By the time Jenna and I leave The Literary Nook, the street outside has gone blue with evening.
Not dark, not really. Just that strange hour where everything looks half-erased, the sidewalks slick with old rain, the shop windows glowing warmer than they should. The convenience store bag swings from Jenna’s wrist, crinkling every few steps. Sour gummies, two sodas, a packet of chocolate-covered pretzels she insisted had “emotional value” because they were on sale.
I still have my phone in my hand.
The screen has gone black, but I keep feeling the weight of it anyway. Like it’s changed shape just because Jungwon’s number is inside.
Jenna glances over at me once, then again.
“What?” I ask, tucking the phone into my pocket before she can make a whole thing of it.
“Nothing.”
“You looked at me.”
“I have eyes.”
I shoot her a flat look.
She smiles around a gummy worm she’s halfway through chewing. “You’re very tense for someone who just bought soda and watched me embarrass myself in a bookstore.”
“You didn’t embarrass yourself.”
“I asked the cashier if they had a rewards program and then forgot my own email.”
“That’s normal.”
“It was not. I panicked and said Gmail like he was supposed to know what that meant.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, small but real. Jenna grins like she won something.
Behind us, The Literary Nook’s bell gives a faint chime as the door opens again. I don’t turn. I tell myself not to.
I make it three steps.
Then, because I’m weak in a very quiet, controlled way, I glance back.
Jungwon stands just outside the bookstore, one shoulder pressed to the doorframe, the bag of books hanging from his hand. The newspaper is still tucked beneath his arm, folded now so the headline isn’t visible. He’s looking down at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen, not typing. Just staring.
The fairy lights behind him catch in his hair, softening the tired set of his face. From here, with the distance and the blue evening between us, he almost looks normal. A senior at school. A boy with homework and a bag of books and friends who know how to fill the cafeteria with noise.
Not Spiderman.
Not the figure in red and blue that the city keeps dragging apart in headlines.
Not the person who asked for my number like we were starting something simple.
Jenna follows my glance and slows a little. “You know,” she says, quieter now, “I can walk ahead and pretend I didn’t see anything.”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“I didn’t say there was.”
I look at her.
She lifts both hands, the candy bag dangling from two fingers. “Okay. Sorry. I’m being normal.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, but I’m trying.”
That gets another laugh out of me, though this one fades faster.
My phone buzzes before we reach the corner.
The sound is small. Barely anything against the street noise, the distant hiss of tires on damp asphalt, the low murmur of a couple arguing outside the laundromat. But it cuts straight through me.
I don’t take it out right away.
Jenna notices. Of course she does. She keeps walking, but her eyes flick down toward my pocket.
“You gonna check that?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Two more steps.
“You’re very bad at not wanting to check it.”
“I’m ignoring you.”
“That’s fine. I’m still right.”
I stop walking with a sigh, mostly because pretending not to care is somehow more obvious than caring. My fingers feel colder than they should when I pull the phone from my pocket.
Jungwon: hey, it’s Jungwon
That’s it.
No punctuation. No explanation. No reason for my pulse to trip the way it does.
I stare at the message for a second longer than necessary, then type back before I can overthink it.
Me: I know. I watched you type it in.
The bubbles appear almost immediately.
Jungwon: yeah
Jungwon: still felt weird not saying it
I press my lips together.
Jenna leans slightly toward me.
I angle the phone away. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t reading.”
“You were breathing near the screen.”
“I breathe everywhere.”
I turn my shoulder and type.
Me: fair
That feels too short. I almost add something else. Something casual. Something normal. Something a person who has friends would know how to say without making it feel like a legal document.
Nothing comes.
Jungwon answers anyway.
Jungwon: you get home okay?
I look at the message until the words blur a little.
It’s a harmless question. Anyone could ask it. Jenna could ask it. Dad asks it even when I’m already in the house.
But from Jungwon, it carries too much. Or maybe I put too much on it because I know what he does at night. Because I know he asks things like that after glass breaks and sirens fade and he swings out of alleys with his shoulder hanging wrong.
Because I know he’s capable of sounding casual while bleeding.
Me: walking now
Me: Jenna’s with me
Jungwon: good
There’s a pause.
Jungwon: tell her I said hi
I glance at Jenna, who is trying very hard to look like she isn’t waiting.
“Jungwon says hi.”
Jenna brightens instantly, then clearly tries to dim it down and fails. “Oh. Tell him hi. Normal hi. Like, casual.”
“You can just say hi.”
“I am saying hi through you. That’s different.”
I type it exactly how she said it.
Me: Jenna says “hi. normal hi. casual.”
A few seconds pass.
Jungwon: that sounds like her
I don’t know what to do with the small warmth that opens in my chest. So I lock the screen and push the phone back into my pocket like that will end it.
It doesn’t.
The walk home feels longer after that.
Dad is waiting when we get back, the living room lamp on, his office door cracked open just enough for light to spill across the hallway floor. He doesn’t say much when we come in. Just looks at the convenience store bag, then at me, then at Jenna, like he’s measuring whether either of us managed to become a public safety risk in the twenty minutes we were gone.
Jenna gives him an innocent smile.
Dad points toward the kitchen. “Put the drinks away before they sweat all over the table.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, and hurries past him.
I hover by the door, one hand still wrapped around the strap of my bag.
Dad studies me for a second too long. “Everything okay?”
The question is ordinary. It shouldn’t make my stomach twist.
“Yeah,” I say. “We just got snacks.”
He nods, but he doesn’t move right away. His gaze drifts over my face, searching for the part I’m not giving him.
I wonder if Mom ever felt like this around him. Like he could photograph a lie before it fully left your mouth.
Finally, he steps aside. “Jenna’s parents called?”
“She texted them,” I say. “They’ll be home around eight.”
“Good.”
His voice is tired, not angry. The kind of tired that makes me feel guilty even when I haven’t done anything. Or when I’ve done too many things and he only knows about half of them.
Then her parent's finally did arrive.
Dad walks her to the door. I hover a few steps back, pretending to check my phone while they talk.
“Thanks again, Mr. Park,” Jenna says, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “Sorry for, you know… showing up like that.”
