The cafeteria buzzed with voices, laughter,
and the clatter of silverware. The marble floors reflected the sterile lights
above, cold and immaculate—like everything else in this elite school. Jihoon
sat alone, as he always did, tucked away at the far corner table by the window.
His lunch was modest: plain rice, kimchi, and a side of stir-fried vegetables
wrapped in tin foil from his dorm kitchen. He ate slowly, carefully, eyes fixed
on the courtyard beyond the glass where students lounged like royalty in expensive
uniforms, their shoes unscuffed, their laughter easy.
Jihoon had gotten used to the background hum
of disinterest. It was easier that way. Safer. If no one noticed you, no one
had a reason to hurt you. Or worse—pretend to care.
But today, the quiet was disturbed by
something unfamiliar: the slow, deliberate sound of approaching
footsteps—louder than the rest, as if they had intention.
He didn't look up.
Not until the shadow fell over his table.
Jihoon's gaze rose—cautious, guarded—and
landed on the last person he ever expected to see standing there.
Kang Taeho.
Even in the sharp, angular light of noon, he
looked like he was carved from gold. His blazer rested perfectly on his broad
shoulders, tie loose in a way that looked effortlessly stylish instead of
careless. His hair, a tousled black that curled slightly at the edges, caught
the light in subtle glints. There was a confidence in the way he stood, hands
in his pockets, chin tilted just slightly—as if the world always tilted to meet
his gaze.
Jihoon's stomach twisted.
"What are you eating?" Taeho asked, voice
smooth like poured ink.
It took Jihoon a beat too long to respond.
"Uh… just rice. And vegetables."
"Homemade?" Taeho tilted his head with
genuine-seeming interest.
Jihoon blinked. No one had ever asked him
that before. Not here. Not in this world of glossy cafeteria trays and imported
bento boxes.
"…Yes."
Taeho smiled—not the mocking kind Jihoon was
used to seeing from others, but soft. "Smells good."
Jihoon stared at him.
This had to be a mistake.
"…Did you… need something?"
Taeho's eyes gleamed. "Yeah. A seat."
Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out
the chair across from Jihoon and sat down, long legs folding beneath the table
with careless grace. He took out his own lunch—an elaborate spread in a
lacquered box—and began unwrapping it with practiced ease.
Jihoon stared at the boy now eating across
from him as if this were normal. As if they had done this a hundred times.
He didn't speak again for several minutes,
focusing on his food. Jihoon tried to eat too, but every bite felt like a stone
in his throat. He couldn't concentrate. His mind spun through questions,
alarms, memories.
Why was he here?
Why him?
Kang Taeho wasn't just another student—he was
the student. Top of the social ladder. Smart, athletic, from a family of
generational wealth. The type of boy teachers praised even when he turned in
homework late. The one who could silence a room with a glance. The golden boy
of Yeonhwa Academy.
And he was eating lunch with someone like
Jihoon.
Someone with taped-up shoes and a secondhand
uniform two years out of fashion.
"Do you always sit here?" Taeho asked between
bites.
Jihoon nodded warily. "It's… quieter."
"Makes sense." Taeho looked around, taking in
the view. "It's nice."
Silence stretched again. Not hostile—just
strange.
Jihoon risked another glance at the boy
across from him. There was something unreadable in Taeho's expression. Not
mockery. Not pity. But curiosity—sharp, narrowed, like he was trying to solve a
puzzle with no picture on the box.
"You're Oh Jihoon, right?"
The sound of his full name from Taeho's lips
made Jihoon flinch involuntarily.
"…Yes."
"I've seen you around. You're always by
yourself."
The words weren't cruel. Just… factual.
Jihoon lowered his gaze. "I like it that
way."
"Do you?"
He didn't answer.
The silence that followed was heavier. Not
uncomfortable, but thick with things unspoken.
Taeho didn't press. He leaned back slightly
in his chair, studying Jihoon as if he were a rare specimen in a glass case.
Then, with an ease that didn't match the tension humming in Jihoon's veins, he
changed the subject.
"I heard you ranked fifth on the last mock
exams."
Jihoon blinked, startled. "How do you…?"
"I pay attention."
That didn't sound like the truth. Jihoon
didn't know why, but it felt rehearsed. Deliberate.
Still, a flush crept up his neck. "It's not a
big deal."
"It is," Taeho said plainly. "Especially in
our class."
