You Poor Thing - Han Su-Gang x F!Reader
Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard , it feels like a cruel social experiment. I barely keep up with the lessons and I laugh too late, answer wrong, mispronounce things so often I’ve stopped flinching when someone snorts. But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang.
content warning - dark!Su-gang, non-consensual and dubiously consensual situations, sexual harassment, slapping, hair pulling, gaslighting, bullying, blackmail, stalking, breaking and entering, and non-consensual photography. This story contains coercive behavior, manipulation, intimidation, invasive violations of privacy, aggressive physical contact, and emotionally distressing themes, with elements of angst throughout.
word count : 10k (my first 10k fic & it took me a week to finish it)
This was requested.
The classroom door slams shut behind me, and thirty heads swivel like they’re synced, eyes slicing into me like scalpels. Every morning, it’s the same walking into this sterile, chalk-dusted hell with my back straight and jaw tight, pretending I don’t hear the whispers or see the smirks. Pretending I’m not completely drowning.
Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard, it feels like a cruel social experiment. I barely keep up with the lessons, get lost in half the conversations, always translating words in my head while everyone else is two steps ahead. I laugh too late, answer wrong, mispronounce things so often I’ve stopped flinching when someone snorts.
But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang.
That smug bastard.
From the day I transferred, he zeroed in on me like he was hunting something. Not with fists or open mockery that’d be too easy. No. Su-Gang prefers a slower, sharper game. Smirks. Whispers. Brushing past me just a little too close in the hallway. That slow, lazy drawl when he says my name, like he's tasting it, and he knows exactly what it does to me.
“Yah,” his voice purrs behind me now low, teasing. “Why so stiff today?”
I don’t need to look. I can smell his cologne sharp and expensive and feel the heat of his body as he moves closer. His presence wraps around me like static before I even turn.
I don’t turn.
I keep my eyes locked on the blackboard, pretending I understand a single thing scrawled across it. Pretending I don’t feel his breath brush my ear as he leans in, close enough to cross lines no one else dares to.
“You get lost again on the way to class?” he murmurs. “Or just hoping someone would come find you?” My fingers tighten around my pen until it creaks. He laughs softly in a mock-innocent way. “aigoo, don’t look so tense. I’m just being friendly.”
Friendly. Right.
Han Su-Gang doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
He drops back down into the seat behind me, just like he always does, and taps the back of my chair with his shoe. Light. Deliberate. A signal. A warning. Or maybe just a reminder. That I’m not invisible here.
Not when I’m Su-Gang’s favorite target.
And the day hasn’t even started yet.
Throughout class, he keeps playing with my hair.
It starts subtly a light tug on a loose strand when the teacher isn’t looking, like he’s testing how close he can get before I react. Fingers brushing the ends, slow and deliberate, until I can’t focus on a single word being written on the board. My scalp tingles, nerves stretched thin. I grit my teeth and ignore him. Pretend I don’t feel it. Pretend I’m not about two seconds away from snapping.
He’s behind me, so I can’t see his face but I feel it. The smirk. The quiet satisfaction in every tiny invasion. No one else seems to notice. Or maybe they do, and they’re just too smart to get involved.
I sit perfectly still, heart pounding under my uniform shirt, jaw locked so tight it aches. If I move, he wins. If I say anything, he gets what he wants. I just need to survive until the bell.
And then, finally, it rings and I’m on my feet before the last echo dies. My bag's already slung over my shoulder, my heart pounding with the relief of escape. I just need to get out of this room and away from his stare, his voice, his everything.
“Oh? Where are you going? Running away like a scared little bitch?”
Su-Gang’s voice slices down the hallway just as I turn the corner. Like he didn’t make the last hour unbearable. My pulse kicks up again, thudding in my ears. I keep walking. Fast. I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.
I’m already late for my next class, Mrs.So’s.
A new teacher. Young. Fresh out of university or something. I haven’t even spoken to her yet, and now I’m about to barge in late on her first day seeing me. Perfect. Just perfect.
I reach the door and shove it open, breath still uneven. Everyone inside turns toward me like I’ve interrupted a sermon. I drop my gaze immediately and mumble, “Sorry.” My voice is barely above a whisper. Mrs.So nods politely, says nothing, and gestures for me to take a seat.
I head straight to the back. Far corner. I sit down, still feeling the heat in my face, still trying to calm the rush in my chest. But less than a minute later, the classroom door bursts open like it’s been kicked in.
Su-Gang strolls in.
And he’s not alone. His little entourage files in behind him, laughing like they own the place. One of them bumps into a desk on purpose. Another whistles, obnoxious and loud. It’s a whole show.
Mrs.So straightens up behind her desk. “Excuse me. You’re late. What do you think you’re doing?” Su-Gang doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. He just keeps walking, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose and cocky like nothing in this room, not even the teacher matters. His eyes flick lazily across the students until they find me.
And lock. My stomach knots.
“We got a little held up,” he says smoothly, mouth curling into that too-slick smile. “Sorry we missed your big debut, seonsaengnim.”
A few students laugh under their breath. Mrs.So opens her mouth, probably ready to call him out but then she hesitates. Just like the other teachers. Just like everyone else. One look at Su-Gang and suddenly nobody wants to push.
“Take your seat,” she says finally, voice clipped.
He does.
And as he moves past desks, his eyes never leave me. Not for a second. Like I’m some unfinished thought he plans to come back to.
He drops into the seat one row over, diagonal from mine. Close enough to see everything. Close enough that I can feel the pressure. Like a spider watching a fly settle into its web. The corner of his mouth twitches, and I can’t tell if he’s smiling or sizing me up.
Probably both. I shift in my chair and glance away, heart pounding so loud it’s hard to hear Mrs.So start the lesson. I feel his gaze crawling along my skin, patient, hungry, like he knows he has all the time in the world.
And worst of all? No one else seems to notice.
About halfway through the lesson, something lands on my desk.
A folded piece of paper.
I don’t need to look to know who it’s from. I feel his eyes on me before I even touch it, like a heat source pressed against my side. I hesitate for a second. Then I unfold it under the desk, keeping it hidden behind my textbook.
"Detention room. After school. You better be there."
Nothing else. No smiley face. No signature. Just instructions, written in a sharp, aggressive scrawl. My throat tightens. I stare at the words. My skin feels clammy. My fingers twitch like they want to tear the note in half, but I don’t. Not while he’s watching.