“It’s fine,” Dad says. He opens the door for her. “Just text your parents next time before you wander off.”
“I did,” she says quickly. “They just didn’t answer.”
He nods once. “Alright. Get home safe.”
“I will.” She glances at me, then back at him. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
Dad keeps his hand on the knob for a second longer than necessary, like he’s thinking about something he hasn’t decided to say yet.
I start up the stairs.
“She’s not bad,” he says.
I stop halfway up and look back. “I didn’t say she was.”
“No, you didn’t.” He lets go of the door and turns toward me, rubbing his jaw. “Just… making an observation.”
“Okay.”
He hesitates, then adds, “She talks a lot.”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
He watches me for a second. “You don’t.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Not always a bad thing,” he says.
I don’t really know what he wants me to do with that, so I just nod and turn back toward the stairs.
Upstairs, my room is exactly how we left it. Sketchbooks stacked crooked on my desk. A pencil on the floor. The window shut but not latched properly, letting in a hairline of cold air.
I lock it this time.
Then I sit on the edge of my bed and pull out my phone.
There are no new messages.
I tell myself I’m relieved.
I set the phone facedown on my nightstand, change into pajamas, wash my face, brush my teeth, turn off the light. I do everything in the right order, like rituals can make a person reasonable.
But when I slide under the covers, my hand still finds the phone.
The screen lights up, too bright in the dark.
Jungwon’s message sits there, plain and harmless.
Jungwon: good
That’s all.
Not a confession. Not a secret. Not even a real conversation.
Just one word.
I lock the screen again and roll over until the room disappears into shadow.
For once, I don’t draw.
—
By Monday morning, the air has shifted.
Not drastically. Nothing dramatic. The sky doesn’t split open, and the city doesn’t suddenly decide to stop whispering about Spiderman. But the weekend has pulled a thin skin over everything. The kind that makes it possible to pretend a few things have healed, even when they haven’t.
Dad drives me to school with one hand on the wheel and his coffee balanced in the cup holder, untouched and already going cold. The radio mutters low between us, some morning host laughing too loudly about traffic delays on Fifth. Dad doesn’t laugh. He keeps glancing at the rearview mirror, then the street, then me, like he’s expecting bad news to run alongside the car.
I keep my backpack on my lap and my phone buried at the bottom of it.
It buzzed once last night.
Not Jungwon. A reminder from the school portal about an upcoming AP English assignment.
I wasn’t disappointed. Not exactly.
Disappointment implies I expected something.
“You have art club today?” Dad asks as we turn onto Daylight Avenue.
“Maybe. Ms. Hartman said she’d post something about the mural.”
He nods. “You staying after?”
“I’ll text you if I do.”
His mouth tightens a little, but he doesn’t argue. Grounding has turned from a rule into an atmosphere. It’s still there, even when he doesn’t name it.
“Straight home if not,” he says.
“I know.”
He pulls up near the curb, behind a line of cars. Students spill toward the entrance in loose clusters, jackets unzipped, hair still damp from rushed showers, voices carrying across the morning.
For a second, I stay seated.
Dad notices. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” I reach for the door handle. “Just tired.”
That isn’t entirely a lie.
He gives a small nod. “Eat lunch today.”
I look back at him. “That was random.”
“You get weird when you don’t eat.”
“I’ll try not to be.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “Eat anyway.”
I step out before the softness can make either of us uncomfortable.
The car door shuts behind me with a familiar thud, and Dad waits until I reach the main steps before pulling away.
Daylight Academy looks the same as always: stone arches, ivy crawling over the walls, tall windows catching the pale light like sheets of dull silver. The school has a way of making every morning feel older than it is.
Inside, the hallway smells like floor polish, cheap perfume, wet fabric, and whatever breakfast someone decided to eat too close to the lockers. My sneakers squeak once against the tile. I hate the sound immediately.
Jenna finds me before Chemistry.
She appears at my side with her planner tucked under one arm and her camera bag slung across her chest, hair escaping its clip in tiny curls near her temples. She looks too awake for someone who spent Friday evening interrogating my entire childhood and then eating gummy worms on my bed.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
“You look like you slept three hours.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I figured.”
She studies me while we walk, but for once she doesn’t push. Maybe she’s learning. Or maybe she’s saving the questions for when I’m too tired to dodge them.
Chemistry is already half-full when we arrive. Mrs. Henderson stands at the front, writing reaction types across the board in her small, precise handwriting. The windows are cracked open, letting in a thin breeze that doesn’t do much for the bleach smell clinging to the room.
Sunoo is leaning back in his chair, talking to a boy beside him with his hands moving more than his mouth. Jungwon isn’t there yet.
I notice that without wanting to.
Jenna drops into the seat beside me and starts organizing her pens by color.
“Do you do that every morning?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It makes me feel like I have control over my life.”
I glance at the perfectly aligned row of pens. “Does it work?”
“No.”
I smile despite myself and pull out my notebook.
The door opens a few minutes before the bell.
Jungwon walks in with his hood down, hair slightly damp, backpack hanging from one shoulder. He looks better than he did Friday. Less hollow around the eyes. Still tired, but in a human way. Like homework and bad sleep. Not like smoke and headlines.
There are no visible bruises. No cuts. No limp.
I don’t know why that bothers me. I knew he healed quickly. I’d seen proof of it enough times. But part of me still expects evidence. Something the rest of the world can’t explain away. A mark that says, yes, what happened happened.
Instead, he looks like Jungwon.
That’s almost worse.
His gaze moves over the room and finds me for half a second. He gives a small nod. Not a smile. Not nothing either.
I nod back.
Then he takes his seat near Sunoo.
That’s it.
Normal.
I open my notebook and write the date at the top of the page.
September 8.
The numbers look too sharp.
Mrs. Henderson begins before the bell has fully stopped ringing.
“Combination, decomposition, single replacement, double replacement, combustion,” she says, tapping each word on the board. “You should know these. Some of you do not.”
A few students laugh quietly.
She turns, unimpressed. “That wasn’t a joke.”
The laughter dies fast.
