ahn suho series :: every breathe you take, chapter one ᯓ★
pairings: ahn suho x fem!reader
synopsis: in which a school ghost noticed suho was avoiding her. could it be that he could see her?
warnings: non-canon compliant, angst, hurt, fluff, ghost!reader, emotional trauma, bad attempt of romcom ig?, beomseok's glasses stayed on, swearing
word count: 3720
author's note: this is not proof-read. if you see some grammatical errors, please let me know. english, after all, was not my first language. also, tell me what you think of chapter one. and enjoy!
previous chapter one chapter two
The line on your palm was your lifeline.
Most of the time, you trace the faint line carved across your palm, just beneath your fingers. That was the very one the old women used to hold and squint at as if it were a map only they could read.
They would press your hand flat, tilt it toward the light, and speak in tones about time or fate or about how the length of that delicate curve was a promise written before you ever learned to write your own name. They said the longer it stretched, the longer you would breathe, the longer you would belong to the living world.
They said a short line meant a short life.
You remember how you used to compare yours to others, pressing your small hand against your mother’s, against your friends’, against anyone who would let you. Their lines would travel farther, reaching boldly across their palms as if they had somewhere important to be. Yours stopped early.
It ended before it could even reach halfway, as if it had given up long before you ever had the chance to begin.
As a child, you would stare at your palm for hours, turning it this way and that, hoping the line might grow overnight, hoping it might stretch just a little further if you believed hard enough. You thought perhaps you had done something wrong, something small and invisible that shortened what should have been yours.
Your mother never treated it as a small thing. She believed in everything that promised hope, in anything that might bargain with fate. She took you to shamans who burned incense until the air grew thick, to old healers who whispered prayers over your hands, to strangers who claimed they could lengthen what was written if only the right offerings were made. She pressed your palm into theirs again and again, as if repetition alone could rewrite you.
But the line never changed.
It remained stubborn, ending where it always had, unmoved by smoke or by prayer or by desperate faith. It was as if your life had already been decided, sealed in the soft flesh of your hand long before your mother ever tried to save it.
And just as your palm had said, your life did not stretch very far at all.
You do not remember how it happened. There is no clear moment, no sharp memory to hold onto, only the knowledge that one day you were alive and the next you were not. It is a gap in your story that refuses to be filled, a page torn clean from the middle of a book.
You woke up in a school. Well, of course, you also tried to leave.
But no matter how hard you tried, you could not.
At first, you counted the days. You marked time in the rising and setting of a sun that no longer warmed your skin. You waited for something to change, for someone to come, for a voice to tell you where to go next.
You do not know how long it has been now. Time lost its shape somewhere along the way, slipping through you like water through open hands anyway.
So, to ease up your boredom, you started scaring the students.
At first, you wondered why, of all places, you woke up in a boys’ school when you had never been one of them. You remember standing in the hallway in those early days, watching uniforms that never belonged to you, listening to voices that felt unfamiliar, and thinking how wrong it all was.
You did not belong here, you thought.
But time has a way of dulling even the sharpest questions.
Now, it does not matter anymore.
Because you have learned something the living never say out loud. Boys are fucking pussy.
Genuinely, they scare easily. And you enjoyed it.
You remember the first time you tried. There was hesitation but it then changed to curiosity. You tried to touch the light, and to your surprise, you managed to flick it -- although it took a lot of effort to do so. g
"Who’s there," he asked, his voice already trembling.
You did not answer. It's not like you could.
Instead, you let the silence stretch until it pressed against him, until it wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. Then you knocked. Once. Twice. Louder the third time.
You remember laughing then, the sound spilling out of you in disbelief.
"They're so pussy, what the fuck," you said as you almost died twice laughing.
After that, it became easier.
You learned how to slam lockers, how to drag something unseen along the floor just behind them, how to let your voice slip into their ears at the exact moment they thought they were safe.
"Don’t turn around," you would murmur.
They always did. And they always ran.
So, day after day or night after night, you played your little games, drifting through corridors that no longer felt like a prison, but a stage made only for you.
But of course, the school did not ignore you forever.
At first, it was whispers. Then comes complaints. Then fear that grew loud enough to demand answers. You remember the first time they tried to remove you, as if you were something that could simply be escorted out.
