Hwang Hyunjin || Call My Name (Under Revision)

1. Unusual yet usual morning

Song recommendation: IU - Autumn Morning

The hallway buzzed with noise—footsteps echoing against the polished tile floors, students laughing, running, chatting, even singing like it was some kind of festival. Banners for the upcoming school fair flapped against the open windows, half-hung and already fading under the morning sun. Flyers were stuck crookedly to the cork boards and lockers, and the air carried the faint scent of markers, shoe polish, and cafeteria toast.

And me? I was just trying to keep my eyes open.

I yawned for what felt like the tenth time that morning, my bag slung low on one shoulder and my head dangerously close to nodding off mid-walk. I didn't even stay up late last night—slept before eleven, woke up with my alarm—but somehow I still felt like I hadn't rested at all.

Maybe this is what growing up feels like. Not freedom. Not responsibility. Just... tired. All the time.

I rubbed my eyes and turned down the wrong hallway. Again.

I pushed open a random classroom door, only to be met with at least fifteen confused pairs of eyes.

"This isn't your class," someone said bluntly.

I blinked, gave a weak bow of apology, and backed out slowly like a glitchy NPC. That had happened more times than I'd like to admit. At this point, most of the second-year classrooms already recognized me as "that girl who always walks into the wrong room."

Finally—finally—I found 2-3, our classroom tucked in the corner of the third floor with cracked windows, flickering lights, and a creaky door that never closed all the way. Charming, really.

I slipped in just as the morning bell rang and collapsed into my seat with a dramatic sigh, my cheek pressed against the cool wooden desk. Classic sleeping position: face-down, arms folded like a tired pancake.

I was just starting to drift off when—

SMACK.

"Yah!" I shouted, jerking upright and rubbing the back of my head. "What was that for?!"

Yuji stood over me, holding a rolled-up worksheet like a fly swatter, her expression halfway between motherly concern and fed-up best friend.

"What's up with you lately?" she asked, frowning. "You've been like this for weeks! Don't tell me you're binge-watching dramas again."

I groaned. "Nope. Slept early. No screen time. Didn't even eat ramen."

"Then why do you look like you fought a ghost and lost?"

"I feel like I did." I slumped against the desk again. "Don't ask me. I'm just... exhausted."

She let out a sigh and plopped into the seat beside mine, arms crossed.

Lee Yuji. My best friend since eighth grade. She's tall, sharp-tongued, and always annoyingly prepared. She color-codes her notes, runs our group projects like a CEO, and once kept a "Yeona Survival Kit" in her bag—snacks, wipes, tissues, and a mini lint roller—just for me.

"Fine," she muttered, softer now. "I'll cover for you. Just this once. But if Mr. Lee calls on you and you embarrass me, I'm cutting off your snack supply."

I peeked up with a tired smile. "Thanks, Mom."

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips tugged upward. "Don't thank me. Pay me back with milk bread later."

"Deal."

For a few glorious minutes, I drifted again—warm sunlight pouring through the windows, the low hum of classmates chatting and sliding chairs, my body finally melting into something like sleep.