So I do the only thing I can.
I nod. Just once. Subtle. Barely a movement. And that makes him smile.
The rest of the class passes in a haze. I pretend to listen, nod at the right moments, even force myself to write something down. But I’m not really here. My mind’s racing too fast. I keep thinking about the way he looked at me earlier. Like he was already imagining something I haven’t agreed to. Like he was building a scene in his head, and I didn’t even have a say in it.
When the bell rings, I stand up fast and slip out with the crowd before he can corner me. I don’t look back. I don’t go to the detention room. I don’t even pretend to head that way.
Instead, I make a sharp turn down the back hallway, heart hammering. Past the supply closets. Past the broken lockers no one uses. Toward the back exit with the crooked fire door that barely latches. I push it open. It groans like it hasn’t moved in weeks.
Outside.
I don’t stop. I don’t check my phone. I don’t breathe until I’m three blocks from the school and halfway down a side street that leads to the convenient store. I think I made it. I think I actually got away.
But what I don’t know. What I don’t see is Su-Gang standing at the second-floor window above the back lot. Watching. He saw me slip out. He watched the whole thing. His smile is gone.
Replaced by something flat and cold. His hands rest on the windowsill, fingers tapping slowly. Rhythmically. Like he’s counting seconds or imagining someone’s neck. He stays like that for a long time, even after I’m out of sight.
When one of his friends finally finds him, laughs, asks, “Yo, she stood you up or what?” Su-Gang doesn’t turn around. He just mutters, voice low and terrifyingly calm, “She thinks she’s clever.” Then silence. A long beat.
And then, quietly
“I’ll show her what clever looks like.”
The next morning, I walked through the front gates like nothing happened. Like I didn’t run. Like I didn’t leave him standing there with a note and a plan and no one to play his little game with.
I keep my back straight. Shoulders loose. Head held just high enough to seem unbothered. My heart’s still thudding a little too fast, but I’ve trained my face into something blank. Unreadable. I even fake a yawn, just for show. If I look scared, I lose. And I can’t lose.
The halls are already crowded. Noise bouncing off the lockers. Shoes squeaking. Teachers barking half-hearted warnings about morning assembly. I focus on the stairs ahead, the textbook clutched to my chest like a shield.
I almost believe I’ve pulled it off. That maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go. Then I feel it.
A hand slams into the back of my head, fingers curling tight into my hair, yanking it back so hard my knees nearly buckle. The scream gets caught in my throat. The hallway tilts as I’m dragged backward, spine arching, the world spinning in a blur of color and confusion. People stop. Some gasp. Some just stare.
But no one moves.
“Think you’re smart?” Su-Gang snarls above me, voice right at my ear, rough and wild and nothing like the lazy, teasing tone he always uses. “You think you can run from me?”
His hand twists deeper into my hair, roots screaming. My scalp burns, eyes watering. My hands shoot up to grab his wrist, but his grip is iron.
He jerks me sideways, pulling me into the middle of the hallway. I stumble after him, dragged like a puppet, books scattering to the floor. Everyone’s frozen, too stunned to even blink.
My shoes skid uselessly on the polished tile.
“Su-Gang, what the hell!” someone calls out, a teacher maybe but it’s distant, foggy, like it’s coming through water. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back. He pulls me past classroom doors, past staring students, past lockers slamming shut.
“Was it funny?” he growls, low and vicious. “Running like that? You think that was clever? You think I wouldn’t see you?” I can’t even speak. My scalp is on fire, my breath short and sharp. “Let me go,” I manage through clenched teeth, but it comes out weak. Pathetic. And he laughs.
That soft, familiar laugh except now it’s twisted. Unhinged. “I told you to come,” he hisses. “I asked nicely. But you want to act like I’m some joke?” His grip tightens. My neck jolts back.
A classroom door swings open down the hall. Another teacher steps out, voice raised in alarm, but I don’t catch the words. Su-Gang finally slows, turns slightly, still holding me by the hair. And smiles.
Right at the teacher. Polite. Then says, smooth as ice, “Just having a talk. She doesn’t mind.” The teacher hesitates. Looks at me. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Su-Gang leans in. “You say one word,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear, “and I’ll make sure you really have something to run from next time.” The teacher backs off. Just like that.
He lets go of my hair like he’s finished playing with a toy he’s grown bored of. My knees nearly give out, but I catch myself, heart pounding so hard I can hear it behind my ears.
He doesn't even look at me when he says, “Follow me.” Just two words. But they hit like a blade. I don’t move. Students linger around him, watching with amusement, like they’re waiting to see if I’ll disobey. No one laughs, though. Not now. The air feels wrong. Dense.
He turns his head slightly, just enough for me to see the edge of his smirk. There’s no threat in his voice. There doesn’t have to be. We both know what happens if I say no. So I follow. Up the stairs. Out of sight.
Through the metal door that groans open at the top of the building and closes behind us with a thick, final thud. The rooftop stretches out around us, windless and empty. Concrete walls on all sides. The city below hums, oblivious. The sky is pale, the sun bleeding through the clouds, too bright and too cold at once.
His friends are already here. Lounging. Laughing. Scrolling through their phones like this is just another break between classes. And I’m just standing there. Stiff. Out of place. Out of air.
Su-Gang sits on a ledge like he owns the building. He pulls a lighter from his pocket, flicks it on and off, even though there’s nothing to light. Just for the sound. The flash. The rhythm.
He doesn’t look at me for a while. Then he does. His eyes drag over me, slow and invasive. I cross my arms. Big mistake. He tilts his head and finally says, “Unbutton your shirt.” I stared at him like he had grown two heads. The rooftop drops silent. He stares at me, waiting.
There’s no smirk now. Just that cold patience. Like he’s giving me a test he already knows I’ll fail. “I’m not—” My voice catches. “I’m not doing that.” His tongue clicks. Then he stands. Slowly. Like he’s tired of repeating himself.
“I said,” he murmurs, “unbutton your shirt.” I take a step back.
One of the others stands too. Just the sound of his shoes scraping the ground makes my spine lock. I glance at the rooftop door behind me. It’s so far. Su-Gang walks toward me, and I can’t help it. I flinch. His expression twists with delight. Something ugly. “You’re scared again,” he says, voice soft like a lover’s. “I like you best like this.”
