The first thing I notice is the feeling.
Not sound. Not movement.
Pressure.
It settles between my shoulder blades as soon as I step into the classroom, like a hand resting there a second too long. I pause just inside the doorway, pretending to adjust my bag strap, and let my eyes move without fixing on anything.
Front rows are filling. Middle clusters are already loud. The back row is half empty.
Normal.
The feeling doesn't go away.
I take my seat—right side, third from the window, and sit the same way I always do. Bag down. The chair angled slightly. Wall at my back. I lower my gaze to the desk and breathe out slowly.
Someone is watching me.
Not casually. Not the way people glance when they're bored.
This is sustained.
Curious despite myself, I catalog the room again.
Min Sang-ho isn't here yet. Good. The guy two rows up who laughs too loud is here, feet hooked around the chair in front of him. He's restless. A couple of girls near the window are whispering, heads close together. The class president's seat is still empty.
Then I feel it again.
Stronger.
I don't turn my head.
I don't need to.
Shin Hye-rin sits three desks diagonally ahead of me, closer to the aisle. Black hair loose today, not tied back like yesterday. Uniform worn wrong on purpose, shirt untucked just enough to be noticed, blazer draped over the chair instead of worn.
She doesn't blend in.
She never tries to.
The delinquent queen, they call her. Not to her face. Never to her face.
I've been careful not to look at her since the semester started. People like her notice attention. They catalog it. Decide what to do with it later. But now I can feel her eyes on me.
Lingering.
I keep my posture loose. Neutral. Pen resting between my fingers, notebook open but blank. The bell hasn't rung yet. That matters.
Before class, rules are suggestions.
I hear her chair shift. The scrape of metal against tile is deliberate, not careless. A sound meant to carry.
Still, I don't look.
Seconds pass.
Most people would've reacted by now. Even a glance. Even tension in the shoulders. I give her nothing. That's when the pressure sharpens, like a blade testing skin. I finally lift my eyes. Not fast. Not slow.
I meet her gaze.
Just briefly.
Her eyes are sharp. Dark. Focused in a way that has nothing to do with boredom. She isn't smiling. She isn't frowning. She's measuring. I don't challenge her. I don't flinch either.
I hold the look for less than a second, long enough to show awareness, not long enough to invite response, then I look away first. Back to my notebook. Pen poised. Breathing steady. It's a small thing.
But small things matter here.
I hear it before I see it.
A quiet click of her tongue against her teeth.
Annoyance.
The bell rings, cutting through the moment like a line drawn between us. The teacher comes in late again. Same routine. Same tired authority. He starts talking before the door fully closes, like he's afraid of silence.
I write notes I don't need.
But my attention stays sharp.
I track Shin Hye-rin in my peripheral vision. She doesn't look at me again during the first ten minutes. She leans back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed in a way that would get anyone else reprimanded.
No one says anything to her.
That's power too. I wonder what she expected. Fear, maybe. Submission. Or defiance. People usually choose one or the other when they meet her eyes. Both are roles she understands. Both are boring in different ways.
I gave her neither.
That irritates people like her.
Midway through the period, Min Sang-ho finally shows up. Slips in late without apology. The teacher glances at him, hesitates, then looks back at the board. Min Sang-ho smirks and takes his seat two rows ahead of me.
He doesn't look back. Not once. That tells me enough. The apology yesterday worked the way I expected. It didn't erase interest. It reframed it.
I'm not prey.
I'm a question.
Class drags. The air feels stale. My neck tightens from holding still too long. I don't stretch. Movement invites notice. When the bell rings, chairs scrape back all at once. Noise floods the room.
I wait.
Shin Hye-rin stands before most people around her do. She doesn't rush. She doesn't need to.
As she steps into the aisle, her shoulder bumps lightly against a boy's desk. He mutters something under his breath, then stops when she looks at him.
Not angry.
Just present.
He shrinks back into his seat.
She walks past my row. Slow. Her gaze flicks sideways. I don't look up. Refuse escalation through silence. She pauses half a step longer than necessary near my desk, close enough that I can smell her shampoo, clean, sharp, expensive.
I keep writing.
After a second, she clicks her tongue again and moves on.
I exhale only when she's gone. The hallway outside is loud. Lockers slam. Shoes scuff. Someone shouts down the corridor and gets shouted back at. I move with the wall to my left. Walls limit angles of attack. They also limit escape routes.
I keep track of reflections in the glass trophy cases as I walk.
Who's behind me.
Who speeds up.
Who slows down.
No one follows. Second period passes without incident, but the feeling doesn't leave. I catch Shin Hye-rin looking my way twice more from across the room. Both times, I'm already not looking.
She wants acknowledgment. She won't get it. At lunch, I change locations. Staying predictable too long invites testing.
