The air was crisp that morning, sunlight falling softly on the brick walls of Hwayeon Private High School. Everything looked polished, proper, expensive.

It suited her.

Jiyun stepped through the school gates in a neatly pressed uniform. Her white blouse was tucked perfectly, her skirt uncreased, her long black hair catching light like silk. She looked like she belonged in a brochure — a vision of elegance and calm.

No one could guess how carefully constructed the image was.

In the front office, the homeroom teacher looked over her file. “Seo Jiyun, transfer from Busan.” He smiled kindly. “Welcome.”

When she entered Class 2-B, all eyes turned.

"She’s really pretty..." someone whispered.

"Model type."

"I heard she’s from some big business family."

Whispers rose and fell like background noise. Jiyun didn’t respond. Her eyes scanned the room quickly, calculating. The teacher gestured to the only empty seat — back row, near the window.

“Take the seat next to Kang Minjae.”

The boy beside the window didn’t react. His head rested on his folded arms, hoodie half zipped, eyes closed. His desk was a mess of scribbles and a basketball keychain.

Jiyun quietly took her seat. She glanced at him once. Then turned to the window. She had no intention of speaking.

In front of her sat Lee Areum, top of the class, soft-spoken and tidy. She turned back with a polite smile, and this time, added a soft comment.

“You’re new, right? I’m Areum.”

Jiyun gave a brief nod. “Jiyun.”

Areum smiled again, warm but not pushy. She had a gentle aura — the kind that made people feel safe. But her gaze shifted quickly to the sleeping boy next to Jiyun. She stared at him with something like tenderness.

Areum and Minjae had been friends since they were little. Their houses were a street apart. Growing up, they’d shared late-night walks, comic books, and every kind of secret. At least, every kind from her side. She wasn’t sure Minjae had ever really looked at her the way she saw him.

At lunch, Minjae joined his basketball teammates at their usual table. Areum was already waiting with a packed bento she’d made herself. She placed it beside him without a word, and he grinned sleepily.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“You skipped breakfast. Again.”

“You sound like my mom.”

“I should start charging,” she muttered.

Their routine was effortless — the way only childhood bonds could be. Areum looked like she belonged by his side. But Minjae never noticed the way her eyes lingered.

Jiyun made her way to the rooftop, tray in hand. The soft wind tugged gently at her hair. She placed her lunch beside her, untouched. The city stretched far below, glittering with life — so full, so distant.

She pulled out a small voice recorder from her pocket — the same one she carried everywhere.

Pressed play.

“Jiyun-ah. Daddy’s always proud of you, okay? Always.”

Her fingers tightened. Her eyes stared at nothing, lost.

She didn’t cry. But her throat ached.

Her phone buzzed. A name flashed on the screen: Eunbi.

“Hi,” Jiyun said, voice barely audible.

“You ate, right?” Eunbi’s voice was bright but careful. “Tell me you did.”

Jiyun glanced at the untouched lunch. “Mm. I’m fine.”

A pause. Then Eunbi sighed softly. “You didn’t have one today, did you?”

Jiyun looked at the sky. It was too blue. Too peaceful.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not. But I’ll believe you for now,” Eunbi murmured. “Call me if it happens again. Promise?”

“Promise.”

After they hung up, Jiyun pressed play again. The rooftop wind muffled the words, but she didn’t need to hear them clearly. They lived inside her anyway.

“I love you, Jiyun. Never forget that.”

In the library after school, Areum reached for a reference book on Korean history. A hand brushed hers at the same time.

“Ah, I think I need that too.”

She looked up to see Baek Haneul — calm, effortlessly attractive, and from another class. He smiled politely.

“Oh, you can have it,” she said quickly.

“No, let’s share. I’m only reviewing two chapters.”

They sat together for a few minutes, quiet but companionable. The moment was innocent.

But it wasn’t invisible.

Behind a bookshelf, Jisoo watched with narrowed eyes. Her expression tightened at the sight of them. She didn’t miss the way Haneul leaned a little closer, or the way Areum laughed — soft, sweet.