Jihoon tried not to shrink into himself.
"There are people smarter than me."
"Maybe. But most of them don't come from the
same place you do."
Jihoon stiffened.
There it was.
The invisible line. The difference. The
reminder.
He said nothing. Just stared down at his
half-eaten rice, suddenly nauseated.
Taeho noticed.
"…That wasn't meant to insult you."
Jihoon's voice was quiet when it came. "Then
what was it meant to do?"
Another pause. Taeho tilted his head again,
as if genuinely thinking.
"Maybe I wanted to see what kind of person
you are."
Jihoon looked up, eyes guarded. "Why?"
A flicker of something passed over Taeho's
expression. He smiled—but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Just curious."
That word again.
Curiosity.
Jihoon wasn't sure if that made things better
or worse.
Before he could respond, the bell rang,
signaling the end of lunch.
Students rose from their tables in waves,
chattering and laughing, scraping chairs and leaving trays behind. Taeho stood
too, slowly, brushing invisible dust from his uniform. He looked down at Jihoon
one last time, the same unreadable look in his gaze.
"Thanks for sharing your table."
Jihoon didn't know what to say. He only
nodded.
And then Taeho was gone—swallowed by the
crowd like a sunbeam vanishing behind clouds.
Jihoon remained seated, frozen in place,
hands trembling slightly in his lap.
That night, Jihoon lay awake in his wide and
cozy bed, eyes open to the ceiling, mind replaying every second of that strange
lunch. Taeho's words echoed like a whisper in a canyon.
"I wanted to see what kind of person you
are."
Was that really all it was?
Was it possible that someone like Taeho could
notice someone like him… just because?
Jihoon wanted to believe it. Wanted so
desperately to believe it.
But belief came with a price he'd paid too
often before.
So instead, he turned over in bed and told
himself it was nothing. A fluke. A moment that would never happen again.
The next day, it did.
Taeho sat beside him again.
And again the day after that.
And the day after that.
He didn't say much at first—just idle
comments about class, observations about the weather, a passing mention of a
new song he liked. Sometimes, he asked Jihoon about books he was reading. Sometimes,
he didn't ask anything at all.
But always, he sat with him.
People began to notice.
Whispers started curling through the halls
like smoke:
"Why is Kang Taeho sitting with him?"
"Is this some kind of project?"
"Maybe he lost a bet."
Jihoon heard them. Of course he did.
But Taeho never reacted. As if the words
didn't touch him. As if the opinions of the world slid off his back like water
on glass.
And for some reason, Jihoon couldn't help but
be drawn toward that light. That easy indifference. That strange, untouchable
calm.
It terrified him.
But it also made his heart beat a little
faster.
For the first time, someone had seen him.
Really seen him.
And Jihoon didn't know whether to run—
Or stay.
By the end of the week, Jihoon found himself
anticipating lunch with a strange blend of anxiety and reluctant hope. He
didn't understand what this was—this quiet ritual they were forming. But the
seat across from him was no longer empty, and that emptiness had been his
companion for so long that its absence felt almost disorienting.
Taeho never pried. Never asked why Jihoon ate
alone, or where he lived, or why his uniform was frayed at the cuffs. He just
talked—to fill the space, Jihoon suspected. Or maybe to make Jihoon forget for
a little while that he was different.
But what unsettled Jihoon most was that Taeho
listened, too.
When Jihoon cautiously mentioned that he
liked reading, Taeho nodded and asked what kind. When Jihoon mumbled the names
of a few classic novels, Taeho looked them up on his phone and read the
summaries aloud, feigning dramatic voices that made Jihoon snort into his rice.
That small laugh—sharp and involuntary—felt
like a betrayal of the silence Jihoon had wrapped himself in like armor. But
Taeho smiled at the sound, like he'd been waiting for it. And that frightened
Jihoon even more.
Because kindness was always followed by
cruelty.
He'd learned that the hard way.
And yet… Taeho kept coming back.
"Do you want to walk to class together?"
Taeho asked on Monday, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Jihoon stared at him like he'd spoken in a
foreign language.
"I—uh—I usually go straight to the dormitory
afterwards."
Taeho tilted his head. "So change your
route."
Jihoon hesitated. He didn't know what to say.
What the right answer was. In his old life, survival had depended on staying
unnoticed. But now, the brightest boy in school was turning his head in
Jihoon's direction—and the light hurt.
