The front door slid shut behind Shimiki Yerin with a soft, practiced click.
"I'm home."
Her voice was steady. Polite. Perfect.
The smell of simmering soup lingered in the air, familiar and normally comforting. Today, it made her stomach tighten. Shoes were already lined up neatly by the entrance—her father's, her mother's, her own. Everything looked the same as it always had.
Which meant nothing was wrong.
Yerin stepped inside anyway.
"You're late."
Her mother's voice came from the kitchen, sharp and clipped. No greeting. No warmth. The sound of a ladle striking the pot rang out a second later, a little harder than necessary.
"I stayed behind to finish student council work," Yerin replied automatically, placing her bag down and hanging her coat. Every movement was careful, as if one wrong step might crack the floor beneath her.
Her mother appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. She hadn't changed out of her work clothes yet. That alone was a bad sign.
"Is that so?" she said. "Funny. Because I heard something very different today."
Yerin's fingers stilled.
"Heard… what?" she asked, though she already knew.
Her mother let out a short, humorless laugh. "I ran into one of your classmates at the supermarket. A girl from your year. She recognized me." Her eyes narrowed. "Very chatty. Very concerned."
Yerin felt her chest constrict.
"She asked if I was aware of the… behavior you've been displaying at school."
The word behavior landed like a slap.
"I don't understand," Yerin said quietly.
"Oh, don't play dumb," her mother snapped. "She said there are rumors about you. Disgusting ones."
Silence stretched between them.
Yerin bowed her head slightly, a reflex drilled into her since childhood. "They're not true."
Her mother scoffed. "Rumors don't come from nowhere."
"I didn't do anything," Yerin said, firmer now. "This is slander. Someone is spreading lies."
"About what?" her mother pressed. "About you being inappropriate with other girls. About you being—" She stopped herself, lips thinning. "About you being that way."
Yerin's nails dug into her palms.
"I am not," she said. "And even if—hypothetically—I were, that would not change my responsibilities or my achievements."
Her mother's expression hardened.
"So you admit it's a possibility?"
"No," Yerin said quickly. "I'm saying rumors don't define a person."
Her mother stepped closer. "You are the student council president. You represent this family. Do you understand what people will say about us if this continues?"
Yerin looked up. "What about what I feel?"
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Her mother stared at her, stunned—then angry. "Feelings are irrelevant. Reputation is not."
That was the end of it.
Dinner passed in tense silence. Her father barely spoke, eyes fixed on his bowl. Yerin ate mechanically, tasting nothing. When she finished, she cleaned her dishes, bowed, and retreated to her room without another word.
Behind her closed door, she sat on the edge of her bed, spine straight, hands folded in her lap.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She stared at the wall and let the weight settle quietly, heavily, into places she would never show.
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Ren's apartment greeted her with silence.
Not the awkward kind. Not the tense kind.
Just… quiet.
She kicked off her boots by the door, not bothering to line them up, and dropped her bag onto the floor. The small apartment was dim, lit only by the orange glow of the streetlight bleeding through thin curtains. One bedroom. One kitchen. One life.
Alone.
Ren tossed her jacket onto the chair and collapsed onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The place smelled faintly of dust and instant noodles. No one asked where she'd been. No one cared if she came home late.
Her parents had died years ago—an accident everyone stopped mentioning after the funeral. Her grandparents followed not long after. Since then, the apartment had stayed exactly the same, like time had gotten bored and left her behind.
Some people thought living alone was freedom.
Ren thought it was just empty.
She rolled onto her side and fished her phone out of her pocket. Messages scrolled by—group chats buzzing with the rumors she'd started, jokes getting crueler by the hour.
She didn't reply.
Instead, her mind betrayed her.
Shimiki Yerin, standing in the hallway. Shimiki Yerin, alone in the student council room. Shimiki Yerin, quiet, rigid, pretending nothing touched her.
"Tch," Ren muttered, sitting up.
She headed to the kitchen and boiled water, the routine automatic. Cup noodles were dinner. Again. She ate straight from the container, standing by the counter, eyes unfocused.
This was what quiet really looked like.
No shouting. No accusations. No disappointment.
Just space.
Ren leaned back against the counter, suddenly tired. She wondered—briefly, dangerously—what kind of quiet waited behind Yerin's front door. Whether it was louder than this. Whether it hurt more.
She shook her head.
"Not my problem," she said aloud.
But the words echoed back at her, hollow.
Outside, the city hummed on, uncaring. Inside two different homes, two different girls sat with the consequences of the same rumors—one surrounded by people who didn't listen, the other alone with thoughts she refused to face.
And somewhere between anger and silence, something fragile continued to form, unseen, waiting for the moment it would finally be forced into the open.