We spend twenty minutes copying notes and circling reaction patterns. My pen moves because my hand knows how to perform being present, even when the rest of me keeps drifting. Across the room, Sunoo has gone quiet for once, chin propped on his hand. Jungwon sits beside him, pencil turning slowly between his fingers.
Jenna leans slightly toward me. “Did you do the English reading?”
“Most of it.”
“That means no.”
“That means most of it.”
“Did you finish?”
“No.”
She nods. “So no.”
I don’t argue because she’s right.
Mrs. Henderson passes out a worksheet and gives us the rest of the period to start. Jenna immediately bends over hers with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. I answer the first three, then get stuck on the fourth.
A chair scrapes ahead of us.
Sunoo twists around, his worksheet pinched between two fingers. “Jenna. You got number six?”
Jenna looks up, eyebrows raised. “We’re on number four.”
“I’m planning ahead.”
“You skipped five.”
“I didn’t like it.”
She stares at him for a second, then reluctantly slides her paper closer. “Don’t copy. Look at the format.”
“I know how to look at formats.”
“Then do that.”
Their voices stay low, ordinary, nothing loud enough for Mrs. Henderson to snap at them. Still, the exchange draws Jungwon’s attention. He glances back, and his eyes briefly catch mine before dropping to my notebook.
“You good on four?” he asks.
It takes a second to realize he’s talking to me.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
Jenna looks at my blank answer, then at me.
I ignore her.
Jungwon doesn’t call me out. He just nods and turns back around.
The relief that follows is ridiculous.
I fill in number four wrong on purpose, then erase it so hard the paper thins.
—
AP English comes with colder light and Mr. Erikson’s usual attempt at making old literature feel like it has anything to do with us.
Today, apparently, it’s Paradise Lost.
The classroom hums with low conversation when I step in. Jenna slips into the seat beside me. Jay is already in the corner, earbuds in, one foot hooked around the leg of his chair. Amy-Jane sits near the front, posture straight, hair clipped neatly away from her face. She has three different colors of highlighter lined up beside her notebook.
I hate that I notice things like that.
Not hate.
That’s too strong.
I dislike the version of myself that notices and then compares.
Mr. Erikson starts class with a question written on the board:
Who gets to decide what makes someone fallen?
A few students groan.
He turns from the board, marker still in hand. “I know. Thinking on a Monday. I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”
No one laughs much, but he doesn’t seem offended.
The discussion starts slowly. Milton, rebellion, punishment, pride, perception. Words that feel too big and too far away until someone in the second row raises their hand and says, “Isn’t it kind of like that Spiderman thing?”
The room shifts.
Not a dramatic shift. No sudden silence, no chairs scraping back. Just a small tightening, like a thread pulled through fabric.
Mr. Erikson pauses. “You mean the article?”
“Yeah,” the student says. “The whole hero or murderer thing. Like, people already liked him, but now everyone’s acting like they always knew he was dangerous.”
My pen stops moving.
Jenna glances at me.
I keep my face neutral.
Mr. Erikson leans back against his desk, considering. “That’s a useful connection. Public perception can change quickly, especially when fear is involved.” He pauses, then adds, “But let’s push it further. This isn’t just about perception. This is the first time our city—maybe any city—has had someone like this. Someone with abilities no one else has.”
The room shifts again, more noticeably this time.
“Like, superpowers?” someone says from the back.
“Yes,” Mr. Erikson says simply. “If we’re being honest about it.”
A few students exchange looks. Someone lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but no one dismisses it outright.
“So what does that mean?” he continues. “Not just for him, but for everyone else? Safety. Responsibility. Authority. Who decides what’s right when someone has that kind of power?”
Jay takes one earbud out.
For the first time all period, he looks fully awake.
Another student leans forward. “I mean, if he can stop crimes, that’s good, right? Like, better than nothing.”
“Unless he messes up,” someone else counters. “Or decides something is a crime when it’s not.”
“Or if he gets hurt,” a girl near the window adds. “Then what? We’re just… relying on one person?”
“Or worse,” someone mutters, “what if he decides he doesn’t want to help anymore?”
The questions stack quickly, overlapping.
“Or what if he’s lying about why he does it?”
“What if he’s not the only one?"
“What if someone like that decides to do something bad?”
Mr. Erikson doesn’t interrupt. He lets it build, lets the uncertainty fill the room.
“Or when people don’t have facts,” Amy-Jane says.
Her voice isn’t loud, but it cuts cleanly through the noise.
A few heads turn.
She looks slightly uncomfortable with the attention but doesn’t retract it. “I just mean… the headline asks a question it already wants people to answer. It’s not really neutral. And now everyone’s reacting to that instead of what actually happened.”
Mr. Erikson nods once. “Good. Framing matters. Especially when something new enters the world and people don’t know how to categorize it yet.”
Another student shrugs. “But that guy said murderer. The suspect. Maybe he knows something.”
“Maybe,” Amy-Jane says. “But suspects say things. That doesn’t mean the paper should present it like proof. Especially when people are already scared.”
Her tone stays even. Not defensive. Not emotional. Just clear.
Mr. Erikson folds his arms loosely. “Fear tends to fill in gaps where information is missing. And when something—or someone—doesn’t fit into existing systems, people try to force it into one. Hero. Villain. Savior. Threat.”
He gestures lightly toward the board, where Milton’s name is still written. “Milton writes about rebellion and judgment in a cosmic sense. But we’re doing the same thing here, just on a smaller scale. Deciding who gets to define morality when the rules don’t quite apply anymore.”
I look down at my notes, at the half-written sentence about moral judgment and narrative control. My fingers tighten around the pen.
It would be easier if she were shallow.
That thought embarrasses me the second it forms.
Amy-Jane isn’t doing anything wrong. She’s sitting there with her neat notes and her calm voice, saying the thing I want to say but can’t quite trust myself to say without sounding like I know too much.
Jay’s gaze flicks from Amy-Jane to the board, then down to his desk. His expression barely changes.
Mr. Erikson lets the discussion breathe for another few minutes before gently steering it back to Milton. But the room doesn’t fully return. The conversation lingers, threaded through everything else—through the text, through the questions, through the quiet understanding that this isn’t just a classroom debate.
