really was? Would things have been different? Would she have felt less isolated, less like a bystander in her own life?

Onjo was the kind of friend who could have changed everything. And yet, Namra had never given her the chance. It was one of the few things from her time at Hyosan High that Namra regretted, though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone—least of all herself.

The top thing Namra regretted was the distance she had kept from Sooheon. She had never truly allowed herself to get close to him, despite the moments they had shared. Their connection, the subtle but undeniable bond that had started to form, had always been there. But she hadn’t known how to navigate it, how to balance her desire to stay guarded with the growing feeling that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let someone in.

Sooheon had been there, in his own way. He had reached out to her, offered her small gestures of kindness—his quiet presence, his willingness to share moments with her when no one else seemed to care. He had seen through her cool exterior, noticed the things that others didn’t. But she had always pulled back, never fully allowing herself to trust him or let him see the parts of her that weren’t perfect, weren’t controlled.

She regretted that. She regretted the times she had pushed him away, the moments where she had chosen silence over opening up. She had kept herself locked away, convinced that it was safer that way, that it was better to keep things casual and distant. But in doing so, she had missed out on the chance to really know him, to share something real.

Sooheon had been the one person who had made her feel something outside of the rigidity of her perfect grades and her carefully crafted image. And now, as she sat in the classroom, the weight of that regret pressed on her chest. The connection they had could have been more. It could have been something deeper, something lasting. But she had never allowed it to be.

And that, more than anything else, was the thing she regretted the most.