He stops right in front of me. Reaches out. His fingers skim the first button of my shirt. I slap his hand away without thinking. Silence. His friends shift. One lets out a low whistle. But no one steps in.
His smile doesn’t fade, but something behind it changes. His eyes narrow. Like he’s finally decided I’m not playing the part he wants. Then his hand moves. Fast.
A crack slices through the air before I even register what’s happening. Pain explodes across my cheek. My head snaps to the side. My breath catches. My vision blurs for a second, white-hot and stunned.
The sound of it echoes, not just in my ears but deep inside me, like the world just tilted wrong. I don’t fall, but I stagger, one foot dragging against the rooftop concrete. My hand flies to my face, clutching the sting. My skin throbs under my palm, pulsing where his knuckles landed. Warm. Humiliated. Tears well up immediately.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to hold them back, jaw trembling with the effort not to break. Not in front of him. He just watches me. Detached. Like he’s studying his own reflection.
His smile returns, slow and sharp, like the sting on my cheek isn’t even real to him. “Maybe now,” he says softly, voice thick with something darker than anger, “you’ll listen when I tell you to do something.” Then his eyes flicker something glinting behind them.
Excitement.
“You’ve got a little fight in you today,” he murmurs, stepping closer, gaze dragging over me. “Good. That makes it more fun.”I can’t breathe. This isn’t just teasing anymore. This is a game I never agreed to play and I already know how it ends. Badly for me.
Su-Gang doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks down at me, hand returning to the first button on my shirt. And then he starts to unbutton them. One. Two.
My whole body is stilled, blood screaming in my ears. I feel the cool air touch my skin, inch by inch, and all I can do is stare at the concrete behind him and try not to collapse. He leans in, breath hot on my cheek. “You know,” he murmurs, “if you wanted attention, you could’ve just asked. Acting like you’re so shy, but look at you.”
Three.
His fingers brush the fabric. Slow. Calculated. “Underneath all that pretending,” he says, “I bet you like being watched. I bet you're getting off on this, aren't you?” My hands shake. My nails dig into my palms. I don’t cry. I won’t. But then he reaches the last button. And just as his fingers graze it—
The rooftop door slams open.
“Han Su-Gang!”
The voice cuts through the air like a bullet. He pauses. We both turn.
Mrs.So storms across the rooftop, her heels loud and sharp against the concrete. Her face is pale with fury. Her eyes aren’t wide with fear, they're narrowed with rage. Su-Gang’s hand drops casually from my shirt.
I clutch the fabric, step back, hunch in on myself like I can disappear. Mrs.So stops just a few feet from us. The wind is louder now. Or maybe it’s just the blood rushing through my head. “What the hell are you doing?” she demands, voice rising. “What do you think this is?”
Su-Gang just smiles. That empty, shark-eyed smile. “Teacher,” he says smoothly. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“You had her cornered. You had your hands on her shirt—”
He shrugs, all fake innocence. “She came up here on her own. Ask her.” His friends shift awkwardly behind him, but no one speaks.
Mrs.So doesn’t buy a second of it. “You think you can get away with everything because you’re rich and no one’s ever held you accountable?” Su-Gang’s smile slips slightly. “You’re not special,” she spits. “You’re just a coward who picks on people weaker than you.”
The rooftop is dead silent. I stare at her…this stranger who just walked into hell without hesitation. I feel my knees buckle. She sees it. “Come here,” she says to me, gentle now. “Come stand behind me.”
I do. I move like a ghost and stand behind her like she’s a wall between me and something feral. Su-Gang’s voice comes low, mocking. “Getting involved, huh? Bad idea.”
She doesn’t flinch. “You want to hit me?” she says, eyes locked with his. “Go ahead. You think I’m scared of someone like you?” His hand clenches once. Then he turns away. But something in his smile before he walks off…too slow, too deliberate, tells me this isn’t over.
Not even close.
I don’t remember getting back inside. One second, I’m on the rooftop with Su-Gang’s breath still hot in my ear. Next, I’m sitting on a chair in an empty classroom, the door closed, the windows dim with late-afternoon light.
My face still stings. Every heartbeat pulses in the bruise spreading under my skin. Mrs.So sits in the chair across from me, hands folded tightly in her lap. She’s silent for a long time. Watching me. Not like she’s waiting for me to speak like she’s trying to decide if she should.
I keep my eyes on the floor. The tile is cracked near the edge of my shoe. I focus on that. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” she finally asks, voice low, careful. I shake my head. I want to. I need to. But the words stay trapped in my throat. Like if I say them out loud, it’ll make everything real again.
She doesn’t push. “I saw enough,” she says. “You don’t have to explain it to me.” I blink hard. My throat burns. She exhales, rubbing her thumb against her palm like she’s working something out.
“That boy… Han Su-Gang,” she says. “He’s not just acting out. He’s dangerous.”
That word. Dangerous. No one’s said it before. Not out loud. She looks at me then. Really looks. Her eyes are softer now. But there’s steel under them. “Has he done this before?” she asks. “Or something worse?”
I nod. Barely. She swallows. Her expression tightens. “I need to report this,” she says. “He can’t keep doing this to you. Or anyone.” Panic spikes in my chest. “No.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My voice sounds too loud in the still room. “Please don’t.”
She frowns. “Why?”
I can’t explain it. Not properly. Not the looks in the hallways. The silence of the other teachers. The way Su-Gang moves through the school like he’s already untouchable. Like the building bends around him. She sees my hesitation and her voice softens again. “I’m not asking you to stand in front of everyone,” she says. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’ll handle it. I’ll keep your name out of it.”
I want to believe her. But I can still feel the ghost of his fingers at my throat. Still hear the way he said my name like it was already his. “He’ll come after me again,” I whisper. She doesn’t lie to me. She just says, “Then he’ll have to go through me first.”
I try to get through the rest of the day like it didn’t happen. Like he didn’t drag me by the hair throughout the hallway. Like I didn’t see something dead behind his eyes when I said no.
Su-Gang doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even breathe in my direction. And somehow, that’s worse. The silence isn’t peace. It’s a setup.
I skipped lunch again. My stomach’s empty, but my nerves are too twisted to eat. I spend the break in the art room alone, pretending to look at student drawings while my brain replays every second on that rooftop in perfect detail.
I don’t go straight home after school. I take the long way. The side roads and alleys, avoiding the main streets, just in case. By the time I duck into the convenience store, the sun’s already sinking. The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead. The warm, artificial air hits me like a blanket.
