Namjoon felt a phantom whistle in his ears, a relentless echo of regret. It arrived in waves, each cresting moment followed by another, and then another. Why hadn’t he stayed, offered a simple apology? It was his fault, clumsy and abrupt, he’d bumped into Jin.
But the moment had passed. It was just one entry on a long, accumulating list. Everyone carried a ledger of regrets, and his was growing heavier by the day.
He remembered seeing his former crush at the train station, a fleeting glimpse of possibility. Why hadn’t he found the courage to speak, to even make eye contact? The chance had evaporated before he could even formulate a greeting.
Then there was his mother, gone now. And with her absence came a torrent of unspoken words, unfinished conversations, and a gnawing ache of what could have been. He missed her acutely. His family was a whirlwind of chaos, and his own life felt perpetually on the verge of collapse.
Each day, the foundations he painstakingly built crumbled around him. He wasn’t speaking figuratively. He meant his carefully constructed indifference, the armor he wore to shield himself from feeling anything at all.
He’d tried to build it, to reinforce it. To convince himself that he was strong, that the numbness was a virtue. But it was impossible. Why couldn’t he simply love himself? There was nothing inherently wrong with him.
He hadn’t deliberately hurt anyone. He hadn’t engaged in cruelty or bullying. He’d strived to be a good person, to live with integrity. Yet, he couldn’t bridge the gap to self-acceptance. Who could love a man so deeply convinced of his own inadequacy?
Certainly not him.
A tap on his shoulder pulled him back to the present.
“Jin wants to see you,” a freshman mumbled, another wide-eyed, hopeful face in the crowd. Namjoon regarded them with a weary resignation. They were so easily swayed, so naive, so eager to curry favor with those deemed beautiful.
Beauty, he knew, was subjective. Perhaps, in someone’s eyes, he himself could be considered beautiful.
But *they* were the beautiful ones. Perfect skin, pouty lips, eyes of an unreal, captivating color. Soft, flowing hair that perfectly complemented their outfits. They existed in a realm of effortless grace, while he felt perpetually out of step.
Maybe, in another world, he’d be considered attractive. His glasses hid some imperfections, his skin was at least smooth. He still got pimples, of course; he was human, after all.
He offered a weak smile to the freshman, swallowed hard, and headed toward Jin.
“Why’d you leave?” Jin asked, his brow furrowed with genuine confusion. He hadn’t seen anyone say anything to Namjoon. Maybe his friends had been cruel to the boy, but Jin hadn’t heard a thing.
Kim Namjoon actually seemed like a pretty nice guy, Jin thought. He didn’t want Namjoon to hate him.
“Look, I’m sorry my friends are so… genuinely rude to you. It’s just how they are. They don’t mean to be mean.” A lie, of course. They *were* trying to be mean.
“You seem like a nice guy, and I don’t want you to feel hu—” Namjoon cut him off, his face flushing crimson. Why, even now? It was just a societal expectation, a reluctance to admit fault.
“I-I’m sorry for tripping you,” Namjoon stammered, then turned and hurried back to his seat, leaving Jin even more bewildered. He hadn’t even finished his apology, and he didn't know what to say.