It’s happening everywhere.
In headlines. In comment sections. In living rooms and late-night broadcasts.
The article has entered the air, and now it stays there, invisible but present, hovering over notebooks and old paperbacks and the faint scratch of pens.
When the bell rings, Jenna packs up slowly.
“That was weird,” she murmurs.
“What was?”
She gives me a look. “The Spiderman thing.”
“A lot of people are talking about it.”
“Yeah. I know.”
She waits for me to say more. I don’t.
Jay passes our desks on his way out. He doesn’t look at me, but he slows briefly near the trash can, just enough to drop a crumpled paper inside with unnecessary precision. Then he leaves.
Jenna watches him go. “He always looks like he knows bad news before it happens.”
I zip my bag. “Maybe he just has resting judgment face.”
She smiles faintly. “That too.”
—
History is worse because Jungwon isn’t there.
That should make it easier. Instead, it gives my brain too much room.
Mrs. Hawthorne lectures about early trade routes and the way cities rose and fell depending on who controlled them. She says it like it’s harmless history, like shifting borders and quiet takeovers belong safely in the past with faded maps and brittle parchment.
But all I can think about is Dad’s photographs under Victor Kane’s headline.
Sunghoon sits two rows over, one hand curled around his pen, tapping once every few seconds. Ni-ki is beside him, slouched lower, his notes half-finished. They whisper only once, brief enough that Mrs. Hawthorne doesn’t catch it.
I do.
Not the words. Just the timing.
The moment Mrs. Hawthorne says propaganda, Sunghoon leans toward Ni-ki. Ni-ki’s eyes move to the window, then back to his paper.
That’s all.
Nothing incriminating. Nothing obvious.
Still, my stomach knots.
I hate how much I notice now. I hate that knowing one secret makes everything else look like evidence.
Maybe this is what happens when the world cracks open. Light gets in, but so does every shadow.
Mrs. Hawthorne calls on me once. I answer well enough. Adequate enough. She moves on.
By the time the bell rings, my notes are clean, organized, and almost entirely useless.
—
P.E. smells like rubber, sweat, and whatever industrial cleaner the janitors use when they want to convince themselves a gym can be purified.
Coach Thompson has us outside today, which should feel like mercy. It doesn’t. The sun is too bright, the air too warm for early September, and the grass still holds dampness from the weekend rain. By the time Jenna and I reach the field, half the class is already complaining.
Jungwon stands near Heeseung, Ni-ki, and Sunghoon, stretching one arm across his chest. He looks normal here too. Annoyingly normal. No stiffness in his shoulder. No careful favoring of one side. If I hadn’t seen him crash into an alley, if I hadn’t seen him bleed beneath the mask, I would have believed the body in front of me had never known anything worse than a gym evaluation.
But I did see it.
So I watch for what’s missing.
Not too much. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just the briefest glance as Coach Thompson starts dividing us into groups for relay drills.
Jungwon is slower today.
Not slow. Not obviously. No one else would catch it. He still moves better than most of us, still light on his feet, still controlled in a way that makes the rest of the field look clumsy around him.
But he doesn’t push.
He lets Ni-ki pass him during the sprint. He laughs it off when Heeseung says something under his breath. He rubs at his side once when he thinks everyone is looking at Coach.
Healing, then.
Not instant.
That should make me feel better. It doesn’t.
Jenna bumps my shoulder lightly while we wait in line. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m hot.”
“You’re always quiet when you’re thinking too much.”
“That’s a big accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation. It’s an observation.”
I squint toward the field. “You sound like Mrs. Hawthorne.”
She recoils. “Take that back.”
I almost laugh, but Coach blows his whistle, and the line starts moving.
Relay drills are mostly humiliation dressed up as teamwork. I don’t fall, which feels like growth. Jenna nearly does, then recovers with a dramatic gasp that makes two girls behind us laugh.
When Jungwon’s turn comes, he runs cleanly but carefully. His speed is still enough to draw attention. A few people cheer. Someone whistles. He slows before the finish line in a way that looks casual unless you’re searching for the seam.
I am.
He hands the baton to Heeseung, who takes off without a word.
When Jungwon walks back, his gaze passes over me. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t do anything that could be noticed.
But his hand flexes once at his side, like a conversation he decided not to have.
I look away first.
—
Lunch is quieter than it used to be.
The boys don’t sit in their old corner. They haven’t for a week, and somehow their absence still changes the cafeteria. The table is still there, obviously. Same scuffed surface, same uneven legs, same view of the vending machines. But without them, it looks like any other table.
Jenna and I sit near the windows with trays we mostly pick at. She has fries and an apple she clearly has no intention of eating. I have a sandwich Dad packed this morning, folded too carefully in wax paper.
“Your dad still cuts your sandwiches?” Jenna says, noticing.
“Yes.”
“That’s very parent of him.”
“It’s a sandwich.”
“It shows he still views you as his little girl.”
“It says he owns a knife.”
She gives me a look. “You’re avoiding sentiment.”
“I’m eating lunch.”
“Yeah, sure, sure.”
I take a bite just to end the discussion.
Across the cafeteria, Sunoo sits with Jake and two guys from the soccer team. He’s talking, but not with the same ease as before. His gaze keeps drifting toward the entrance like he’s waiting for someone.
Jungwon doesn’t come in.
Neither does Heeseung.
Sunghoon and Ni-ki pass through once, grab bottled drinks, and leave again. Ni-ki sees me looking and gives a quick, polite nod. Not suspicious. Not dramatic. Just the kind of nod people give when they recognize you and don’t know whether to stop.
I nod back.
Jenna follows my gaze. “They’ve been weird.”
I focus on my sandwich. “Who?”
She doesn’t dignify that with an answer.
After a second, she says, “Not bad weird. Just… different.”
“A lot happened.”
“Yeah, but it’s like they all decided to stop being seen at the same time.”
I don’t answer.
She pushes a fry through ketchup, watching the red smear across the tray. “Maybe they’re just tired of people staring.”
“Maybe.”
Jenna looks at me, then lets it go.
I’m grateful enough that it hurts a little.
—
Algebra is where the day starts to feel like a joke someone forgot to tell me.