Normal. Safe. Or close enough. I grab a ramen cup and a drink. Something to pretend I’m okay. Something to keep my hands busy.
I sit by the window in the front corner and peel back the lid. Steam curls up. I wrap my hands around the cup and try to breathe. Outside, the street looks dull, quiet. Almost peaceful.
Until the glass fogs. Not from the ramen. But from a breath.
I was transfixed, unable to move.
A slow, deliberate smiley face forms on the glass right in front of me. Drawn with a fingertip. Then a second line. A heart. And behind the smiley face, Su-Gang’s reflection appears. Smiling, his tongue slid out slowly, tracing his lips like he was savoring a taste no one else knew. His smile that didn’t reach his eyes that only made your skin crawl.
He exhales again. The glass fogs deeper. The heart glows faint in the low light. He’s not even trying to hide that it’s him. The bell above the door jingles. He steps inside. But he’s not alone.
Two of his friends follow, laughing at something he said before the door even shut. He doesn’t grab snacks. Doesn’t say hi to the clerk. He walks straight back and drops into the chair across from mine like we’re meeting for coffee.
“You always run here after school?” he asks. “I was curious.” I look down fast, pretending I couldn’t hear him. Pretending I can make him disappear by not reacting.
He looks at me like he’s trying to decide what he wants to do with me. Then, without a word, he grabs my wrist. “Come here,” he says, voice low and too casual. I try to pull back, but he’s already moving. In one motion pulls me into his lap.
I gasp.
He wraps one arm around my waist, the other resting across my thigh, holding me there like I belong to him. My hands go stiff, hovering in the air, unsure whether to fight or freeze.
“Relax,” he says, brushing his cheek against mine. “I missed you.”
He presses a kiss to my cheek. Lingering. Like he’s daring me to scream. “You’re soft,” he murmurs near my ear. “I could get used to this.” I want to throw up. I want to disappear. I finally jerk, trying to stand.
His grip tightens.
He chuckles softly. “Don’t be like that. I came here to talk.”
“Let me go,” I whisper. “No,” he says, simply. “Not until you answer a question.” He shifts, letting me face him in his lap, his hands locked on my hips. His eyes narrow slightly. “What did you tell Mrs.So?” My stomach drops. “I—nothing,” I say.
He tilts his head, mouth curling slightly. “You sure?” he asks. “Because if I find out you’ve been running your mouth…” His smile vanishes. “…I’ll make sure you regret it.”
His hand slides slowly up my back, resting between my shoulder blades, just enough to make my whole body go rigid. “You wouldn’t want me to get upset,” he says. “Not when we’re just starting to get along.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I repeat, this time louder, trying to keep my voice steady.
He studies my face like he’s trying to peel it open.
Then, slowly, he smiles again. “Good girl.”
The bell charms.
Another customer walks in. Su-Gang finally loosens his grip, easing me off his lap like he’s letting me go because he chooses to, not because I asked. He stands, straightens his shirt, and leans down to whisper in my ear one last time.
“You’re lucky I like you. Anyone else would’ve already been dead.” Then he walks out. Leaving me there. Shaking. Humiliated. Half of my ramen spilled on the table. I sit there, chest heaving, hands trembling, the taste of his breath still on my skin.
And I know, he’s just getting started.
It takes me seven days to say something. Not because I’m unsure, or confused, or trying to convince myself it wasn’t as bad as it felt, it was, but because I already know how these things go. I know the shape of silence. I know the sound of disbelief.
Still, on the seventh day, I stay behind after class. I wait until the room empties out, until Mrs.So is gathering her papers and glancing at the clock like she has somewhere else to be. I tell her everything.
Slowly and carefully, like walking barefoot through glass. The rooftop. The convenience store. The way he touched me. The way he looked at me. The way he follows me, like a shadow with a mouth and hands. She listens. Her expression hardens, just a flicker, like a spark trying to catch flame. She says it’s wrong.
That it’s serious. That she’ll go to the principal and take it from here. That I’ve done the right thing.
The next morning I got called to the office. It’s too bright in there, sterile and quiet in a way that feels rehearsed. The principal doesn’t meet my eyes. He speaks in that calm, measured tone that sounds like it was written for a press release.
Han Su-Gang is a respected student. His family supports the school. There’s no evidence of misconduct. I should be careful, he says. Careful with words, careful with accusations. I sit there, hands locked in my lap, trying to breathe evenly, trying not to fall apart in front of him. Because I already know what’s happening. It’s not justice.
And when I step out into the hall, he’s there. Su-Gang. Leaning against the opposite wall, phone in hand, like he’s been waiting for the verdict he knew would come. His eyes flick up and land on mine. He smiles. A small, smug thing, like he’s already won. Like he never doubted it.
After that, the story spreads warped, twisted, gutted of the truth. Apparently I came on to him. Apparently I made it up. That I wanted his attention, then got bitter when I couldn’t handle it. Some girls laugh. Others look through me. No one asks what really happened. Not one. Even the teachers seem to look past me now, like I’ve become something inconvenient. A problem that won't go away.
And Su-Gang? He doesn’t even bother hiding anymore. He waits for me after school, half a block down, just far enough to say he wasn’t following. He sits outside stores I duck into. He shows up on the streets. I don't remember telling anyone I walked down.
Sometimes I take random turns, double back, and change my route. It doesn’t matter. He’s always nearby. Close enough to see me flinch. Far enough that I can’t scream without sounding crazy.
At night, I stop turning on music. I keep my curtains closed. I check the lock on my window twice, then again. The smallest sound makes my heart race. A knock, a phone buzz, footsteps in the stairwell. I don’t sleep. Not really. I just lie there, listening, waiting for something to happen. Something worse.
I try again. I tell a different teacher. She gives me that look. The soft eyes, tight smile that says she believes me and still won’t do a thing. I go to the school counselor. She asks if maybe I’ve misunderstood, if maybe he’s just struggling to express himself. I try a friend. She pulls away mid-sentence, says her parents know his family, says she doesn’t want to get involved.
And slowly, the air changes. People stop looking at me. Or they only look to see if I’ll break. Every hallway feels longer now. Every classroom colder. And the worst part isn’t the fear, not even the moments when I feel his eyes on me and know I’m not imagining it.
