Lunch was louder than usual.
Something about the awards ceremony the day before had unlatched a social frenzy. Cliques regrouped, alliances subtly shifted. Everyone had a theory. Who would be commended next? Who was being watched? Who wasn't?
Hae-won picked at her rice bowl, half-listening as Ji-ae gossiped with Na-ri about an upperclassman caught sneaking into the library after hours.
"He said he was just studying," Na-ri whispered. "But I heard he was looking for the old exam vaults."
Ji-ae scoffed. "Please. That boy can't spell calculus."
Across the cafeteria, Hae-won caught Seok-min watching her again.
Just once.
A glance from over his drink, like she was a painting he didn't want to admit he liked.
She quickly looked away.
---
Later that evening, a soft knock came on her door.
It was Bo-ram, one of the other merit students, holding a plate of brownies like a peace offering.
"I baked," she said cheerfully. "Because the universe is a dark place and chocolate is the only light."
Hae-won blinked. "You baked? Again?"
"It's not a crime to want joy in this world, Hae-won."
She let her in.
Ji-ae showed up a few minutes later, claiming she could "smell cocoa through walls." The three girls ended up in a triangle on Hae-won's floor, legs folded, trading stories from their old schools and laughing louder than they should have.
For a moment, the room felt like something safe.
Until Ji-ae's tone shifted.
"You know," she said casually, "you've been spending a lot of time near the elites lately."
Hae-won raised a brow. "Near doesn't mean anything."
"But they notice you," Ji-ae added, scooping brownie crumbs from the plate. "You've seen it too. Even Jin-woon."
Bo-ram grinned. "That's a compliment, right?"
"Not always," Ji-ae muttered.
The room quieted a beat too long.
Hae-won spoke softly. "You think it's a bad thing?"
Ji-ae didn't look up. "I think sometimes... being seen isn't as beautiful as people think."
---
After they left, Hae-won sat on her bed with the lights dimmed. The shadows in her room leaned differently now. Everything soft held an edge.
And in her desk drawer, the anonymous sketch waited like a secret she hadn't earned.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
> You should lock your windows better.
The garden air is nice tonight.
Her stomach dropped.
She ran to the window. Locked.
Curtains pulled. Still.
She turned slowly.
And found a second sketch on her pillow.
A charcoal profile.
Her face again.
Only this time, her eyes were closed—and someone else's hand cupped her chin.