Mrs. Jensen is already at the board when I walk in, writing equations with tight, efficient movements. The room smells like dry erase markers and old paper. The blinds are half-closed, striping the desks with pale light.
Jungwon is in his usual seat.
Heeseung is beside him, chair tilted back just far enough to annoy anyone with authority.
Amy-Jane sits in front of them, her notebook open, hair falling over one shoulder as she writes something before class has even started. Everyone knows who she is. You don’t really get a choice about that when your last name shows up in the news for reasons that aren’t scandals—charity galas, city council events, ribbon cuttings where her father stands at a podium and smiles like he owns the skyline. Mayor Li. People say it like it explains everything.
I’ve heard enough about her without trying. That she lives in one of those houses near the river with gates and a driveway that curves too long to be practical. That she volunteers on weekends, not because she has to, but because she actually shows up. That she’s never been caught doing anything wrong, which somehow makes people trust her more and less at the same time. There are rumors, of course—there are always rumors—but none of them stick. Nothing messy enough to ruin the image.
I’ve seen her hold doors open for people who don’t thank her. I’ve seen her stay after class to ask questions she probably already knows the answers to. I’ve seen teachers soften when they talk to her, like she makes their jobs easier just by existing.
She doesn’t look up from her notes.
I take my seat two rows back and pretend none of this matters.
It works for approximately thirty seconds.
“Group review today,” Mrs. Jensen says once the bell rings. “Four people. You may work with the people nearest you. If that becomes a problem, I will make it my problem.”
A few chairs scrape.
I stay still, hoping the laws of proximity will have mercy.
They do not.
Amy-Jane turns around first. “Do you want to join us?”
She’s looking at me.
For a moment, I think I imagined it.
Then Jungwon looks over too, and Heeseung’s chair drops forward with a soft thud.
“Sure,” I say, because no is too noticeable.
I gather my notebook and move to the empty desk beside Amy-Jane, angled slightly toward Jungwon and Heeseung. Four desks pushed close, knees almost touching under the narrow space, worksheet in the middle like a peace treaty no one signed.
Mrs. Jensen starts the timer and tells us to finish the first side before she checks progress.
For a while, it’s just math.
Numbers, variables, the scratch of pencils, Amy-Jane’s neat handwriting, Heeseung quietly doing most of the work faster than he lets on. Jungwon leans over his paper with his brow furrowed, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His forearms are unmarked.
No bruises.
Nothing.
I write my name at the top of the worksheet even though I already did. Then I cross out the second one before anyone sees.
Amy-Jane taps the edge of Jungwon’s paper. “How did you get that?”
Jungwon glances up. “Which one?”
“Seven. I got a different answer.”
He shifts the paper toward her. “I moved the negative over first. Jensen usually wants it clean before you divide.”
Amy-Jane leans closer to look.
It’s subtle, the way he changes.
Not enough for anyone to point at. Not enough for Jenna to make a face across the room if she were here. But I notice because I’ve spent too long noticing him.
His voice lowers. Not in a dramatic way. Just quieter. More careful. He stops tapping his pencil. His shoulders square a little, like he’s trying to seem less tired than he is.
Amy-Jane nods slowly. “Oh. That makes sense.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Your way probably still works. You just have to fix the sign here.”
He points to her paper, but doesn’t touch it until she slides it closer.
Heeseung looks between them once, then down at his own worksheet. His mouth moves like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just flips his pencil around and erases a number with more focus than necessary.
I keep my eyes on my paper.
My face stays normal.
That feels important, though no one is checking.
Amy-Jane laughs quietly at herself. “I always miss the negative.”
“I do that too,” Jungwon says.
“You do not,” Heeseung says, not looking up.
Jungwon glances at him. “I do sometimes.”
Heeseung writes another answer. “Sure.”
It’s nothing. Barely a conversation. Not a confession, not a sign, not anything worth caring about.
Still, something inside me settles in a place I don’t like.
Amy-Jane is easy to like. That’s the problem. She isn’t cruel. She isn’t smug. She doesn’t look at me like I’m in the way. When she turns her paper toward me to ask if my answer matched hers on number ten, her smile is small but genuine.
I tell her mine did.
It didn’t.
I fix it after.
Mrs. Jensen comes around to check our work. She pauses behind Heeseung first, then Jungwon, then Amy-Jane, then me. Her eyes scan the page.
“Better, Liya,” she says.
The praise is so unexpected that I look up.
Mrs. Jensen has already moved on.
Amy-Jane gives me a quick smile. “Nice.”
“Thanks,” I say.
My voice sounds normal.
I’m proud of that.
Near the end of class, Amy-Jane starts packing before the bell. Jungwon notices.
“You leaving early?”
“Office appointment,” she says, sliding her folder into her bag. “College counselor.”
“Oh.”
Amy-Jane zips her bag, then hesitates. “Can I ask you later about the last two problems? I don’t think I wrote them right.”
Jungwon nods too quickly, then seems to realize and slows it down. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Thanks.”
She stands, gives Mrs. Jensen a note, and slips out just before the bell.
Jungwon watches the door close.
Only for a second.
Then he looks back down.
Heeseung does not look at him. Which somehow says more than if he had.
I gather my things carefully, one page at a time. My hands are steady. My throat is not.
When the bell rings, Jungwon stands and nearly bumps his knee against the desk. He mutters something under his breath, then reaches for his backpack.
I move before there’s a chance for awkwardness.
“See you,” I say, not to anyone specific.
Jungwon looks up. “Yeah. See you.”
Heeseung says nothing, but his gaze flicks briefly to me, then back to his bag.
I leave before I can decide what that means.
—
Art class saves me and ruins me in the same breath.
Ms. Hartman has covered the front tables with butcher paper, old magazines, color swatches, and printed photos of Graystone from different angles — skyline at dusk, the old bridge, the east market, Daylight Academy’s stone front, downtown streets washed in neon after rain.
The mural project has officially begun.
“The theme is civic identity,” she announces, clapping her hands once. “Which sounds boring because the committee named it, not me. What I want from you is the truth of the city. Not the brochure version. Not the tourist version. Your version.”