I was so stressed out that I didn’t even notice my apartment door was open. I came inside, took off my shoes out of habit, then headed straight to the kitchen. I opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water, and when I turned around, Su-Gang was standing right behind me with that terrifying smile and the deranged look in his eyes.
The sight of him hit me like a weight, pressing down on my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.
I don’t scream. I can’t. My voice dies in my throat before it even forms. My fingers go limp and the bottle of water slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud that sounds too loud in the silence between us. He doesn’t flinch. He just watches me.
I stagger back, my spine hitting the edge of the counter, but I don’t feel it. I’m too focused on him. On the way his pupils look too wide. On the twitch in his jaw. On that smile, too calm, too pleased, like this moment is everything he’s been waiting for.
“Cozy,” he says finally, looking around my apartment like he’s at an open house. His voice is soft, amused. Like this is funny. Like I’m funny. “Smells like you.”
"Did you miss me?" he asks, voice light, almost playful. But there's something in it like broken glass hidden in sugar. I say nothing. I can’t. My tongue is dry, glued to the roof of my mouth. My limbs won’t listen to me. All I can do is stand there, shaking, stupidly barefoot, defenseless.
“I was going to wait outside,” he goes on, stepping closer, slow and casual, like we’re sharing a joke. “But I got bored and you took too long.”
He’s between me and the door now.
He tilts his head, eyes flicking over me in that slow, devouring way that makes my skin crawl. “I thought we could talk. Just us. No interruptions this time.”
“What do you want?” I finally manage to whisper. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds small. Weak. And I hate that he hears it that way.
His smile grows. “You know what I want.”
He moves again, and instinctively I reach for something, anything, my phone, a knife, I don’t even know. But his hand is suddenly on my wrist, fast and hard, and I cry out without meaning to. He squeezes, just enough to make his point.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. “I’m being nice right now.”
My knees threaten to give. He’s too close. I can smell the familiar, expensive cologne he always wears. I can feel the heat of him, radiating off his body like an open flame. It’s worse up close, worse than anything in the hallway or the rooftop or the store. Because now there’s no one else. No distant teacher. No student who might glance over. No fluorescent lights. Just me and him.
He steps closer
“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, tilting his head slightly, like he’s studying a bug under glass. “After everything we’ve been through.”
“I told you to leave me alone,” I whisper, but it comes out too thin. Too fragile.
He laughs softly, shaking his head like I’m the one being ridiculous. “You don’t get it, do you? I didn’t come here to hurt you,” he says, taking another step forward. “I came here because I care.”
His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, like he’s about to touch me again. I flinch before he even makes contact. His smile widens. "You’re so tense,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, more breath than sound. “It’s kind of cute." My stomach twists.
He’s too close now. The counter's at my back. The doorway's blocked. My apartment feels smaller than it ever has. Like the walls are leaning in, like the lights are dimming even though nothing’s changed.
"Don’t do this," I manage, my voice breaking. "Please."
"Do what?" he says, mock-offended. "I’m not doing anything. I’m just talking to you. Spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?"
I shake my head. “No.”
His expression darkens just slightly. Like the mask slips for a second and something uglier pushes through.
"Then why’d you talk to Mrs.So?"
My breath catches.
"You think I wouldn’t find out?"
I don't answer.
“I told you not to say anything,” he whispers, and this time, the calm is gone. His voice has teeth now. “You lied to my face. That’s not smart.” He leans in until I can feel his breath on my cheek. “I could hurt you,” he says softly, almost lovingly. “Right now. And no one would stop me. No one would care.”
He says it like a fact. Not a threat. Like he’s just stating the weather. Like he’s tested the world already and knows exactly how far it will bend for him.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
His fingers trail down from my forehead, slow, possessive, knuckles grazing the side of my face like I’m something he’s already unwrapped. His thumb brushes the corner of my lip.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds, almost sadly. “I just want you to stop making me the bad guy.” He leans in again, lips hovering just beside my ear. “You don’t tell anyone else about this. About me. Not your little teacher friend. Not your friends, if you still have any.” He chuckles softly.
“I won’t,” I whisper, too fast, too automatic, and I hate the way it sounds. I hate how small it makes me feel. But I say it anyway, because I have to. Because I’m not sure what happens if I don’t.
His breath is hot on my neck. His hand settles just above my hip.
“You’re learning,” he says, and he almost sounds proud. Like I’ve done something right. Like this is praise. Then his mouth grazes my cheek. Not quite a kiss. Not quite anything. Just heat and skin and intent.
“I could stay,” he says. “We could spend the night together.”
The terror pulses so deep in my chest I think I might be sick. I shake my head before I even realize I’m doing it. “No?” he says, still smiling. Still soft.
Then, without warning, he grabs my wrist and yanks me down the hallway toward my bedroom. I stumble, trying to resist, but his grip is iron. My mind races, how many times has he been here before?
When we reach the bedroom, he shoves me onto the bed. The mattress groans under the sudden weight as I scramble backward, pushing myself toward the headboard, trying to put any distance I can between us.
My hands shake. My breathing is shallow. He just stands there, watching me, that same twisted smile never leaving his face. There’s something in his eyes, something cold and frayed that makes my skin crawl. I want to scream, to fight, to disappear.
But all I can do is stare back, then he turns to the door. Clicks it shut. And locks it. That sound, the soft, final click is a bang to my senses. My breath shatters. He leans his back against the door, watching me with all the patience in the world.
Like a lion who knows the cage is locked. “You’re trembling,” he says sweetly, voice thick with something tender and terrible. “Is it fear? Or excitement?” I don’t answer. That’s when he moves. Not like a man. Like a predator.
His hand curls around my ankle, delicate and unhurried, as though he’s holding a teacup, not a girl trembling in her own bed. And then with a cruel sort of grace he pulls. I gasp, dragged down the mattress like a doll. My back hits the sheets, my legs falling open just enough to make shame twist low in my gut.
He crawls over me slowly, his tie hanging like a leash between us, brushing my chest. Still smiling. Still soft. Still wearing that goddamn blazer like this is a lecture hall and not my bedroom like he didn’t just take me from the hallway like a prize he’s been waiting to unwrap. “You looked so pretty just now. All wide-eyed.”
His fingers brush my thigh. Featherlight. A lover’s touch in a nightmare. “No?” he echoes when I shake my head, soft as mist. Tilting his head like a confused child. “Then why didn’t you run?” He leans closer. His breath fans over my throat. “Because deep down, little slut,” His hand traces around my face tenderly. “you wanted me to.”
