Chapter 12: The First Approach

The cafeteria buzzed with voices, laughter,

and the clatter of silverware. The marble floors reflected the sterile lights

above, cold and immaculate—like everything else in this elite school. Jihoon

sat alone, as he always did, tucked away at the far corner table by the window.

His lunch was modest: plain rice, kimchi, and a side of stir-fried vegetables

wrapped in tin foil from his dorm kitchen. He ate slowly, carefully, eyes fixed

on the courtyard beyond the glass where students lounged like royalty in expensive

uniforms, their shoes unscuffed, their laughter easy.

Jihoon had gotten used to the background hum

of disinterest. It was easier that way. Safer. If no one noticed you, no one

had a reason to hurt you. Or worse—pretend to care.

But today, the quiet was disturbed by

something unfamiliar: the slow, deliberate sound of approaching

footsteps—louder than the rest, as if they had intention.

He didn't look up.

Not until the shadow fell over his table.

Jihoon's gaze rose—cautious, guarded—and

landed on the last person he ever expected to see standing there.

Kang Taeho.

Even in the sharp, angular light of noon, he

looked like he was carved from gold. His blazer rested perfectly on his broad

shoulders, tie loose in a way that looked effortlessly stylish instead of

careless. His hair, a tousled black that curled slightly at the edges, caught

the light in subtle glints. There was a confidence in the way he stood, hands

in his pockets, chin tilted just slightly—as if the world always tilted to meet

his gaze.

Jihoon's stomach twisted.

"What are you eating?" Taeho asked, voice

smooth like poured ink.

It took Jihoon a beat too long to respond.

"Uh… just rice. And vegetables."

"Homemade?" Taeho tilted his head with

genuine-seeming interest.

Jihoon blinked. No one had ever asked him

that before. Not here. Not in this world of glossy cafeteria trays and imported

bento boxes.

"…Yes."

Taeho smiled—not the mocking kind Jihoon was

used to seeing from others, but soft. "Smells good."

Jihoon stared at him.

This had to be a mistake.

"…Did you… need something?"

Taeho's eyes gleamed. "Yeah. A seat."

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out

the chair across from Jihoon and sat down, long legs folding beneath the table

with careless grace. He took out his own lunch—an elaborate spread in a

lacquered box—and began unwrapping it with practiced ease.

Jihoon stared at the boy now eating across

from him as if this were normal. As if they had done this a hundred times.

He didn't speak again for several minutes,

focusing on his food. Jihoon tried to eat too, but every bite felt like a stone

in his throat. He couldn't concentrate. His mind spun through questions,

alarms, memories.

Why was he here?

Why him?

Kang Taeho wasn't just another student—he was

the student. Top of the social ladder. Smart, athletic, from a family of

generational wealth. The type of boy teachers praised even when he turned in

homework late. The one who could silence a room with a glance. The golden boy

of Yeonhwa Academy.

And he was eating lunch with someone like

Jihoon.

Someone with taped-up shoes and a secondhand

uniform two years out of fashion.

"Do you always sit here?" Taeho asked between

bites.

Jihoon nodded warily. "It's… quieter."

"Makes sense." Taeho looked around, taking in

the view. "It's nice."

Silence stretched again. Not hostile—just

strange.

Jihoon risked another glance at the boy

across from him. There was something unreadable in Taeho's expression. Not

mockery. Not pity. But curiosity—sharp, narrowed, like he was trying to solve a

puzzle with no picture on the box.

"You're Oh Jihoon, right?"

The sound of his full name from Taeho's lips

made Jihoon flinch involuntarily.

"…Yes."

"I've seen you around. You're always by

yourself."

The words weren't cruel. Just… factual.

Jihoon lowered his gaze. "I like it that

way."

"Do you?"

He didn't answer.

The silence that followed was heavier. Not

uncomfortable, but thick with things unspoken.

Taeho didn't press. He leaned back slightly

in his chair, studying Jihoon as if he were a rare specimen in a glass case.

Then, with an ease that didn't match the tension humming in Jihoon's veins, he

changed the subject.

"I heard you ranked fifth on the last mock

exams."

Jihoon blinked, startled. "How do you…?"

"I pay attention."

That didn't sound like the truth. Jihoon

didn't know why, but it felt rehearsed. Deliberate.

Still, a flush crept up his neck. "It's not a

big deal."