My fingers itch for a pencil immediately.
Amy-Jane is already at the far table, flipping through photos. She looks up when I approach and shifts her bag off the chair beside her.
“You can sit here if you want.”
I hesitate, then sit.
The chair legs scrape softly against the floor.
For a while, we work without speaking. The quiet is easier than Algebra. Art class quiet has texture — scissors slicing through paper, charcoal tapping lightly, Ms. Hartman moving between tables with her bracelets clicking together.
I choose a photo of the skyline, then one of the bridge, then another of an alley I recognize near The Literary Nook. The composition comes together slowly, city lines layered over each other, buildings pressed close, windows bright like watchful eyes.
Without meaning to, I draw a figure in the upper corner.
Small. Almost hidden.
A body crouched on the edge of a rooftop.
I stare at it for too long.
Then I shade over it until it becomes part of the skyline.
Amy-Jane notices, but she doesn’t say anything right away.
That makes me like her more.
Which makes everything worse.
After a few minutes, she slides one of her own sketches toward the center of the table. “Does this look too clean?”
I look over.
Her concept is beautiful. Of course it is. A soft, almost architectural design of Graystone’s old buildings opening into newer streets, flowers breaking through cracks in the pavement. There’s hope in it, but not the obnoxious kind. Not sunshine pasted over rot. Something gentler.
“No,” I say. “It looks balanced.”
She considers that. “I’m worried it looks fake.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Are you just saying that to be nice?”
“I don’t think so.”
A small smile crosses her face. “Fair.”
She looks at my page next, careful not to lean too close. “Yours feels heavier.”
I glance down. “That’s bad?”
“No. Just different.” She studies it a moment longer. “It looks like the city is watching itself.”
The words settle strangely under my skin.
“I didn’t mean to make it creepy,” I say.
“I didn’t mean creepy.” She pauses, searching. “More like… aware.”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I adjust a line that didn’t need adjusting.
Amy-Jane picks up a charcoal pencil, then sets it down again. “Can I ask you something?”
My stomach tightens out of habit. “Sure.”
“Your dad works for The Sentinel, right?”
Of course.
“Yeah.”
She nods slowly. “That must be strange right now.”
I keep my eyes on the page. “It’s not great.”
“My mom read the article.” Amy-Jane’s voice stays careful. “She said it was irresponsible.”
I look up despite myself.
Amy-Jane gives a small shrug, almost apologetic. “She works in public policy. She gets annoyed when people turn panic into proof.”
Something tight in my chest shifts.
“Your mom sounds smart,” I say.
“She’d like hearing that.” Amy-Jane’s mouth curves faintly. “She thinks most people online need to sit in silence for ten minutes before they post anything.”
That almost makes me laugh.
Amy-Jane looks back at her sketch. “I don’t know what Spiderman did before. Maybe there’s something people don’t know. But that robbery could’ve been worse. A lot worse.”
My pencil stills.
She doesn’t sound like she’s defending a crush. She doesn’t sound like she’s trying to impress anyone. She sounds like someone who thought about it and came to the least cruel conclusion she could.
I understand, suddenly, why Jungwon would look at her differently.
It isn’t just because she’s pretty.
That would be easier.
“Yeah,” I say. “It could’ve been.”
For the rest of class, we work in a quiet that doesn’t feel empty.
—
Free period is the last hour of the day, and by then the sky outside has gone gray again.
Not storm-gray. Just tired-gray.
I go to the library because it’s easier than going home early and having Dad ask why I look like someone wrung me out. The library is quiet in the late afternoon, the kind of quiet that feels earned. A few students are scattered between tables, headphones in, notebooks open, nobody bothering anyone else.
I take my usual corner near history and literature.
My phone sits beside my notebook.
I tell myself it’s only there because I need the calculator.
I’m sketching the mural concept again when it buzzes.
My hand stops mid-line.
Jungwon: do you have a picture of the algebra worksheet?
For a second, I just stare.
Then I take the worksheet from my folder, smooth it out on the table, and snap a photo.
Me: sent
Jungwon: thanks
I wait.
Nothing else comes.
That should be fine. That is fine. That is a completely normal exchange between proper friends who have each other’s numbers and share classes and ask for worksheets.
I set the phone down.
It buzzes again.
Jungwon: sorry
Jungwon: meant to take one before amy-jane left with hers
There it is.
Small. Harmless. Honest without meaning to be.
I type back slowly.
Me: no problem
Then, because leaving it there feels too stiff even for me, I add:
Me: Jensen posted it online too
Jungwon: did she?
Jungwon: that would’ve been smarter to check first
Me: probably
The bubbles appear, disappear, appear again.
Jungwon: you staying after today?
My pulse does something very stupid.
I look around the library as if someone might see the question hovering over my phone.
Me: free period
Me: library
A pause.
Jungwon: right
Jungwon: i’m meeting someone after school for algebra
Jungwon: but maybe tomorrow?
Tomorrow.
The word sits there, too open.
It’s the first time he’s asked.
Not for homework. Not for notes. Not because we happened to be in the same place at the same time.
For me.
I stare at the message longer than I should, like if I look away it might disappear or change into something easier to answer.
My chest feels tight in a way I don’t recognize right away.
I write three different responses and delete all of them.
Sure.
Okay.
Maybe.
All of them look wrong.
Finally, I type:
Me: yeah, maybe
That is safe.
That is controlled.
That reveals nothing.
Jungwon: cool
I lock the phone and press it facedown on the table.
The library feels warmer than before.
I go back to sketching, but my lines come out uneven.
Ten minutes later, I pack up because sitting still has become impossible.
The hallway outside is almost empty. Last period always thins the school out, leaving behind the echo of lockers and distant voices from classrooms still pretending to function. My footsteps sound too loud against the tile.
I take the long way toward the east exit. Not because I’m looking for anyone. Because the front hall gets crowded. Because the east stairwell is quieter. Because I can lie to myself fluently when necessary.
Near the Algebra hall, voices drift from an open classroom.
Mrs. Jensen’s room.