A low whimper catches in my throat. He shushes me instantly, kissing the corner of my mouth. “None of that, now,” he whispers, velvet-laced. “No tears, no begging.” His other hand trails down, catching the hem of my shirt. “And now,” he says, voice rising with something honeyed and unhinged, “you’ll give me everything else.”
He watches me for a moment longer, head tilted, gaze dragging over my body like a match waiting to be struck. Then, without a word, he moves fast, precise. He flips me onto my stomach before I can react, the sudden shift knocking the breath from my lungs. I try to twist, to push up, but his hand presses gently between my shoulder blades.
“Shhh,” he breathes, already loosening the tie from around his neck with the kind of slow, deliberate care that makes my pulse scatter. “You’ll like this part.” The fabric is warm from his skin, and it slips around my wrists like a secret. He binds me with practiced ease as if he’s done this in his head a thousand times. Maybe he has. When the knot pulls tight behind my back, a gasp slips from me.
“There,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear as his fingers stroke my hair. “You look like a present… all wrapped up, just for me.” His voice is low, close, too tender to be sane. He presses a kiss just below my ear then bites. Sharp enough to make me flinch. His hand slides beneath me, under my stomach, and with one slow, possessive push, he lifts my hips. My body responds before I do, knees parting, cheek pressed into the sheets.
I hate how natural it feels. I hate how warm his palm is as he settles me in place like I’m a thing to be arranged. “Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as he sits back on his heels behind me. “Perfect little shape, it’s like you want to be taken.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes his words sharper. “Such a good girl, staying still,” he croons. “Back arched, thighs soft, hands tied and trembling. You don’t even know how beautiful you are like this.” There’s a pause. Then a small click. My heart skips.
“Mmm,” he hums, pleased, as he lifts his phone and takes the photo. “Don’t worry, baby… just for me. Something to look at when I miss you.” He drags two fingers up my inner thigh, achingly slow. “When I’m alone and hungry and need to remember who belongs to me.”
His breath ghosts down my spine. “My little present. My quiet, messy, obedient whore.” His fingers curl around my hip. “You’re going to stay just like this for me. Pretty. Remembering that this is what you craved.” Another soft kiss behind my ear. Another picture. Another piece of me surrendered.
His fingers trail down, slow and teasing, barely grazing the backs of my thighs as he settles behind me. Not quite touching…just hovering. Just enough to make my nerves coil tighter with every breath. “So quiet,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking to the air between us. “But your body’s already telling me everything.” His fingers finally make contact drawing invisible lines over my skin like he’s sketching me from memory.
He runs a knuckle just under the curve of my backside, then down, barely brushing the spot that makes my breath catch. “Tense,” he whispers, almost delighted. “Are you scared I’ll like how you taste?” I shake my head, a futile denial buried in the pillow. He laughs softly behind me, the sound honeyed and intimate. “Liar.” He reaches under the hem of my skirt and slowly pushes it up.
The fabric gathers at my waist, baring me to the cool air and his ravenous gaze. “Look at this,” he breathes, palm smoothing over the swell of my exposed ass. “So warm… so soft.” I try to close my legs, but he stops me with a firm hand and a sickly sweet murmur: “Ah-ah. Don’t ruin the view, sweetheart.”
Then his fingers find the edge of my underwear and tug it down. Not off. Just far enough. Just enough to humiliate. “I want it in the way,” he says, voice low and molten. “I want you to feel how barely undone you are.” And then…then I feel him lean in. The first touch of his mouth is like silk over fire. Gentle like he’s worshiping rather than devouring.
A single, slow stroke of his tongue that makes my entire body clench. “Su-Gang,” I gasp, voice trembling, “stop—” But he only hums softly against me, the vibration melting into my skin. “You don’t mean that,” he says, voice muffled, dreamy. “You’re already shaking. Already dripping. You’re mine, baby… and this is how I take care of what’s mine.” His hands slide up to my hips, holding me in place, and then he buries his face between my thighs like I’m something holy.
He eats like he’s savoring a secret, like he has all the time in the world. And I’m trying so hard not to make a sound, trying to stay silent, to resist. But every stroke of his tongue makes it harder. Every soft moan he breathes into me makes it worse. “Still pretending you don’t want it?” he murmurs, licking slow and deep, voice soaked in affection and filth. “Go ahead, baby. Lie to me with your mouth. Your body’s already told the truth.”
He doesn’t rush. His mouth lingers like he’s sipping from something delicate, something rare, tongue sliding in lazy, tender patterns that have nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with ownership. “Mmm,” he hums again, breathing hot and sticky against me.
“You taste like berries.” His tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, then retreats just enough to let the cool air kiss my skin. I squirm, breath shallow, legs trembling. He chuckles, warm and terrifying. “Sensitive,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of my thigh. “Are you always this easy to fall apart? Or is it just me?” My fingers clench behind my back, wrists straining against the tie.
I want to move, want to bury my face deeper into the pillow and hide. But he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give me room to run. “You keep trying to deny it,” he says, brushing his lips just above where I need him. “But I think you like it when I play with you. When I talk to you like this,” His voice lowers into a dreamy lilt.
He presses a kiss to the spot just above my entrance, maddeningly soft. “And this?” Another kiss, lower now, warmer. “This is mine now.” Then he dips his tongue in again..shallow, teasing, just enough to make my hips jolt. He groans like he’s the one being ruined. “God, you're so sweet,” he whispers. “I could stay here all night, baby. Just like this with you all tied up and spread out.” He grins against me, licks again, slower.
“Bet you’re so confused right now, huh? Poor thing… shaking like you don’t love it, arching like you do.” His thumb brushes the base of my spine, gentle, reassuring, like we’re sharing something soft instead of something sick. “Don’t worry,” he coos. “I’m not mad at you for pretending. I think it’s cute.”
Another kiss. A playful nip. “But I see through you, sweetheart. I always do.” He pulls back just enough to blow warm air against me, making my legs quake. “And when I’m done? You’ll never be able to lie to me again.”
The moment it hits me, I can’t stop it. It shatters through my body like silk torn from the inside out..sudden, deep, humiliating in how good it feels. I choke on a gasp, back arching, toes curling, hands still bound and helpless behind me. And he just moans into me, like my climax is something he can taste, something he’s earned.
