The boy once called best friend now sat alone, a worn book pressed against his chest. The distance between them had grown with the insidious creep of envy and popularity, a silent chasm carved by ambition. He ignored the stares, the whispers that followed him like shadows, and lost himself within the pages. One day, he would escape this suffocating place. He yearned for freedom, for a life beyond these walls. He wished he could simply vanish, like a butterfly caught on the winter wind, and be forgotten.
But he remained, clutching the book as if it offered protection. His glasses slipped down his nose, unnoticed, a small detail lost in the vastness of his isolation. Eyes flitted across the text, his world narrowed to the printed words, yet he wasn’t truly lost. Not entirely.
At least, that’s what Kim Seokjin observed. He knew Namjoon was aware of everything, despite the pretense. Namjoon wasn’t reading, not really. He was listening, absorbing the fragments of conversations that drifted his way, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. The boy’s glasses were falling off his nose, and he didn’t bother to adjust them, as if even that small act would draw judgment.
Park Jimin, his former friend, was among the group. *The* group. The beautiful, popular ones. Namjoon could feel Jimin’s gaze, a complicated blend of sympathy and judgment. It wasn't outright bullying, not yet. They never confronted him directly. They were, infuriatingly, *polite*.
They sought his answers in class, then smiled with a saccharine sweetness that felt like a betrayal. They apologized for accidental bumps in the hallway, their friendliness a thin veneer over something colder. Namjoon heard the whispers, the rumors that clung to him like dust. He ignored it, buried himself in his studies, fueled by a single, aching purpose.
He did it for his mother.
She might be gone, but Namjoon existed for her memory, for the promise of a life she would have wanted for him. He glanced up, his eyes meeting Seokjin’s across the room. He heard the murmur of voices, the laughter, the shared secrets. Seokjin and his friends seemed to effortlessly navigate a world of joy, sadness, jealousy, and sorrow.
Jin enjoyed their company, had done so for years. But lately, a dull ache had settled within him. Their casual cruelty, disguised as playful banter, had begun to grate. A simple goodbye offered to a younger student had sparked outrage. They claimed to despise bullies, yet Jin had seen the gleam of satisfaction in their eyes as they tore down others. He’d witnessed it, directed at Kim Namjoon.
He’d complained to one of them, Yoongi, about the boy’s quiet kindness towards a younger student, a student they regularly tormented. He’d immediately regretted the words, terrified that Namjoon would overhear and that it would ruin their five-year friendship.
He didn’t even *know* Namjoon, why had he defended him?
He hated this, hated the way his life felt like a tangled web of obligations and silent resentments. He hated the weight of their judgment.
Namjoon hated it too.
They both did.