"It is," Taeho said plainly. "Especially in

our class."

Jihoon tried not to shrink into himself.

"There are people smarter than me."

"Maybe. But most of them don't come from the

same place you do."

Jihoon stiffened.

There it was.

The invisible line. The difference. The

reminder.

He said nothing. Just stared down at his

half-eaten rice, suddenly nauseated.

Taeho noticed.

"…That wasn't meant to insult you."

Jihoon's voice was quiet when it came. "Then

what was it meant to do?"

Another pause. Taeho tilted his head again,

as if genuinely thinking.

"Maybe I wanted to see what kind of person

you are."

Jihoon looked up, eyes guarded. "Why?"

A flicker of something passed over Taeho's

expression. He smiled—but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Just curious."

That word again.

Curiosity.

Jihoon wasn't sure if that made things better

or worse.

Before he could respond, the bell rang,

signaling the end of lunch.

Students rose from their tables in waves,

chattering and laughing, scraping chairs and leaving trays behind. Taeho stood

too, slowly, brushing invisible dust from his uniform. He looked down at Jihoon

one last time, the same unreadable look in his gaze.

"Thanks for sharing your table."

Jihoon didn't know what to say. He only

nodded.

And then Taeho was gone—swallowed by the

crowd like a sunbeam vanishing behind clouds.

Jihoon remained seated, frozen in place,

hands trembling slightly in his lap.

That night, Jihoon lay awake in his wide and

cozy bed, eyes open to the ceiling, mind replaying every second of that strange

lunch. Taeho's words echoed like a whisper in a canyon.

"I wanted to see what kind of person you

are."

Was that really all it was?

Was it possible that someone like Taeho could

notice someone like him… just because?

Jihoon wanted to believe it. Wanted so

desperately to believe it.

But belief came with a price he'd paid too

often before.

So instead, he turned over in bed and told

himself it was nothing. A fluke. A moment that would never happen again.

The next day, it did.

Taeho sat beside him again.

And again the day after that.

And the day after that.

He didn't say much at first—just idle

comments about class, observations about the weather, a passing mention of a

new song he liked. Sometimes, he asked Jihoon about books he was reading. Sometimes,

he didn't ask anything at all.

But always, he sat with him.

People began to notice.

Whispers started curling through the halls

like smoke:

"Why is Kang Taeho sitting with him?"

"Is this some kind of project?"

"Maybe he lost a bet."

Jihoon heard them. Of course he did.

But Taeho never reacted. As if the words

didn't touch him. As if the opinions of the world slid off his back like water

on glass.

And for some reason, Jihoon couldn't help but

be drawn toward that light. That easy indifference. That strange, untouchable

calm.

It terrified him.

But it also made his heart beat a little

faster.

For the first time, someone had seen him.

Really seen him.

And Jihoon didn't know whether to run—

Or stay.

By the end of the week, Jihoon found himself

anticipating lunch with a strange blend of anxiety and reluctant hope. He

didn't understand what this was—this quiet ritual they were forming. But the

seat across from him was no longer empty, and that emptiness had been his

companion for so long that its absence felt almost disorienting.

Taeho never pried. Never asked why Jihoon ate

alone, or where he lived, or why his uniform was frayed at the cuffs. He just

talked—to fill the space, Jihoon suspected. Or maybe to make Jihoon forget for

a little while that he was different.

But what unsettled Jihoon most was that Taeho

listened, too.

When Jihoon cautiously mentioned that he

liked reading, Taeho nodded and asked what kind. When Jihoon mumbled the names

of a few classic novels, Taeho looked them up on his phone and read the

summaries aloud, feigning dramatic voices that made Jihoon snort into his rice.

That small laugh—sharp and involuntary—felt

like a betrayal of the silence Jihoon had wrapped himself in like armor. But

Taeho smiled at the sound, like he'd been waiting for it. And that frightened

Jihoon even more.

Because kindness was always followed by

cruelty.

He'd learned that the hard way.

And yet… Taeho kept coming back.

"Do you want to walk to class together?"

Taeho asked on Monday, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Jihoon stared at him like he'd spoken in a

foreign language.

"I—uh—I usually go straight to the dormitory

afterwards."

Taeho tilted his head. "So change your

route."

Jihoon hesitated. He didn't know what to say.

