CHAPTER 4: The Punch Before Graduation

Seo-ah's POV

The corridors of Geumhwa High always smelled like old floor polish and nervous futures.

With the graduation banners hanging from the ceiling like ceremonial nooses and the scent of spring pushing in through the windows, it was supposed to be a day of endings—and new beginnings. Final photos. Signed uniforms. Tired laughter. A day of closing chapters.

Seo-ah never expected it to be the day she finally ended him.

Han-jin.

The name alone carried weight. His presence lingered like perfume in the corridors, in the way juniors whispered about him, in how even teachers laughed a little too freely when he spoke. Seo-ah used to think that presence meant something. That if enough people loved a lie, maybe it would start to feel real.

But lies always unravel.

Especially when they don't know they're being watched.

It happened one afternoon—the afternoon. The day before graduation. Seo-ah had gone back into the school building to return her borrowed art supplies. She took the longer route through the science block, where shadows draped the empty staircases and lockers whispered old gossip.

And then she saw them.

Han-jin. And another girl. Her back was to Seo-ah, but the context didn't need an introduction.

Han-jin leaned in close, too close, his hand brushing the other girl's waist with the kind of familiarity that wasn't accidental. His lips moved slowly. And then—not a maybe, not an almost—a kiss.

Seo-ah didn't blink.

Didn't flinch.

It was strange—the way her body went perfectly still. Like her heart had learned something her mind already knew but never said aloud.

There it was. Confirmation. No dramatic music. No slow-motion heartbreak.

Just a quiet, biting clarity.

He didn't love her. Maybe he never had.

She walked away before they could see her. She didn't cry. Not yet.

Instead, she rehearsed.

The next day, the school was loud with celebration. Uniforms scribbled with signatures, students running through halls with bubble tea and paper crowns. Cameras clicked. Names were yelled across the courtyard.

Seo-ah stood by the central fountain, the place where every graduate passed on the way to the ceremony. She wasn't holding a camera or wearing a smile. She wore something else:

Resolve.

Ji-won found her there. "You okay?"

"I will be."

Ji-won nodded, then followed her eyes across the courtyard.

Han-jin was laughing with his friends near the steps, a bouquet of flowers in hand, his uniform shirt half-unbuttoned in careless charm. The girl from yesterday wasn't far behind, biting her lip and glancing around nervously.

Coward.

Seo-ah stepped forward, her shoes echoing against the stone tiles. Every step felt like scissors cutting through thread. Her chest was steady. Her hands didn't shake.

And then he saw her.

"Seo-ah," he said, smiling like nothing had happened. Like she was still his.

She didn't stop walking.

"Wait—" he began, half-chuckling. "Are you okay? I was gonna find you after this—"

She stopped in front of him.

People turned. The courtyard hushed. Phones subtly tilted in her direction.

Seo-ah's voice was clear. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut through whispers.

"I saw you yesterday."

The smile fell from his face.

"I was going to explain—" he started, reaching for her wrist.

She slapped him.

Hard.

The sound echoed like thunder cracking open a summer sky.

A collective gasp rippled across the crowd. Even teachers paused. Ji-won's hand flew to her mouth.

Han-jin looked stunned—one hand to his cheek, face burning with disbelief.

Seo-ah's voice didn't tremble.

"You begged for my love," she said, words slicing like glass, "and now you're ready to raise your hand at me?"

He opened his mouth, but she didn't let him speak.

"I'd rather date a ghostwriter than a gutless liar."

The crowd stirred. Someone muttered "Damn." Another whispered "Finally." The girl he cheated with turned pale.

Seo-ah didn't look at them.

She looked only at him.

Not the boy she used to want. Not the version she tried to love. But the small, shaking truth of him. Just a boy with pretty lies and empty eyes.

She took a breath, then turned her back.

And she walked.

No tears. No regrets. Just the soft exhale of freedom, the click of her shoes, and the echo of choices finally made

Ji-won caught up to her at the school gate, gripping her hand like they were flying.

"That was iconic."

Seo-ah exhaled, finally letting the adrenaline drain. Her fingers tingled. Her cheek stung—not from a slap, but from everything she'd let herself feel for too long.

"Was it too much?" she asked softly.

Ji-won shook her head. "No. It was perfect. He got to humiliate you in private. You returned it in public. That's balance."

Seo-ah looked back once.

Han-jin was still standing where she left him. Red-faced. Small.

And in that moment, Seo-ah realized:

She wasn't the same girl who once sketched herself smaller to fit into someone else's frame.

She had drawn her own ending.

And she was free.