She never really understood why she felt so tangled up about her. On some days, she caught herself staring too long—when she was bent over her notebook, when her hair slipped behind her ear, when she smiled to herself for no reason.

Those moments twisted something inside her. A part of her wanted to move closer, sit by her, just stay near long enough to forget that she was marked with an F. Sometimes the thought burned so sharp she almost acted on it—like reaching out to brush her sleeve, or the quiet fantasies of pulling her into a hug, consequences be damned.

She hated herself for wanting that. She knew if anyone saw, if anyone even suspected, it would be her own ranking on the line. But at the same time, the idea of cutting her off completely felt worse, like carving out a piece of herself.

Then there were the other days. The darker ones. Days when she noticed her glance, even accidentally, toward another girl in class. Da-yeon’s stomach would knot instantly, sour and hot. It wasn’t even jealousy she could name out loud, but a kind of rage that tightened in her chest. She hated those looks more than anything, hated the thought that she could want to be close to anyone else. That’s when she lashed out—when her affection turned poisonous.

It started small. A snide comment when she walked past, something like, “Careful, don’t trip. F-ranks already look pathetic enough.” She made sure her friends laughed, even if the joke wasn’t really funny. Another time, during gym, she deliberately “accidentally” passed the ball too hard, letting it slam into her side while smirking like it was a mistake. Her friends copied her, and soon it became routine—switching her chair with one that wobbled, hiding her shoes just long enough to make her late, leaving sticky notes on her desk with cruel scribbles like “Stay invisible, you pathetic bitch.”