hayoon has always liked jungwon.
jungwon has never liked her back.
but after the most humiliating ex-
perience of his life, the thought of
hayoon grows a little less badly day
by day. but just as he realised he
was chasing the wrong girl, he also
...
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— SEOUL, FEBRUARY 1999
❝stay in the middle, like you a little, don't want no riddle, 말해줘 say it back, oh, say it ditto.❞
─────────
jungwon stood stiff-backed in the middle of the staff office, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. he didn't want to be here. his mom was threatened with penalty fines if he didn't come into school. he crossed his arms tighter. everything reminded him of her.
the stairwell where she used to wait after last period, camcorder clutched to her chest like a secret. the empty seat near the back of the classroom — far left, by the window — where her elbow used to knock into his when she got too animated about something dumb but deeply important. the vending machine that always ate her coins, the corner of the hallway that still carried echoes of her laugh.
even silence reminded him of her. because she filled it so often, so easily. and now that she was gone, the quiet was deafening.
school felt like a graveyard of memories. every door he opened, every hall he stepped into — it was haunted by her voice, her grin, her stupid complaints, her soft muttering when she thought no one was listening.
it was every breath he remembered her. because she made everything equally ridiculous and unforgettable.
a teacher—some new coordinator who clearly didn't know when to stop—was still talking, voice annoyingly calm, condescending even, like jungwon was some kid who just needed a pat on the back and a firm reminder of the rules. like that'd bring her back.
like if he stared long enough at her empty seat, she'd come tumbling through the door with her untied shoelaces and a breathless apology.
but she wasn't coming back.
and he hated how part of him still acted like she might. that cruel little sliver of hope that crept in when the classroom door creaked open, or when someone in the crowd had her hair, her height, her laugh. that part of him that still looked.
"you can't just—jungwon, listen, we're trying to support you, but this kind of behavior—"
he didn't let him finish. "i don't care." he blurted, simply. almost bored. like he had no weight of emotion left on his words anymore.
"jungwon," the teacher grew stern. "you have a role of responsibility. you're the face of the year group, you are a member of the council, and you—"
with a sharp, shaky breath, jungwon reached up and yanked his student council lanyard from around his neck. the motion was so quick the plastic tag snapped against the desk with a sharp crack. everyone in the room flinched. or went quiet. or both.
"well, i'm done." his voice was quiet but full of anger. cold. controlled. furious. "find someone else to read your stupid announcements."
the silence that followed was thick and suffocating. he felt it. the pairs of eyes peering at him all over the staffroom. he scoffed, voice thick with venom. "yeah, keep looking. act like you all care." he spat, "i don't. but at least i don't lie and pretend i do."
the teacher blinked, stunned. "wait—jungwon, let's just talk about this, you can't—"
"ill do whatever the fuck i want," jungwon spat, barging past him, and slamming the door of the staff room behind him.
it was then he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in.
that was what hayoon wanted, right? she wanted him to take things a little less seriously. to let loose. to be free. and it was freeing. like in that moment he slammed his lanyard down, all the responsibilty and fear lifted off his shoulders.
but now, he felt empty.
like he had no purpose.
because there was no hayoon to see it.
no hayoon to grin at him with that sharp, lopsided smile and say, "finally. you're not a robot." no hayoon to roll her eyes when he straightened his tie too much, or to nudge his knee under the desk when he got too tense whenever they were together.
no hayoon to look at him like he was more than the role he played.
now, there was no one.
he dragged his feet down the hallway, the kind of walk that screamed exhaustion, not from the day—but from everything. his steps echoed faintly in the corridor, his shadow long and thin under the fluorescent hallway lights.
it didn't even feel rebellious, anymore. just hollow.
he stopped near the stairwell and leaned against the cold wall, palms braced on his knees, head bowed. his breath stuttered out in short gasps. he wasn't crying. he couldn't. it was like the tears had been burnt out of him, like he was a vessel that grief had drained completely dry.
hayoon would've said something stupid and poetic like, "that's the thing about freedom. it's terrifying when there's no one to share it with." and she would've been right.
and he never would have the chance to tell her that again.
jungwon didn't hear the footsteps at first—too lost in the noise of his own head. it wasn't until a voice called out, soft but cautious, that he turned around.
"hyung?"
riki's voice cracked slightly with hesitation, and when jungwon looked around, he saw both him and sunoo standing a few feet away in the stairwell, arms folded awkwardly, as if unsure whether they were allowed to come closer.
"jungwon..." sunoo started, voice gentle, reaching out a hand like he was approaching a wild animal.
jungwon blinked at them, his face blank and unreadable. "just don't."
riki flinched at the edge in his tone. sunoo's hand dropped. "we're just trying to talk. jungwon, you can't keep pushing everyone away—"
"i said don't," jungwon snapped, approaching them with a force that startled even himself. "i don't need this right now."