Jisoo’s gaze darkened.

That evening, in her room at her grandfather’s house, Jiyun opened the drawer of her desk and touched the voice recorder again.

This time, she didn’t press play.

She just held it.

The next morning, the classroom buzzed with routine energy — rustling books, sleepy yawns, whispers about the latest gossip. Jiyun slipped in quietly and returned to her seat by the window.

“Morning,” Areum greeted her with a small smile. Jiyun gave a polite nod in return.

Areum noticed the uneaten lunchbox from yesterday still tucked in Jiyun’s bag. Her heart ached a little, but she didn’t say anything. Not yet.

“Do you want to sit with me at lunch today?” she offered casually, as if it weren’t a big deal.

Jiyun blinked. “Why?”

Areum gave a small laugh. “I don’t know. You seem... peaceful. Like a quiet kind of strength.”

Jiyun didn’t respond. But her fingers curled slightly around her pen. It wasn’t quite a thank you, but it wasn’t a no.

From his desk, Minjae slouched with his arms crossed behind his head. His eyes were barely open as he listened to the morning chatter, half asleep.

Areum leaned toward him, nudging his arm with her pencil. “Hey, you still up for the picnic this weekend?”

Minjae let out a sleepy hum. “Huh? Oh, yeah. My mom's already packed half the kitchen. You know how she is.”

Areum grinned. “Mine keeps asking if you'll bring that basketball again.”

Minjae cracked a small smile. “She just wants to see me dunk over your dad again.”

“You didn’t dunk. You tripped over a bush.”

“Still scored,” he shrugged.

They both laughed quietly. Just two childhood friends sharing an easy rhythm.

Areum looked down at her notes, her smile fading just a little. “I kind of envy you sometimes. Your family’s so... normal.”

Minjae didn’t reply at first. “Maybe. But sometimes ‘normal’ feels boring.”

“Boring sounds peaceful.”

Later, during lunch break, Areum kept her word. She found Jiyun by the lockers and offered a can of juice.

“I thought you might like orange.”

Jiyun looked at it like it was foreign. But she took it with a small nod. “Thanks.”

They made their way up to the rooftop.

Areum chatted lightly, not expecting much. She didn’t press questions. She just talked — about school, teachers, the horrible vending machine coffee.

Jiyun didn’t say much, but she listened. That was more than most did.

Then, quietly, she pulled out her lunchbox — but again, she didn’t eat.

“You’re not eating?” Areum asked.

“I’m not hungry.”

Areum frowned slightly but didn’t push it.

After a quiet pause, Jiyun reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny recorder.

Without a word, she pressed play and placed one earbud in.

Areum tilted her head slightly. “Music?”

Jiyun shook her head. “My dad.”

A soft, warm male voice crackled through the earpiece:

“My Jiyun… if you’re listening to this, it means you're sad again. But remember — pain means you’re still here. And you’re meant to be here, my brave girl.”

Jiyun turned to the window, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the school walls. A breeze stirred her hair gently, but she didn’t move.

There were dozens of recordings saved — all her father’s voice, left for her by her grandfather after her father’s death. She listened to one every day. Sometimes more.

It was her only comfort.

Areum stayed quiet, watching her.

Then Jiyun’s phone buzzed.

Eunbi.

Her only real friend — her maid’s daughter, studying abroad — checked in every day.

“Lunch check,” the voice came through cheerfully. “Still alive?”

“Barely.”

“She eating?” Eunbi voice asked.

Jiyun glanced at Areum, who was trying not to eavesdrop. “No.”

“Tell her to nag you. That’s why I gave her the job.”

Areum blinked. “Job?!”

Jiyun ended the call with a tired smile. “Ignore her.”

Areum couldn’t. She was still processing everything — the recorder, the voice, the fact that this stunning girl who seemed untouchable was carrying heartbreak like invisible chains.

Meanwhile, in Class 2-D, Jisoo tapped her pen impatiently.