Still, something in Jihoon moved.
He nodded, barely.
And Taeho smiled again—like he'd won
something.
The whispers grew louder.
By Thursday, the stares followed them down
the hall. Jihoon heard the laughter when they passed. The disbelief. The
irritation.
It didn't make sense to them.
Why him?
Jihoon kept his head down, hands curled
tightly around the straps of his worn-out bag. He kept his steps small,
measured. He walked beside Taeho like a shadow pretending to be solid.
But even as his nerves frayed with every
glance, every snicker, there was something in him that… warmed. Quietly.
Secretly. Like the faintest ember buried under ash.
Someone had chosen to sit with him. To walk
beside him. To speak his name not like an insult, but like an invitation.
No one had done that before.
And maybe it meant nothing.
Maybe it was all a dream with teeth waiting
at the end.
But it was the first time Jihoon had felt the
heat of another person's presence without bracing for pain.
It made him feel—
Alive.
That weekend, Jihoon sat at his desk under
the flickering light of his large and lonely dormitory room, fingers hovering
over the pages of his journal. The cheap leather cover was worn, corners
frayed, pages filled with a neat, almost obsessive script.
He stared at the blank page.
And then, slowly, he began to write.
March 23rd
He sat with me again today. I don't know why. I keep waiting for him to stop. To
get bored.
I don't trust this.
But when he laughs, it's soft. Not sharp like the others. When he talks, he looks
at me. Really looks.
I don't know what he sees.
I want to believe this is real. That someone like him could see someone like me.
But belief is dangerous.
Still…
I keep hoping he'll come back tomorrow.
Monday morning came.
And so did Taeho.
He leaned casually against Jihoon's locker,
arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other, like they were already friends.
"Morning."
Jihoon blinked, unsure of what to say.
"…Hi."
"You always look so surprised," Taeho said,
amused.
"I just… I didn't expect…"
"Me?"
Jihoon nodded.
Taeho grinned. "Good. I'd hate to be
predictable."
The moment felt easy. Almost too easy.
They walked down the hall together again, the
eyes of half the school on their backs. Taeho didn't flinch. Jihoon did, every
time.
Still, he followed.
Later that day, in the sanctuary of the
library, Jihoon found a corner table between the shelves and curled into it
with a book. He wasn't really reading—just hiding, letting the weight of the
day melt off his skin like snow.
He hadn't noticed Taeho until the chair
across from him scraped back.
Jihoon looked up, startled. "You… found me."
Taeho shrugged, dropping into the seat.
"You're not that hard to find."
Jihoon wasn't sure how to feel about that.
"You like it here?" Taeho asked, glancing
around at the quiet rows of books
Jihoon nodded. "It's the only place that
doesn't feel loud, even when it's full."
"That's poetic," Taeho said. "Are you always
like this?"
"Like what?"
"Soft. Quiet. Careful."
Jihoon looked away. "Is that a bad thing?"
Taeho was silent for a moment. "No. It's just
rare."
Rare. Like a curiosity in a display case.
Jihoon's lips parted, then closed again.
He wanted to ask: Why are you doing this?
But he was afraid of the answer.
So instead, he whispered, "People like you…
don't usually notice people like me."
Taeho didn't smile this time. His eyes grew
still.
"Maybe I'm not like the people you think I
am."
Jihoon didn't respond. Couldn't.
Because hope was blooming in his chest again,
fragile and trembling.
And he didn't know how to kill it.
That night, Jihoon dreamed of warm light and
laughter that didn't sting. Of someone sitting beside him without asking why he
was there. Of the sound of his name spoken like a gift, not a burden.
He woke up with tears on his cheeks.
But as the days passed, doubt began to crawl
in.
Not because Taeho changed. He didn't.
He kept showing up.
But others began watching more closely.
Talking more openly. Whispering louder.
And when Jihoon caught glimpses of Taeho's
friends—those boys with sharp smiles and eyes that glittered with cruelty—he
felt a chill settle in his bones.
Something wasn't right.
It was too good. Too perfect.
And Jihoon knew from experience that perfect things
didn't last.
They shattered.
They were meant to shatter.
Still… he kept showing up too.
Because even if it was a dream, it was the
kindest dream he'd ever had.
And maybe, for just a little while longer, he
wanted to stay asleep.