He walked through the halls with slow, careful steps, his hand wrapped tightly around a rosary, his lips moving in a prayer. You watched him from the top of the door you were sitting on and you listened as he spoke blessings into the air, as if the walls themselves might listen.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he murmured.
You let him finish and let him believe, just for a moment, that the silence meant something had changed. But nothing happened, you remained stuck in the school.
They brought more after that. Different priests. Men who called themselves exorcists. Some louder, some braver, some shaking so badly they could barely hold their books. They sprinkled holy water that passed through you like rain, they recited prayers that dissolved before they could reach you, they demanded that you leave a place you could not escape even if you wanted to.
It was funny to watch, truly.
"Leave this place," one of them commanded, his voice firm but thin at the edges.
You whispered back, right against his ear, soft and amused.
No matter how hard they tried, they could never chase you out. Because this place had already claimed you.
And somewhere along the way, you claimed it back.
It was not something you decided all at once. You stayed there longer than anywhere else. You learned every corner of it, every desk with its carved names, or every crack that ran along the walls like veins. The air felt different there., heavier, and warmer in a way that did not belong to the living.
The students knew it too.
They avoided the room when they could, whispering about it in hallways, daring each other to step inside and then laughing too loudly when no one did. Some claimed they heard breathing when the room was empty. Others said the chairs moved when no one touched them.
Still, avoidance was not enough to change schedules. Classes were held there anyway as they had no choice.
So they entered with stiff shoulders and careful steps, pretending not to notice the way the air pressed against them, pretending not to hear the faint scraping that followed them to their seats. Teachers spoke louder than necessary, students kept their heads down, and no one stayed longer than they had to.
You lingered above them, unseen, smiling to yourself.
"Welcome back," you would greet them every single start of semester. No one answered back, though.
So, just to remind them, you would knock beneath a desk.
Someone always jumped. And you always find it amusing.
"Why does he always come here every night," you ask yourself, your voice as you linger as you watch him push open the door once again.
You are almost sure that is his name. You have heard it enough times, the way teachers call it out in exasperation, their voices echoing through the classroom while he sits slouched in his chair, eyes closed as if the world is nothing more than a distant noise.
"Ahn Suho," they would say, sharper now. "Are you sleeping again?"
Even now, he moves through the hallway with that same lazy calm, as if the darkness means nothing, as if the silence does not press in the way it does for everyone else. He carries nothing but himself, sometimes a towel, sometimes with an extra shirt, heading toward the showers or toward a classroom where he can sleep undisturbed.
You have watched him long enough to understand pieces of him.
He does not come here for fear, nor does he come here by accident.
You think, at first, that he is simply strange. But then you notice the way he arrives late, the way he leaves early, the faint exhaustion that clings to him like something heavier than sleep. You hear fragments of conversations, passing remarks from others, and slowly it settles into place.
He works. That must be it.
A part time job, something that keeps him out long after everyone else has gone home, something that leaves him too tired to care about ghosts or rumors or anything that might have frightened someone else.
That must be why you cannot scare him.
You have tried. So many times.
The first time, you flickered the lights above him, sharp and sudden, plunging the hallway into darkness before snapping it back again. Once. Twice. Over and over, until the bulbs buzzed in protest.
You smiled, "Yes, please, run away."
But he only sighed. He looked up at the light, squinting slightly, and muttered under his breath,
"Again? This school really needs fixing."
You stared, dumbfounded, as he took a chair, stood on it, and fixed the lights that didn't need any fixing at all. You did not even get a flinch — that annoyed you so much.
The second time, you watched him enter his room — which also was the very one you always haunt.
He dropped onto a chair without ceremony, stretching his legs out as if he owned the place, his head tilting back, eyes already closing. You let the door creak open behind him, the sound long and drawn out like a warning.
You dragged a chair across the floor. The screech echoed through the room, sharp enough to make anyone else cover their ears.
He cracked one eye open, glanced in your direction without actually seeing you, and mumbled, "If someone’s there, just close it."
Then he closed his eyes again.
The third time, you decided to be bold.
He had fallen asleep on top of the desks, his head resting on his arm, a thin blanket draped carelessly over him. The room was quiet in a way that used to make others uneasy.
You reached out and grabbed the blanket and pulled.