I take my tray to the rooftop stairwell landing instead of the empty classroom. The door is propped open slightly with a wedge of folded cardboard. Cold air seeps in.
I sit with my back to the concrete wall, knees bent, tray balanced on my thighs. The city stretches out below the railing—gray buildings, tangled power lines, the faint sound of traffic.
I eat fast.
Halfway through, footsteps echo up the stairwell.
I freeze. Footsteps tell stories if you listen closely. Weight. Pace. Intent. These are unhurried. Confident.
Two sets.
I angle my body slightly, ready to stand or move if I need to. The stairwell is a blind spot, but the rooftop landing gives me a clear view of the door.
The footsteps stop. The door creaks open wider.
Shin Hye-rin steps out, followed by another girl I recognize vaguely, one of her usual shadows. The second girl stops short when she sees me.
Shin Hye-rin doesn't.
She takes in the scene at a glance. Me against the wall. Tray half empty. No escape route without brushing past her.
She smiles.
It's small. Sharp.
"Didn't know anyone ate up here." She says. Her voice is casual. Curious. A probe. I swallow the last bite of rice before answering. Buying time. "I like quiet." I say.
That's it.
No explanation.
Her eyes flick to the tray, then back to my face.
"You're the quiet kid." She says. Not a question. I shrug. Her smile fades, replaced by something flatter. "You apologized yesterday. To Sang-ho." She says. I don't respond immediately. The stairwell amplifies silence. Makes it heavier.
"Yeah. I was in the way." I say finally. Her friend snorts softly behind her. Shin Hye-rin tilts her head, studying me. "That's not what happened." I don't correct her. Correcting people like her is pointless. They don't want the truth. They want a reaction.
She takes a step closer. Not aggressive. Testing distance.
I stay seated.
Sitting makes me look smaller. It also keeps my center of gravity low.
"Most people don't apologize. They get mad. Or scared." She says. I meet her eyes this time. "Both make things worse." For a moment, I think she might laugh. Instead, she frowns.
It's quick. Controlled. Gone almost immediately.
"You're weird." She says. Her friend shifts uncomfortably. She wasn't expecting this tone. Shin Hye-rin steps back. "Eat your lunch." She says, like she's dismissing me. Then she turns and heads for the rooftop door.
Her friend follows, glancing back at me once before disappearing.
The door slams shut.
I let out a slow breath.
My heart is beating faster now. Not panic. Readiness. I pack up quickly and leave the tray behind. I don't linger. Afternoon classes blur. I take notes. I answer when called on. I keep my voice level. But the undercurrent has changed.
People look at me differently now. Not openly. Side glances. Pauses in conversation when I pass.
Information spreads fast in places like this. Not facts. Interpretations. The quiet kid apologized. The delinquent queen noticed him. Those two ideas don't usually share space. By the last period, the tension has settled into something heavier. Expectant.
When the final bell rings, I don't wait as long as usual.
Leaving too late turns you into an obstacle. I step into the hallway with the first wave. Near the lockers, I feel it again, that pressure between my shoulders.
I don't turn.
I already know.
Shin Hye-rin is leaning against the lockers a few meters ahead, arms crossed, talking to no one. Her friends hover nearby. She's blocking the main path. I slow my pace. Options run through my head fast.
Detour through the science wing. Longer. Fewer people.
Wait it out. Let the crowd thin.
Or pass her. Passing her is a risk.
But avoiding her now might look like fear. Some people get angry when you don't fear them. They get angrier when you don't acknowledge their power at all. I adjust my bag strap and keep walking. When I'm close enough, she looks up. Our eyes meet.
This time, I don't look away first. I don't stare either. I hold it just long enough. Then I stop. "Excuse me." I say.
Two words.
Polite. Neutral.
The hallway noise seems to dip. Shin Hye-rin stares at me for a long second. Then she laughs. Not loud. Not amused. Interesting. She steps aside. "Go on." She says. I walk past. I don't speed up. I don't slow down. Behind me, I hear her click her tongue again.
Sharper this time. Anger, thinly veiled. I don't look back. Outside, the air is colder than this morning. The sky is low and gray. On the bus ride home, I replay the day in fragments. The way her eyes followed me.
The way she frowned when I didn't react. The way she laughed when I refused to play the role she expected. I don't feel victorious. I feel exposed. People like Shin Hye-rin don't like unanswered questions.
They poke them. Prod them. Test them until they break or reveal something useful. At home, I sit on my bed and flex my hands. They're steady. Good. I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
I didn't escalate.
I didn't submit.
I stayed silent where it mattered.
But silence isn't empty. It's a statement. And some people take that personally. Tomorrow, she might ignore me. Or she might push harder. Either way, she's watching. And now, she knows I'm watching back.