The moment I stepped into the hallway that morning, I felt it pressing against my skin. Not a glance. Not a word. Just pressure. A silent tightening, like invisible walls closing in on me from all sides. No one spoke to me. But everyone saw me. I passed two girls in the corridor. They turned their backs the second I walked by. A boy, someone from my homeroom, was handing out flyers. He skipped me. Didn't even make eye contact. And when I got to my locker, someone had left it slightly open—just enough for the papers inside to spill halfway out, as if by accident. But not quite. I fixed it. Slowly. Quietly. Pretending not to notice the group of students watching from down the hall. They weren't laughing. They didn't need to. That was the whole point. They had mastered something far worse than open mockery. They had erased me.
I walked to class in silence. My footsteps felt louder than usual, like I was interrupting a prayer I wasn't invited to join. And the second I entered the room, it happened again. The pause. Not long enough to call out. Just long enough to know I had interrupted something. And then, they resumed their conversations. Like I wasn't even there. I sat down in my seat and opened my textbook. My hands were steady. My face neutral. My eyes fixed on the first paragraph of the page. I reread the same sentence five times. It didn't register. I didn't need them to like me. But I hadn't realized how much it would hurt to be invisible.
At lunch, the cafeteria was full, noisy, alive—except for the space around me. I held my tray like a shield. Food untouched. Eyes forward. I looked for an open seat, even if it was next to someone I didn't know. Anything but the corner again. But it was no use. Each step I took forward, someone else took a seat faster. Or spread their bag across a chair. Or whispered something behind their hand and looked away. It wasn't just passive anymore. This was a wall. Deliberate. Controlled. Designed to send a message. I turned around. Jisoo was sitting in the center of her table, a queen with perfect posture and a crown made of smiles. She wasn't looking at me. Not directly. But I saw her lips move. And I saw the girl next to her glance in my direction and laugh behind a straw. I left the cafeteria without eating.
Outside, the air was cold and dry. The school courtyard was half-empty. A few students sat on benches, phones in hand, legs crossed like models on break. I found a low concrete ledge near the garden and sat, careful not to wrinkle my skirt. Hyunwoo found me there. Again.
– Did you eat? he asked.
I didn't answer right away. He was standing, holding a small carton of milk and a plastic-wrapped sandwich. He extended them toward me. I looked at them, then at him.
– I'm not some stray animal, I said quietly.
– I know, he replied. But strays bite. You haven't.
I almost laughed. Almost. I took the milk. Not the sandwich. One small concession. He sat beside me. Not too close. Not far. Just enough for the silence between us to settle without turning cold.
– You know they're doing this because of Friday, he said.
– I know.
– They're scared.
I looked at him. He didn't smile. He didn't flinch
– They saw something they didn't expect, he added. You stood in front of all of them. You didn't break.
I drank the milk in one go. Tossed the empty carton into the bin without aiming. I missed.
– Not yet, I said.
In the afternoon, we had music theory. The class I had once dreaded. Now, I dreaded it for a different reason. Because now they knew. Not everything. But enough. Enough to treat me like something impure that had slipped into their spotless little sanctuary. And I was tired of being delicate about it. Mr. Han called on students to demonstrate harmonics at the front of the room. He skipped me. Twice. I raised my hand the third time. He hesitated. But I kept it raised, steady and firm, like it weighed nothing at all. When he nodded, a small sigh passed through the class. Not relief. Annoyance. Like I was wasting their time. I walked up to the keyboard. The class went still.
I played. One scale. Then two. Nothing flashy. Just precision. Rhythm. No mistakes. My fingers didn't tremble. My back stayed straight. My breath didn't catch once. When I finished, I looked up. Jisoo was watching me with that same polite expression. The kind that says: "You're not worth my time, but I'm still documenting everything." She clapped. Once. Twice. Other students followed. Not because they wanted to. But because they didn't want to be the one who didn't. I bowed. Returned to my seat. Hyunwoo caught my eye as I passed. He nodded once.
That night, I stayed late. The corridors were empty. The windows reflected the darkness outside like black mirrors. I slipped into the music room with no sound, no hesitation. I needed this moment to be mine. I sat at the piano. Opened the lid. Let my fingers hover. No lights. Just the dim glow from the street lamps bleeding through the blinds. I didn't rehearse. I played. Not the assigned piece. Not the school anthem. Something else. Something older. Something mine. And then, I sang. Quietly at first. Raw. Exposed. Every breath scraped from somewhere deeper than my lungs. I thought of the whispers. The glances. The erased smiles and turned backs. I thought of the voice that had cracked in literature class, and the silence that had followed. I thought of the tray I hadn't eaten from, and the carton of milk I'd accepted without looking grateful. And I let all of it pass through me. Into the notes. Into the melody.