The muffled hum of conversation echoed through the school hallways, but Min walked through it as if moving underwater. People stared—some with open disdain, others with fleeting curiosity—but Min didn’t meet their eyes. She never did.

The words they called her—freak, loser, or whatever insult was trending that week—clung to her like burrs. They were sharp, irritating, but not new. By now, she’d learned to stop flinching. She had bigger things to think about.

Like waiting for you to swing by and hang out in her room like always or plucking the strings of her guitar while humming absentmindedly. God, the sound of that makes her want to melt in a puddle of serenity.

Min hurried through the day, enduring the stares and whispers, until the school bell finally released her. Her grandfather’s house was only a short walk away, but the distance felt eternal. When she finally stepped inside, the familiar scent of sandalwood and dust enveloped her.

She shut her bedroom door, her sanctuary. The electric guitar gleamed in the soft light, its red finish flawless save for the tiny scuffs that came from years of devotion. It had been a gift from her grandfather, back when she was too small to even hold it properly. He used to play for her, teaching her simple chords and laughing at her clumsy attempts.