The door is propped open with a trash can. Inside, the overhead lights are off except for the one row near the windows, leaving the room softer than usual. Jungwon sits at a desk near the front, notebook open. Amy-Jane stands beside him, leaning over the worksheet with her hair falling forward slightly.
They aren’t touching.
They aren’t doing anything.
He points at a line on the paper. She nods, asks something too low for me to hear. He answers, then looks up at her while she writes.
The smile he gives her is small.
Quiet.
Not the kind that belongs to hallways or cafeteria tables. Not the one he gives when Sunoo is being loud, not the tired half-smile he gives me when we’re both pretending.
This one is careful in a different way.
I stop only for a second.
Less than that, maybe.
Long enough to understand I was right.
Then I keep walking.
No one sees me. Or if they do, they don’t call out.
The east exit opens with a heavy groan, spilling me into the cooling air. The football field stretches ahead, the bleachers dark against the gray sky. Wind moves through the grass in uneven ripples.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t check it until I reach the sidewalk.
Jungwon: tomorrow during free maybe?
Jungwon: if you’re not busy
I stare at the message until the screen dims.
Then I unlock it again.
Me: I’ll probably be in the library
Jungwon: okay
Jungwon: see you then
I put the phone away.
The walk home is quiet.
Not peaceful. Just quiet.
The kind where every sound seems to keep its distance: the low drag of tires over pavement, the thin bark of a dog behind a fence, the rustle of leaves gathering near storm drains. My backpack knocks lightly against my hip with each step.
I think about Amy-Jane’s sketch.
Flowers through pavement. Old buildings opening into new streets. A city that can be damaged and still decide to grow something anyway.
I think about Jungwon’s hand on the worksheet, his voice lowered beside her.
I think about Spiderman on shattered glass, his mask tilted toward the word murderer.
I think about how two things can be true at once.
He can be kind to me.
He can trust me a little.
He can still want someone else.
The thought doesn’t break anything. It just settles, heavy and familiar, like a book placed carefully on a shelf already bowing under the weight.
When I get home, Dad’s car isn’t in the driveway yet.
I let myself in, lock the door behind me, and stand in the quiet living room for a moment. The house smells like old coffee and lemon cleaner. A pile of newspapers sits on the table, The Sentinel folded facedown on top like Dad couldn’t stand looking at it.
I go upstairs.
My room is dim, the afternoon light fading against the walls. The sketches on my desk wait where I left them — rooftops, windows, half-made figures hidden in the skyline.
I sit down and pull the mural page toward me.
For once, I don’t start with him.
I draw the city first.
The bridge. The buildings. The narrow street outside The Literary Nook. The windows that watch without speaking. The places where people stand too close to danger because they can’t help wanting to know the truth.
Only after the skyline is finished do I add the shape on the roof.
I don’t know how to thank you guys for all the support you’ve shown me😭💕
but I’m hear to ask another annoying question since I really care about what you guys want, especially when what I’m working on separately is more lengthy than my usual 2.5k ffs (focusing more on the jungkook renta gf before i perfect the mafia one but I also can multi task and write another smut since that’s what yall love)
so just message me or comment your thoughts but do you guys have any requests for BTS or SEVENTEEN?? Or even Enhypen, Ateez, Lngshot (06 liners only)
your new favourite comfort angsty - friends to lovers story
────୨ৎ────
pairing — yang jungwon x female idol
status — ongoing ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
synopsis — For years, Yang Jungwon and Min Miyoung have built their lives side by side, sharing stages, memories, and a friendship that quietly became the center of everything. But when Jungwon learns that Mimi is preparing to leave Korea and return to England, the world he thought was certain begins to fall apart. What begins as panic slowly unravels something far more dangerous - feelings he has spent years trying to ignore. Because losing her might mean losing the person who has always been his home.
content warnings — mostly fluff. feel - good, slow-burn romance type of story. toxic family dynamics, generational trauma, slight implications of EDs and Depression.
forevermore playlist 1221
now playing: family line, Conan Gray
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 2:57
September 2024
Autumn had that very melancholic vibe to it. Essentially, it stood for the world changing, the nature dying, losing its colour. Mimi, in a very practical way, just enjoyed the heat dying down. The breezes that carried the leaves of the trees, they were so refreshing to her, but the sun was also still out but not burning into her skin whenever she took a walk outside. And lately she did that a lot after the long and exhausting practices.
Epicenter’s world tour was nearing and a difference between theirs and their brother-group’s, it wasn’t split up into short segments, it was actually going to take almost 8 weeks. Still, the 7 girls were incredibly excited and grateful to their label and, of course, their fans for allowing them to pull off such a huge thing, especially Mimi, who had been working extra hard at the studio lately. It was almost like she was living there at this point. While Semi was going through the post-breakup stage with her now-ex boyfriend Wonbin, and Soomin was focusing on her still-boyfriend San, the blonde haired Idol was back to being married to her work. And she was happy about it, too.
Today seemed to begin as a day like no other already. And Mimi couldn’t have possibly known what it would turn into. CEO Bang rarely ever spoke to the members directly, so hearing their manager say that he had asked to schedule a meeting with Mimi made her very, very anxious. She had been stressed and anxious enough over the past few days already. It didn’t help that, when she was told about the meeting, Semi and Yue had looked at her with pure terror in their eyes. They all knew it had to be serious.
On her way to the office, she passed the café and noticed that Juyeon was working. Without overthinking it at first, Mimi tried to get his attention by looking over for a second too long, but he didn’t see her. Or maybe he did and chose not to, even though he had ended things on a “positive” note, as he had said himself. Mimi knew that Juyeon was working one of his last shifts now, because he had gotten that scholarship he’d applied for. And even when things had been well, they had continued to talk, it was still a bit weird for Mimi. But she had other things to worry about right now. Bigger things. Soon she had passed the café and stepped into the elevator. The ride felt like nothing, as if it lasted only a few seconds, and before she knew it she found herself standing in front of CEO Bang’s office. Mimi knocked on the door, her heart racing. Her hands had become so sweaty that she grabbed the fabric of her shirt to dry them off. She felt disgusting.
