Namjoon slumped into his chair, a familiar wave of anxiety washing over him. He could feel Jin’s scrutiny, and a knot tightened in his stomach. The urge to disappear, to simply vanish, was almost overwhelming.
He wasn’t sure *why* he felt this way. It wasn’t discomfort, exactly. It was being watched, judged, a constant awareness of eyes on him in this classroom. His stomach churned with a nervous energy that didn’t translate to panic, but to a dull ache of resentment. He knew he wouldn’t vomit, not physically, but the feeling felt just as violent.
This feeling always came on Mondays. The transition from the freedom of the weekend to the suffocating structure of school triggered it. It was the same feeling he'd felt after giving a classmate a high five and receiving a look of cool indifference. The same feeling when his own smile wasn’t returned.
Namjoon hated this damn feeling. It was a weight that settled on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
He often told himself he was too guarded, too withdrawn. He needed to be more approachable, more capable of connecting with others. He envisioned a version of himself – someone effortlessly charming, someone everyone liked, regardless of their appearance or attitude. Someone who simply *fit*.
He’d always wanted to be that guy. The one who moved through the world with an easy confidence, who didn't need to worry about how they were perceived. But dreams, he knew, rarely materialized. They were fantasies, wishful thinking.
Real achievement wasn’t about luck; it was about relentless effort. It was about building something, brick by brick. But Namjoon felt helpless. He didn't see a path to improvement. He didn't know how to make people like him more.
It was reality, stark and unforgiving.
Then the room fell silent. It always happened when a teacher entered, but this silence was different. It was charged with a low-level fear. Mr. Min, a man who instilled dread even in his own son, Yoongi, had arrived.
Mr. Min possessed a commanding presence – broad-shouldered, with a voice that filled the room. Students avoided his gaze, shrinking under his scrutiny. Namjoon hated this class.
He was doing well enough, a B, which was considered exceptional by most. But he couldn’t accept it. His mother wouldn’t. He still felt obligated to perform for her memory, to prove his worth.
He would talk to Mr. Min. He didn’t care what it would take; he needed an A.
He sat through the lesson, a dull ache of boredom settling over him. It was just another tedious lecture, nothing remarkable. Soon enough, the bell rang, and students surged toward the door, jostling and shoving.
Namjoon lingered, feeling Mr. Min’s gaze on his back.
“Don’t you have another class to attend?” Mr. Min boomed, the question laced with an unspoken reprimand. Namjoon’s anxiety spiked.
“Sir, I-I was wondering if there was any way to raise my grade,” he stammered, the nervous stutter returning.
Mr. Min frowned and turned to his computer. “Kim Namjoon, correct?” Namjoon swallowed, nodding.
“You already have the highest grade in this class,” Mr. Min stated. Namjoon wasn’t surprised. He’d heard other students complain about their grades, laughing it off.
“I-Is there any way to get an A, sir?” he asked. Mr. Min’s eyes scanned him, assessing.
“You could tutor one of my students. Do you know Kim Seokjin?”