Seo-ah's POV
"The worst kind of silence isn't when someone stops talking. It's when you stop recognizing your own voice."
He walked into the classroom like he owned it.
Not in the loud, arrogant way some boys did—but with the kind of polished charm that made teachers smile too easily and girls fix their hair without realizing it.
Tall, broad-shouldered, uniform ironed sharp enough to cut glass. And that smirk—subtle, deliberate. Like he already knew who would fall for him.
Seo-ah watched him from her seat near the window, pencil paused mid-sketch. She wasn't drawing anyone in particular that day, just shading in the curve of a faceless jaw. But her attention shifted.
Han-jin, the new transfer student from Seoul. Rumor had it his father was someone important, maybe a diplomat or businessman. Someone with a car and no time.
Miss Kang clapped her hands once. "Everyone, this is Kang Han-jin. He'll be joining us for the remainder of the school year. Please make him feel welcome."
He bowed slightly, then scanned the room. His eyes met Seo-ah's for the briefest second. Then they moved on.
By lunch, he already had a fan club.
By week two, he sat across from her during art class, leaned forward and asked casually,
"Are you always this quiet, or am I just special?"
Seo-ah looked up, frowning. "Maybe I just have nothing to say."
He laughed. "Cold. I like that."
She didn't. But she didn't say that out loud.
He started walking with her after class.
At first, it felt harmless. He complimented her drawings. Asked about her favorite books. Brought her coffee once—iced americano, just how she liked it. She hadn't told him. He said he guessed.
That unsettled her more than it impressed her.
But she smiled anyway. Because she didn't want to seem rude.
Because he hadn't done anything wrong. Yet.
"You don't talk much," he said one afternoon as they sat on the back steps behind the art room.
"I talk when I want to," she replied.
"And when is that?"
"When I feel safe."
He tilted his head, then smirked. "So, not now?"
Seo-ah forced a smile. "Let's just say I'm cautious."
The first time he grabbed her wrist, it was barely noticeable. Just a pull—gentle, like a tease—when she tried to walk away during a conversation he didn't want to end.
But it made her flinch.
"Relax," he chuckled, releasing her. "You're so jumpy."
She laughed too, nervously. But her skin tingled long after his hand was gone.
Weeks passed.
The charm stayed. In public.
He'd brush hair off her face in the hallway. Slide notes into her locker that said things like:
"You're different. That scares me in a good way."
Girls whispered behind her. Some called her lucky.
She didn't feel lucky. She felt watched. Owned. And slowly, shrinking.
Her best friend noticed first.
"You don't draw like you used to," Ji-won said one afternoon, flipping through her sketchbook. "Your new stuff feels… muted."
Seo-ah blinked. "Muted?"
"Yeah. Like you're sketching with your mouth shut. Not your mind."
Seo-ah didn't know what to say. Because it was true. She hadn't drawn eyes lately. Just outlines. Blurry shapes. Empty spaces.
That night, Han-jin called her.
"I saw you talking to that guy from the Literature Club," he said flatly.
Seo-ah froze. "We were just discussing poetry assignments."
"You know what it looked like?"
"Han-jin, please—"
"I'm not mad. Just... don't give people the wrong idea, okay?"
She stared at the phone, her breath caught between disbelief and exhaustion.
"I didn't know I was giving anyone any idea," she said quietly.
"You know how people talk. Just be more careful."
When the call ended, she stared at the screen for a long time. Then I turned it off.
By the end of the semester, her diary had more erased pages than written ones.
And her reflection? She wasn't sure she recognized it.
She smiled more in public. But it felt like a performance. Her laugh had grown quieter. Her thoughts are less bold. The space she once claimed—at her desk, in her art, in her own mind—felt rented, not owned.
She hadn't told Ji-won everything. Not yet. Maybe because she didn't know how to explain something you couldn't point to.
He hadn't hit her. He hadn't yelled.
He had just… twisted things. Just enough.
Enough to make her second-guess herself.
Enough to make her apologize for things that didn't need apologies.
Enough to make her believe that being heard was a privilege, not a right.
"You've changed."
Ji-won's words again, months later.
Seo-ah just smiled weakly and said,
"Maybe I'm becoming who I'm supposed to be."
But even then, a part of her whispered:
No. You're becoming what someone else wants you to be.
And that voice—the real her—was getting quieter every day.
End of Chapter 2