It slid off him completely, dropping to the floor in a soft heap.
You waited. But he only shifted slightly.
Then he grunted, his voice rough with sleep, "Cold," and without even opening his eyes, he reached down blindly, grabbed the blanket, and pulled it back over himself.
Then he went right back to sleep. Just like that.
You stared at him, speechless.
"Are you serious?" you whispered, half offended, half incredulous. "You’re supposed to run."
He did not even hear you.
It is annoying. Of course it is.
Every other student screams, runs, begs for whatever unseen thing is chasing them to stop. Every other student gives you the reaction you expect.
And yet. You find yourself lingering when he is around.
You hover a little closer, stay a little longer, watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing as he sleeps in a place everyone else avoids.
Because, annoying as he is, he is still there.
And in a place that has long since forgotten what it means to feel alive, even something as small as that begins to matter. At least, sometimes, you are not alone.
You watched Suho with his two friends, Sieun and Beomseok, enter the room. You were in the cafeteria, sitting at the table people usually avoided because they said it was haunted by you.
To be fair, you always sat there because it was right beside the windows, and you loved watching the outside.
A quiet, sharp-eyed boy called Sieun was already flipping open a book beside you. Suho sat diagonally from you while Beomseok stood in front of you, hesitant to sit.
"Is it okay to sit here?" he asked, lowering his voice slightly. "Isn’t this table haunted?"
You tilted your head, amused. Suho dropped his chopstick, looking at him in disbelief.
"Then sit," he said simply, reaching for his food again. "If something shows up, we’ll just eat with it."
Beomseok let out a small, uncertain laugh before sitting.
Sieun did not even react. He continued studying, one hand holding his food while the other flipped through pages, his eyes scanning lines as if the rest of the world did not exist.
You leaned closer, curiosity pulling you in, and peeked over his shoulder.
"Oh," you murmured. "Isn’t that for next semester? You’re too early."
Noticing how he didn't feel your presence at all, you leaned in and blew softly against his ear. He flinched at it and his hand came up, fingers brushing against his ear as he frowned slightly, as if trying to understand the sudden chill.
You grinned. And Suho noticed Sieun.
"What? Something crawled in there?"
Sieun clicked his tongue softly, already turning a page.
"Nothing," he replied flatly.
Suho leaned back, stretching slightly.
"You should stop studying for once," he said. "You’re going to end up memorizing next year before this one even finishes."
"Exactly," you agreed. "That sounds exhausting."
No one heard you, of course.
Sieun did not even look up at his friends and said, "It’s efficient. Less wasted time later."
Suho exhaled, somewhere between amused and annoyed.
"You say that like time is something you can control," he muttered.
You blinked at that. Then, your attention drifted back to him. Most especially, to his wrist. The bright red bracelet on it caught your eye almost immediately. It stood out too much, too vivid against everything else, like something alive in a way nothing else there was.
You reached out slowly, your fingers hovering just above it, wanting to feel if it was different, if it held something you could not explain.
But before you could touch it, he moved. Suho lifted his arm and draped it casually over Beomseok’s shoulder.
Your hand passed through empty air. You froze. Then you glared at him.
"Seriously," you muttered.
You shifted your attention to Beomseok, instead. A slow smile spread across your face as another mischief crossed your mind.
You leaned closer and ran your fingers lightly through his hair. He shivered and stiffened, his hand flying up to his head as he looked around.
"Did you feel that?" he asked, his voice a bit panicked.
You laughed softly. "There it is. That's what I want. These two are so boring for not giving me any attention." You pointed at Sieun and Suho before rolling your eyes at them.
The poor boy sitting in front of you then swallowed, glancing between the two.
"About that ghost rumor," he continued, trying to sound casual but failing just slightly. "Have you guys ever . . . you know . . . actually experienced something?"
Suho snorted. "No. Because there’s no ghost here."
Beomseok frowned, still uneasy.
"But people keep saying—"
"People say a lot of things," Suho cut in, shrugging. "Most of them are stupid."
You narrowed your eyes at him.
Sieun finally spoke again. "Fear spreads easier than facts. Don't mind the rumours."
"Yeah, don't mind them. There's no ghost here, Oh Beom," Suho agreed.
Suho once again decided to stay in the school.
