cliché

❝[☁️] o n e 一

Minho's chapped lips enclose around a thin Marlboro cigarette, toxic fumes entering the male's body in an exchange for his toxic thoughts leaving his head. He grabs at his black cap, pulling in further down to cover his face in the shadow, securing it with his hood.

As per usual, he helps the client fill their tank with fuel, trying to ignore the tremble to his freezing cold hands – not sure if the temperature is the culprit, or maybe withdrawal symptoms started to get to him.

"Don't you have school today, kid?" His boss asks as soon as Minho returns to the store attached to the gas station. It's not like he is worried for his employee, he just wants to strike up some conversation since playing Bubble Shooter on his phone slowly starts to bore him.

"In half an hour, sir," Minho replies out of politeness, yet the tone of his voice remains dull. He makes his way back behind the counter, aiming to get to his locker in the staff room.

"Aish, really..." he hears the older man curse underneath his breath. "I hoped you could fill in for Yoongi today."

Minho quirks his eyebrow, allowing himself for that gesture since now his back is facing his boss.

"He's not coming?" Again?

"Called in this morning. He won't be showing around for a few days. I need to sort out his shifts."

Minho sighs internally.

"I can take the night ones, let Mina take the early ones, she's the only sane person at those ungodly hours," he suggests.

Minho opens his locker, seeing his backpack crumpled at the very bottom of it. He searches through it, creasing his school uniform in the process, until he finds a little orange pill bottle with an etiquette. Lee Minho, prescription, 2 x 2 a day, 50 mg. It read.

He rattles out one pill onto his open palm, popping it into his mouth and taking a swing from a water bottle right after. He knows he shouldn't be overdosing his medication, yet the frantic thumping of his heavy heart, sweaty palms, and gut twisted into a tight knot won't let him survive this day otherwise.

"You sure? Night shift starts at 11 PM and lasts until 6 AM. I would rather give it to someone who doesn't attend school..."

"I can handle it," Minho cuts the man off, gathering his stuff. He has to leave in five minutes in order to catch the bus.

The boss shrugs. "If you say so." It's not like he cares anyway.

On Mondays and Wednesdays Minho had the priority to first get home and jump into the shower before he had to leave to school, yet today is Tuesday, which means no breaks in between. Munching on an energy bar he sneakily took off a shelf on his way out, he gets into the bus and rides four stops, until he arrives at the school building. Today is a cloudy and humid day, which isn't making Minho's humour any better.

First, he makes his way to the bathroom to get changed before any of the teachers catches him and gives him detention for breaking the dress code with his dirty stained hoodie he always wore at work.

He has one and dependable recipe for survival – lay low. He always sat at the very back of the classroom, he never spoke in the class until asked to, he spent his every break alone, scrolling through his phone for a hint of entertainment... Eight hours in school were passing on autopilot, whether he liked it or not. He gave his best to stay focused on each lesson but he couldn't help his mind wandering to different places, constantly drifting off. He was tired, after all. And anxious. So anxious.

Nobody really paid attention, he was just a regular kid, not outstanding either academically or socially. Just another face among nameless hundreds. And he preferred it this way.

The only teacher that seemed to have a problem with his mere existence was Ms Khan. Music and arts teacher, the mistress of everything interesting and out of ordinary that happened in between the thick walls of this school. She wasn't mean, oh no. She was bothering Minho the way you definitely wouldn't guess a teacher would.

She was trying to blow his cover off.

Whenever he sat alone, she encouraged him to sit beside one of his classmates. Her eyes would search for an answer in the classroom, and even if someone was already rising their hand, she would pick Minho to answer instead. What's even more bizarre, even if he didn't know the answer, simply showing he didn't pay attention, she was giving him hints until he could form a proper answer. Any other teacher would just move on, maybe get a little upset, but they wouldn't waste their time like Ms Khan did. Minho couldn't understand.

Every time they had homework from her art class, she would ask him about the details and what inspired him to create what he created. He always had the urge to hiss through gritted teeth 'I don't fucking know, I drew it just 'cause, not everything has a deeper meaning to it.'

It's like she was looking for something special within Minho. She was the only teacher that remembered Minho's name. She wanted to pull his personality from underneath the surface. But he wasn't letting her.

Little did he know that she had a plan. A plan that was bound to succeed, since she discovered what she discovered. And today, she was executing first phase.

"Minho! I'm glad you arrived," she smiles warmly; any other teacher would give him a stone-cold face and reprimand for being late.

He just nods in a dismissive reply, a slight bow to his movement, and he makes a beeline for his desk.

There he is, brown-haired boy groans internally upon seeing a face he disliked to see. Han Jisung makes his presence pretty acknowledgeable with all the commotion he causes. That deep laugh and squirrel-like dazzling smile gets on Minho's nerves.

Another group project? Minho deducts reluctantly, realising that everyone is gathered in small groups, whispering among each other as they supposedly work on a given task.

Suddenly Ms Khan materialises in front of him, that damned smile still plastered on her face as she speaks, "You must have heard of our school drama club," she begins, and Minho doesn't like in the slightest bit where is it going.

"We're preparing for our next play, and we're looking for–"

"I won't be an actor," he quickly says, a few students lifting their heads to assess the situation.

Ms Khan chuckles. "Don't worry, I wasn't trying to offer you that. I was more thinking of a... scriptwriter?"

Han Jisung stands up from his chair, dragging its legs across the floor. It made a loud screeching noise everyone flinched upon. "A scriptwriter?" He asks, his chocolate sparkly eyes now wide in confusion. "Ms Khan, I thought we agreed on that. I am a scriptwriter. And a director. Always have been. What changed?"

"See? He's a scriptwriter." Minho points to Jisung, taken aback by the fact that he was so quick to agree on anything with the blond boy. So annoying.

Ms Khan shakes her head. "Minho, I saw your records," she says in a low voice. "I'm looking for a way for you to bring up your GPA with activity points. If you decide to participate in this, I promise to give you the highest grade from my subject, and I will talk to Mr Baek too, hm?"

Ms Khan was, unfortunately, right. Minho's grades and attendance were going down, and Mr Baek, respectively his history and physics teacher, didn't agree on letting Minho correct his grades. It was bringing his GPA down dangerously low.

"Whatever..." he mumbles, using all of his strong will to hold back an eye roll.

Ms Khan clasps her hands together, visibly satisfied. "Very well then! Jisung, meet your co-scriptwriter, Lee Minho!"

Tuesday. The day Minho's recipe for survival has failed him.