“She was talking to Baek Haneul yesterday,” one of her friends whispered. “In the library.”

Jisoo sat up. “Who?”

“That girl — the smart one. Areum.”

Her smile thinned. “Oh?”

Her friends kept whispering, but her attention had narrowed sharply. Areum? That timid girl who always trailed after Minjae?

And now… Haneul?

Jisoo’s eyes darkened.

Let the games begin.

That evening, in the library, Areum was browsing quietly when she spotted Haneul by the reference shelf.

“Oh,” she said, startled.

He smiled. “We meet again.”

Before she could reply, a loud thud came from behind them — a book snapped shut.

Jisoo.

She stood with folded arms, eyes sharp.

“What a coincidence,” she said with sugar-laced venom. “You two seem close these days.”

Areum blinked. “It’s just studying—”

“Sure,” Jisoo said smoothly. “If you say so.”

Areum’s chest tightened.

Something told her things were about to change.

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual lunch-hour chaos. Areum entered a little later than usual, her tray gripped tightly in her hands. Minjae wasn’t with her—basketball practice during lunch, again.

She found a quiet spot near the corner, away from the windows, and sat alone. She picked up her chopsticks slowly, trying to blend into the noise.

But someone had already noticed her.

“Well, if it isn’t the model student,” came Jisoo’s voice—light, sugary, and sharp.

Areum tensed.

“Looks like your GPA won’t help you sit with anyone,” another girl said behind her, snickering.

Jisoo leaned in a little. “Do you think good grades fix where you come from?”

Another laugh followed. “She still lives in that rundown apartment near the old market, right?”

Areum’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond. Her food sat untouched. Her stomach churned.

“Honestly,” Jisoo sighed dramatically, “some people really think they belong here just because they memorize a textbook.”

Their voices weren’t loud, but they were cruel enough to draw curious glances.

Areum's fingers curled around her chopsticks. Her eyes stayed on her tray. She didn’t want to cry. She wouldn’t.

And then—

“Hey.”

The group turned.

Haneul stood a few steps away, holding his tray. His expression was unreadable, and he hadn’t heard anything.

Jisoo’s posture instantly shifted. Her lips curled into a bright, sugary smile.

“Haneul!” she chirped. “What a coincidence. We were just about to sit.”

Without waiting for a response, she walked over to the table and plopped down across from Areum.

“We were just chatting with Areum. Isn’t she so hardworking?” she said sweetly, looking up at Haneul.

He gave her a brief nod and took the seat beside her, not sparing Areum a glance.

Areum sat frozen, confused.

What just happened?

Jisoo turned to her again, her smile still in place. “We should eat together more often. I was just saying how lonely lunch can be, right?”

Areum opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

From another table nearby, Jiyun watched silently. She had seen everything—from Jisoo’s mocking sneer to her sudden transformation into a sugar-coated doll.

She knew girls like Jisoo too well.

Jiyun’s lips curled into a faint smirk. She stabbed her rice with her chopsticks a little too hard.

Jisoo, oblivious to the subtle jab, kept playing her act.

“Haneul, you have to try the soup. It’s not terrible today,” she said, pushing hers toward him like they were already on a date.

Areum looked at her tray, still untouched.

Then—

“Areum.”

She turned at the sound of her name.

Minjae had arrived, brushing hair from his forehead and setting down his tray. His eyes moved between Jisoo, Haneul, and Areum.

He frowned slightly.

“Everything okay?”

Before Areum could speak, Jisoo answered cheerfully.

“Of course! We were just chit-chatting. You know, girl talk.”

Minjae’s brows drew together for a moment, but he said nothing and sat beside Areum. His gaze lingered on her, but she didn’t look up.

Areum’s thoughts swirled. Jisoo’s sudden friendliness didn’t sit right. She hadn’t imagined the malice from earlier—had she?

Jiyun stood to leave, her tray already empty. As she passed their table, her eyes met Jisoo’s for a split second.

Jiyun didn’t say a word.

She didn’t need to.

The smirk she gave said enough.