Before entering, she even checked for sweat marks and anything else that might look improper. She truly couldn’t think of a reason why he had called her in personally instead of speaking to a manager. It had to be something serious. Something bad. “Miyoungah!” He greeted her with a bright smile. Mimi bowed as low and as quickly as she could. “Good day, CEO-nim!” she said politely, her posture very stiff. The comforting way he looked at her made her calm down a little, but she was still on edge. “Sit, please!” he offered. She obeyed, sitting down in the chair across from him. He immediately noticed the strained expression on her face.
“Don’t worry! I won’t torture you with small talk. I’m guessing you’re wondering why I called you in.” Mimi smiled awkwardly, feeling caught. He was right. The smile on his face faded slightly and he suddenly seemed more restrained. As if he were carrying bad news.
“Miyoungah… your mother called me yesterday.” That sentence alone was enough to make her heart drop to her toes. Her stomach sank with it. She stared at him in anticipation, waiting to hear the worst possible news. And it turned out even worse. “She wants to end the contract we set when you joined us. Right after the tour.”
For a moment, it seemed like CEO Bang’s Office froze, like time had stopped and the girl had stopped breathing for a second. In Mimi’s head, everything collapsed. Her whole career, everything she had built, her family, her life—everything flashed before her eyes at once, and she hadn’t even heard him out completely yet. She entered a strange blur where she repeated his words over and over again. Her mother was ending the contract. Her contract. And she hadn’t even talked to Mimi about that decision. She should have warned her, she could’ve at least hinted something when they had called a few days ago.
“She can just do that?” Mimi asked, though she already knew the answer. She remembered perfectly under what conditions she had been able to join the company back then. CEO Bang nodded apologetically. “Well, we handed the contract to you when you were a minor, when your parents still had full custody and authority. They were the ones who signed it. Their names are in the contract, so they can decide to end it.” The man waited a moment for Mimi to say something, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. “It’s okay, Mimi!” CEO Bang leaned forward in his large white chair and gently placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Mimi couldn’t say anything back at that point. The news had hit her like a truck. No—like an airplane. Like a comet. All she knew in that moment was that she wasn’t ready to lose her life like this. She wasn’t ready to lose music. She didn’t even notice that she had begun shaking her head slowly. “I have good news,” he continued, though she could barely hear him anymore. None of this made sense to her. She knew her mother. Even after all these years, she had never warmed up to the path Mimi had chosen. But Mimi had never thought she could be this ignorant about what her daughter wanted. Mimi had told her so many times how much she loved this. How happy she was. This was just another act proving that her mother truly didn’t care.
“I know this is a shock to you, Mimi, and I’m truly sorry this is happening. But maybe this will cheer you up.” He leaned back slightly. “We would like to offer you a new contract. You’re an adult now and we would truly hate to lose you. You’re a part of this company’s family. A very, very important part.” He gestured toward a document on his desk. “We have already prepared the contract. Take it home, look over it with your managers and members, and we’ll make a new appointment.” He spoke with his usual enthusiasm. Mimi wished she could return that enthusiasm. Of course she felt relieved—honoured even—that she wouldn’t have to lose her dream. But the shock was still too strong. She felt guilty for giving such a disappointing reaction, but she couldn’t force anything more than a polite smile and another bow. CEO Bang noticed it right away, so he chuckled a little awkwardly and added: “We talked to the managers too. A hiatus wouldn’t be an issue either, as a last resort.” That was relieving, the girl thought. “Thank you, CEO-nim. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you,” she whispered. The words were half stuck in her throat as she stood up and carefully placed the written contract into her bag.
A wave of heat suddenly rushed through her body. Then cold. Then heat again. She felt dizzy and nauseous. As if her clothes were tightening around her body, a second skin she didn’t want. She had to get out of there and indeed, a few minutes later, Mimi was already walking home all the way from the studio, taking the longest route possible. She had hoped the fresh air would clear her mind, the way it usually did. But it didn’t. The air wasn’t fresh at all. There was no breeze anymore. It was hot, humid, suffocating, like all the beauty of autumn had vanished and the summer she despised so much was trying to break back in with full forces. She noticed people passing by, yet suddenly it felt as if she had lost the ability to see faces. The world was still blurry. And it wasn’t only because of the tears that kept forming in her eyes. She didn’t even know exactly why she felt so devastated. Maybe it was the realization that her mother didn’t care at all. Or maybe it was the fear of the future. Because Mimi knew that if she signed that contract, her mother would be angry, truly angry. She might never speak to her again. There had to be a compromise. A solution.
Staying outside only made things worse. Her room was the better choice, and luckily nobody saw her slipping into it after she returned to the dorm. Immediately, she began pacing up and down the room. She adjusted pictures and decorations for no reason at all while trying to gather all the questions swirling in her head. Mimi knew she had to talk to her mother. She needed to know what had driven her to make such a decision. Her phone was already in her hand. In theory it should have been easy to call. But the reality felt very different. For a moment there was an urge to go to Hyemin’s room. Or Soomin’s. Or even downstairs to Jungwon. Or to run to Halmoni. She had so many people she could turn to when something was wrong. But she always ended up deciding against it.
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Before you continue, please take a second to read this:
This story means a lot to me and it’s been a bit disappointing never getting any feedback, any comments or anything after 30+ chapters.
I’m simply so curious: are people even reading this stuff? Is anyone invested in the story and the characters? What do you think about them?
And how many people are even reading it? Could you take a second to give me a feedback?🥺
synopsis : seonghyeon wants to go on a double date and take you but clearly you had other plans
contains : 6 ss, cussing, angst, martin, martin has a gf for the sake of the story, reader is lwk mean, reader is lwk ME, reader and seonghyeon r in a new relationship, seonghyeon lwk escalates it fast, seonghyeon is sad☹️☹️, reader lwk don't give a gaf
a/n : first smau who dis👀👀👀
a/n : hai. i made this bc i was bored and wanted to write but i also feel like im very bad at writing so texts it is!!! maybe this might be the new thing bc i feel like writing in emotions and stuff is kinda hard for me since i don't really talk to ppl that much. also this was kinda hard to wrap up bc i don't talk to ppl much. I AM READER!! she is very me i try to care but looking back i see how people think that i don't care its ok though. anyways i hope we like!!
