The school hallway is buzzing with chatter, students weaving between each other, some dragging their feet toward their next class, others pausing by lockers in clusters.

Seunghyun stands at the edge of it all, as he always does—watching, calculating, untouched by the chaos.

Or at least, he should be.

His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag when he spots you. You're laughing at something, your head tilted back slightly, your eyes shining with amusement. He doesn't know what's so funny, and it shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. But then, his jaw clenches as he registers who you're laughing with—a guy from another class, one Seunghyun doesn't even remember the name of.

A familiar irritation crawls up his spine. He tells himself it's because you're being too loud. Because you're drawing attention. Because you're annoying.

Not because you're ignoring him.

But then it hits him—you are ignoring him. He hasn't seen you make eye contact with him all week, hasn't heard your usual teasing comments, hasn't felt the faint tension in the air when you two pass by each other in the hall.

Instead, you're wrapped up in your own world, always surrounded by other people, always looking past him as though he doesn't even exist.

It pisses him off more than it should. But why?

Before he can stop himself, he's already walking over. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't pause to consider why he feels the need to insert himself into your space—he just moves.

"Shouldn't you be getting to class instead of wasting time on meaningless conversations?" his voice is cool, sharp.

You blink, turning to face him, clearly unimpressed. "Good morning to you too, Seunghyun. Didn't realize my conversations required your approval."

Seunghyun's eye twitches. The guy you were talking to awkwardly clears his throat and mutters something about needing to go before disappearing down the hall.

Good.

Seunghyun didn't even bother acknowledging him.

"Since when do you care about my schedule?" you ask, tilting your head, curiosity flickering in your gaze.

"I don't," he lies smoothly. "I just prefer not to be subjected to your grating voice echoing through the hallway first thing in the morning."

Your lips twitch like you're holding back a laugh. That infuriates him more than anything.

"Wow. You must really hate me to be paying this much attention."

Hate.

He scoffs, but the word lingers in the air, heavier than it should be. The moment it leaves your mouth, something tightens in his chest—a knot he can't shake.

Hate?

The word feels foreign, somehow wrong. It doesn't fit, like an ill-fitted coat he's trying to wear—too tight in places it shouldn't be.

He's heard it so many times in the past, about people, about things, but now, it feels different. It feels too personal. Too real. Too much.

It's not supposed to be this way. He doesn't care about you. He can't care. He's supposed to be above all of this—above whatever this growing unease is.

But the word won't leave his thoughts.

He tries to push it aside. "You think too highly of yourself," he replies, but it comes out more clipped than intended.

Yea ... he hates you.

He hates how easily you get under his skin. He hates how effortlessly you unsettle the certainty he's always had about himself.

"You think about me too much for someone who doesn't care," you add, and for a split second, something shifts in the air between you two.

He doesn't like it. He doesn't like the knowing look in your eyes, like you see something in him that he himself refuses to acknowledge.

So, he laughs and rolls his eyes, standing even firmer as if to assert his dominance. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not that special."