You were in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror as you fixed your hair, fingers absentmindedly smoothing strands that no longer needed fixing. You had nothing better to do, so you simply stared at yourself, studying a reflection that felt both familiar and distant.
Then the door creaked open.
You glanced at the mirror, catching his reflection behind you.
"Oh, you're here again," you said, tilting your head slightly. "How's the job?"
He did not answer, of course.
Instead, he stepped further in, setting his things down before reaching for the hem of his shirt.
You froze. Then you gasped, immediately covering your eyes with your hand.
"Hey! Warning first, hello?"
But your fingers betrayed you. They parted. Just a little. You peeked through them, and your jaw dropped.
"Oh, mamma mia por favor," you whispered, completely forgetting your earlier complaint. "Since when did this school start producing bodies like that?"
Your gaze lingered shamelessly. "Are you even real? Or did I finally lose my mind after dying? Because this feels illegal."
He turned his back to you, clearing his throat as he reached for his belt. Your eyes widened.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you said quickly. "Okay, that’s my cue. Bye."
And just like that, you turned and walked straight through the wall.
Because, really. As much as curiosity tempted you, you had standards. Ghost or not, you refused to be a pervert.
There were lines. Invisible, moral, possibly self-imposed lines, but still lines.
You leaned against the hallway wall on the other side, fanning yourself as if you could still feel the heat rising to your cheeks.
"He's so fine, what the hell," you muttered. "How does someone like that even exist?" You let out a breath, shaking your head. "If I were alive, I’d ask him out with zero shame."
Your laughter came soft after that, though something about the words lingered longer than you expected.
Because you were not alive. And he was.
You pushed yourself off the wall, the thought slipping away as easily as it came.
Suho was not just someone you noticed. He was someone everyone noticed.
Even you remember the time a group of athletes stormed into the classroom, loud and restless, their presence filled the space with tension. They had been looking for him, their voices sharp with accusation something about a girl named Naeun.
Apparently, someone’s girlfriend had asked for his contact, and that alone had been enough to start a fight.
You had watched it unfold from the top of the locker, amused and intrigued.
Because of course. Of course it would be something like that.
You remembered the way Suho stood, unbothered, almost bored, as if the situation barely registered as important. You remembered how quickly things escalated, how easily he handled it, how the room had fallen into chaos and then silence just as fast.
And after everything, he had simply gone back to his seat. Like nothing had happened.
You had stared at him then, the same way you found yourself staring now.
"No wonder," you murmured to yourself.
Some people were just like that. Impossible to ignore. Even to someone who no longer belonged to the living.
A moment later, the bathroom door opened again.
Suho stepped out, hair still damp, droplets tracing slow lines down his neck before disappearing beneath the collar of his now properly worn shirt. Unfortunately, fully dressed.
You clicked your tongue and pushed yourself off the wall, drifting toward him.
"You took so much time," you complained, stomping right up to him. "I was admiring mysel—"
You stopped, and your brows furrowed.
It was weird. Because, when you moved into his path, standing directly in front of him as he walked forward, he did not walk through you.
As if he was avoiding you.
You turned slowly, watching his back as he continued down the hallway like nothing had happened.
Your mind caught up a second too late.
Come to think of it… Didn’t he do the same thing earlier?
When you reached for his wrist, he moved it to put on Beomseok.
You had brushed it off then. But now. Now it sat heavier.
Were you being delusional. . . or . . . ?
For a fleeting second, the thought felt dangerous.
Because if he could see you . . .
If he could see you, then every ridiculous thing you had done replayed itself with brutal clarity. The way you danced around empty classrooms out of boredom, spinning between desks as if the world still belonged to you. The faces you made at him when he was zoning out, exaggerated and childish, tongue out, eyes crossed, anything to pass the time. The way you had leaned too close, whispered nonsense, laughed at nothing.
If he could see you, then you had never been alone.
And worse. . . you had been embarrassing.
You stared at his back, something tightening in your chest. Then, for your own peace of mind, you decided on something simple.
"You fucking scumbag," you blurted, the words coming out half in disbelief, half in accusation. You rushed toward him and stopped right in front of him, pointing a finger straight at him.
His eyes lowered straight to yours.
"You can see me, can’t you?!" you asked.
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