My legs twitch, my breath stutters, and I want to close them, to pull away from the pressure of his mouth, but he doesn’t let me. He keeps licking soft, languid strokes that make me flinch with every pass.
“There she is,” he whispers, kissing between my thighs like I’ve just told him a secret. “So pretty when you break.” I whimper, the sound muffled by the sheets, but he only smiles, sitting back slowly, lazily. He gazes down at me like I’m artwork. He's just finished painting half-naked, trembling, used.
“God, look at you,” he breathes. “I should take another picture.” His tone is teasing now, light and slow, high off my reaction. His hands don’t leave me, one stays curved over the swell of my ass, the other trails down, fingertips gliding between my thighs again, drawing lazy circles that make my hips twitch.
“Sensitive?” he murmurs, mock-concerned. “You can’t be done already, baby. Not when I’ve barely started.” He leans over me, chest pressing against my back, lips brushing my ear again. “You feel that? How soft you are now? How open?” A soft laugh. “You gave me that. And now I get to enjoy it.”
His hand slips lower, fingers teasing where I’m still slick, still pulsing. “Don’t worry,” he croons, “I won’t make you come again. Not yet.” He kisses the shell of my ear, then whispers with syrup-thick sweetness, “I just like the way you flinch when I touch you. Like your body knows who it belongs to.” He shifts behind me, breath hitching with a new note of pleasure. I don’t have to look to know, he’s rubbing himself.
I can hear it in the way his breath slows. I can feel it in the way his hand moves against me just enough to keep me open, helpless, and aware. “This is my favorite part,” he sighs, voice rougher now. “When you’ve already come, and you’re too tired to lie. When I can just watch you… and imagine all the other ways I’m going to keep you like this.” He groans softly behind me. “You’re going to let me, aren’t you?” A kiss to my shoulder. Another warm touch between my legs. “You won’t say no. Not when you already said yes with your whole body.”
And now, here I am tied, trembling, still slick from his mouth and raw from my own climax, waiting like prey that wanted to be hunted.
I hear it behind me: the soft slide of a belt, the slow zip of a fly, the crinkle of tension easing from his spine. A sharp, wet sound follows spit, thick and obscene, catching in his palm before a slow, rhythmic stroke begins. I don’t have to look. I feel it in the air. He’s getting ready to take me.
A slow inhale behind me. A reverent exhale.
Then, He speaks.
“You know…” His voice is silk dipped in poison, calm and unbothered. “You really shouldn’t look this pretty when you’re trying not to cry.” His words make my toes curl. He leans forward, pressing the weight of his cock to my entrance, not pushing in yet. Just settling there. Heavy.
“I could paint a picture of you like this,” he whispers. “Tied up. Split open. Waiting for me like a gift you already know belongs to me.” A slow thrust of his hips, not enough to enter, just enough to make me feel the slick drag along my folds. His cock nudges, teases.
“Beg,” he says, softly. “Or don’t. Either way, I’m going to take what I want.”
And with a single, deep push, he slides inside.
My mouth opens in a silent cry. It’s too much.. The stretch is hot and aching, every inch making me feel smaller beneath him. He stills once he’s buried to the hilt. “Feel that?” he breathes, mouth grazing my ear. “That stretch… that ache…” A slow pull out. A cruelly gentle thrust back in. “That’s mine.”
One of his hands cups the base of my spine, a barely-there pressure to keep me still. The other strokes down my side, fingers trailing like he’s reading braille in my bones. His voice remains maddeningly calm, like we’re discussing poetry instead of being split open on his cock.
His rhythm is slow but deliberate now, hips grinding in and out with a possessive control. “Don’t give me that little whimper like you don’t want it.” I can feel him smiling against my skin.
“You think I didn’t see this coming?” he continues, cock dragging slow, deep strokes that make my back arch without meaning to. “You in that tiny skirt. That quiet way you watched me in class. You wanted this….to be ruined like something fragile and sweet. You just needed someone willing to break you the right way.”
He thrusts harder, once. My breath stutters.
“And that’s me, baby.”
His blazer brushes my bare back. The tie digging into my wrist, holding me still as he starts to fuck me in earnest…deep, smooth strokes, like he’s carving his name into my body with every pass.
“Listen to yourself,” he whispers, biting gently at my shoulder. “That sound in your throat? That’s mine. That’s submission.” His thrusts slow again, cruel and controlled. His fingers brush between my thighs, finding the slickness he left behind with his mouth.
“You’re soaked. Dripping like your body knows who it belongs to.”
He rolls his hips in a long, punishing grind. My knees shake.
“Bet you thought you could hide it,” he breathes, voice low and smooth. “But I see everything. Every twitch. Every gasp. Every time you push back just enough to make me think you don’t need this.”
“You do.”
He leans forward again, breath warm against my cheek. “You’re mine now,” he says, a final whisper before he sets a new rhythm. “And after this, you’ll never be able to pretend otherwise.”
His fingers slip between my thighs again and I choke on a sob. The tension coils tight in my belly, unbearable. He circles that spot with maddening gentleness as he thrusts harder again, forcing my body to surrender to the rhythm he sets.
“Say it,” he murmurs, biting at my shoulder. “Say who you belong to.”
I shake my head at first and he laughs, low and cruel. The rhythm falters just long enough to make me whimper at the loss. Then he slams back into me and I scream, gasping, because it’s too much and still not enough.
“Say it.”
My knees buckle. His arm catches my waist and holds me up, tight against his chest. “You,” I gasp. “Yours. I’m—yours.”
His grip tightens. The tie digs in. His thrusts become ragged, brutal, as though the words snapped something in both of us. I cry out again, body shaking, every nerve lit, raw and burning with that final edge.
I shatter.
Clenching around him, shuddering as the orgasm crashes over me, white-hot and consuming. He doesn’t stop. He growls something low and inhuman against my neck and thrusts one last time, deep, buried to the hilt, and goes still with a strangled moan.
His breath is hot and uneven on my shoulder. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t untie me. Just leans there, breathing me in, cock still throbbing inside as if claiming every last inch. “You’ll remember this,” he says softly, voice thick with triumph. “Every time you pretend you’re still the good girl.” He presses a kiss to the nape of my neck, almost tender.
“And you’ll know better.”