What the right answer was. In his old life, survival had depended on staying

unnoticed. But now, the brightest boy in school was turning his head in

Jihoon's direction—and the light hurt.

Still, something in Jihoon moved.

He nodded, barely.

And Taeho smiled again—like he'd won

something.

The whispers grew louder.

By Thursday, the stares followed them down

the hall. Jihoon heard the laughter when they passed. The disbelief. The

irritation.

It didn't make sense to them.

Why him?

Jihoon kept his head down, hands curled

tightly around the straps of his worn-out bag. He kept his steps small,

measured. He walked beside Taeho like a shadow pretending to be solid.

But even as his nerves frayed with every

glance, every snicker, there was something in him that… warmed. Quietly.

Secretly. Like the faintest ember buried under ash.

Someone had chosen to sit with him. To walk

beside him. To speak his name not like an insult, but like an invitation.

No one had done that before.

And maybe it meant nothing.

Maybe it was all a dream with teeth waiting

at the end.

But it was the first time Jihoon had felt the

heat of another person's presence without bracing for pain.

It made him feel—

Alive.

That weekend, Jihoon sat at his desk under

the flickering light of his large and lonely dormitory room, fingers hovering

over the pages of his journal. The cheap leather cover was worn, corners

frayed, pages filled with a neat, almost obsessive script.

He stared at the blank page.

And then, slowly, he began to write.

March 23rd

He sat with me again today. I don't know why. I keep waiting for him to stop. To

get bored.

I don't trust this.

But when he laughs, it's soft. Not sharp like the others. When he talks, he looks

at me. Really looks.

I don't know what he sees.

I want to believe this is real. That someone like him could see someone like me.

But belief is dangerous.

Still…

I keep hoping he'll come back tomorrow.

Monday morning came.

And so did Taeho.

He leaned casually against Jihoon's locker,

arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other, like they were already friends.

"Morning."

Jihoon blinked, unsure of what to say.

"…Hi."

"You always look so surprised," Taeho said,

amused.

"I just… I didn't expect…"

"Me?"

Jihoon nodded.

Taeho grinned. "Good. I'd hate to be

predictable."

The moment felt easy. Almost too easy.

They walked down the hall together again, the

eyes of half the school on their backs. Taeho didn't flinch. Jihoon did, every

time.

Still, he followed.

Later that day, in the sanctuary of the

library, Jihoon found a corner table between the shelves and curled into it

with a book. He wasn't really reading—just hiding, letting the weight of the

day melt off his skin like snow.

He hadn't noticed Taeho until the chair

across from him scraped back.

Jihoon looked up, startled. "You… found me."

Taeho shrugged, dropping into the seat.

"You're not that hard to find."

Jihoon wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"You like it here?" Taeho asked, glancing

around at the quiet rows of books

Jihoon nodded. "It's the only place that

doesn't feel loud, even when it's full."

"That's poetic," Taeho said. "Are you always

like this?"

"Like what?"

"Soft. Quiet. Careful."

Jihoon looked away. "Is that a bad thing?"

Taeho was silent for a moment. "No. It's just

rare."

Rare. Like a curiosity in a display case.

Jihoon's lips parted, then closed again.

He wanted to ask: Why are you doing this?

But he was afraid of the answer.

So instead, he whispered, "People like you…

don't usually notice people like me."

Taeho didn't smile this time. His eyes grew

still.

"Maybe I'm not like the people you think I

am."

Jihoon didn't respond. Couldn't.

Because hope was blooming in his chest again,

fragile and trembling.

And he didn't know how to kill it.

That night, Jihoon dreamed of warm light and

laughter that didn't sting. Of someone sitting beside him without asking why he

was there. Of the sound of his name spoken like a gift, not a burden.

He woke up with tears on his cheeks.

But as the days passed, doubt began to crawl

in.

Not because Taeho changed. He didn't.

He kept showing up.

But others began watching more closely.

Talking more openly. Whispering louder.

And when Jihoon caught glimpses of Taeho's

friends—those boys with sharp smiles and eyes that glittered with cruelty—he

felt a chill settle in his bones.

Something wasn't right.

It was too good. Too perfect.

And Jihoon knew from experience that perfect things

didn't last.

They shattered.

They were meant to shatter.

Still… he kept showing up too.

Because even if it was a dream, it was the

kindest dream he'd ever had.

And maybe, for just a little while longer, he

wanted to stay asleep.