He stays buried inside me for a long moment, like he owns the silence as much as he owns my body. His chest rises and falls against my back, breath slowing, the weight of him on my back. Then, without a word, he shifts, a deliberate pull of his hips that makes me gasp again as he withdraws, slow and unhurried.
The absence is as much a statement as everything that came before.
I can feel the wet heat between my thighs, dripping down, and I know he sees it too as he stands behind me, fixing his belt with calm, practiced fingers. The quiet click of metal feels obscene in the hush of the room.
“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, amused.
The sound of fabric rustling tells me he’s smoothing his shirt, straightening his blazer. Like none of this shook him. Like he does this all the time. Like he’s already decided this wasn’t a moment, it was a routine.
Then his fingers return to me, to the knot behind my wrists. He undoes it slowly, letting the tie free and it falls away. My arms drop forward, sore and tingling from tension, and I draw a shaky breath. But before I can move, he’s already guiding me, turning me, tilting my body until I’m on my back, sprawled across the bed like something ruined and displayed.
He leans over me, eyes scanning every inch of my flushed skin, from the marks on my thighs to the dazed, wet look in my eyes. His phone is suddenly in his hand. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Perfect.” The click of the phone is soft, almost delicate. He takes one photo. Just one.
“To add to my collection,” he says, smiling.
My breath stutters again. I feel exposed. Under that gaze.
He leans in, phone still in his hand, and catches my face between his fingers. His thumb strokes my cheek, smearing whatever remnants of tears or sweat are still there, like he’s savoring the aftermath just as much as the act itself. Then he kisses me.
When he finally pulls back, I’m gasping all over again, not from what he did to my body, but from how completely he’s taken over my body. He smiles down at me, brushing hair away from my face, like he already knows what I’m thinking. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low. “And this? This was just the beginning.”
He straightens, adjusts his cuffs, and starts toward the door unhurried, composed, as if what he just did to me was nothing more than a casual conversation. At the threshold, he pauses and looks back one last time. His gaze drags over me, bare and breathless in my own bed, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Like he’s proud of what he’s leaving behind.
Then he turns and disappears into the hallway.
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m alone. The only sound left is my own breathing and the faint, lingering echo of everything he did. Of everything I let him do. In my own room. My world. And now it doesn’t feel like mine at all.
My bed’s a mess, sheets twisted, pillows half on the floor, the air still thick with sweat and something darker. The scent of him clings to everything. My wrists burn faintly from the tie, my thighs ache with every shift, and my lips are still swollen from the way he kissed me like he owned me. But it’s the silence afterward that feels the cruelest. No soft words. No reassurance. Just… gone.
Like I was a scene to be acted out. A need to be used up. I lie there on the bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, letting the heat fade from my skin until I’m just cold. Empty. Slowly, I pull the sheets up over me. Just to hide.
I wake to the alarm’s buzz, head pounding.
For a second I forget why I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Then I shift… and the soreness between my thighs reminds me. My stomach knots. I force myself up, push through the routine like a ghost shower, brush, dress. But nothing scrubs him off.
I dress more conservatively than usual, as if fabric could protect me now. As if he didn’t already take everything he wanted. I glance around my room, still disheveled, sheets half-stained with sweat and spit and…My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number
Attached image: Me. Last night. Face dazed. Wrists red. Legs parted. On this bed. My bed. My world was invaded and taken. Below it: “Can’t wait to do this again.” I don’t breathe. The panic starts to slow a cold pulse in the back of my throat. I check the number. No name. No clue. But I know. I know. Then another message, like the first wasn't enough.
Unknown Number:
“If you tell Mrs.So anything… I’ll ruin what little life you have left.”
I drop the phone. My knees go weak and I sink onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling, stomach twisting in knots. The image still burns behind my eyes, not just the photo, but the memory. The sound of his voice. The way he’d said “mine”.
And now… I can't even scream. Because he made sure I wouldn’t.
School feels different now. Like every hallway is longer, every wall closer, every door hiding something I can’t unsee. I walk with my head down, hands cold, shoulders stiff with the weight of pretending nothing happened. But I feel it with every step. The ache in my thighs. The raw burn around my wrists. The phantom pressure of him is still inside me.
I can’t forget.
I move through the morning on autopilot, nodding when I’m spoken to, laughing at things I don’t hear. No one notices. No one ever does. But behind my eyes, everything’s trembling. And beneath my clothes, I’m still wearing last night like a bruise.
I see the back of him first, blazer perfect, hair neat, the same tie he used to bind me now looped neatly around his collar like it doesn’t remember. He’s surrounded by a few guys. Joking. Relaxed. Like he didn’t tear me open the night before and leave me in my own bed like a discarded thing.
I slip into the classroom early and sink into my seat. My hands won’t stop shaking. I stare at the blackboard. I pretend I’m just tired. Mr.Kim claps his hands once. “Partner project time! Random draw, no trading, so don’t ask.”
The names come fast. A blur. My name. “...and Su-Gang,” he says cheerfully. “You two will work together on the bonding unit. Chemistry of connection. Perfect, right?”
There’s light laughter. It cuts through me like a knife. I feel him before I see him, again. The shift in the air. The scrape of a chair pulled beside mine. The warmth of his presence before he even sits. He doesn’t speak right away. Just lets the silence stretch until I almost convinced myself I imagined it.
Then he leans in, breath brushing my ear.
“Told you this was just the beginning.”
I don’t blink. I don’t turn. I just stare at my notebook, empty and waiting, while my pulse pounds in my ears.
I nod when Mr.Kim asks if we’re clear on the assignment. I write the due date like it matters. He’s close enough that his knee brushes mine close enough to remind me I didn’t dream any of it. He’s in my school. In my class. Now assigned to me like some sick joke.
And I realize, right then, with cold clarity: I can’t get rid of him.
He’s not some ghost that will fade. He’s a presence now. Permanent. Invited into my world. My space, my silence, my life..all slowly coiling around him like a noose. After class, I don’t speak. I don’t look at him. I just walk. One foot in front of the other, trying not to run. I turn my phone off. I don’t want to see what else he’s sent.
When I get home, I lock my door and sit on the bed, still unmade from last night. The sheets are crumpled, the pillows still on the floor, the air still holding the memory of his breath, his hands, his voice whispering mine. The room feels smaller now.
I stare at the floor for a long time.
I just sit there, listening to the silence, and realize it doesn’t feel like safety anymore.
It feels like nothing.
And inside me, something hollow grows deeper.
