Rain again
It always rained on the worst days.
That evening, the sky was ash-gray and bleeding. The corridors emptied slowly as clubs ended and classrooms closed. But Hae-won stayed behind, wiping the blackboard in silence. Alone.
Again.
On the teacher's desk lay a sticky note in messy handwriting:
"Clean Room 3-1. Someone vomited."
No name.
Just an order.
She did it anyway.
Scrubbing puke from the floor with a frayed mop, the smell clinging to her skin. Tears welled up—not from the stench, but from the echo in her head:
"You're garbage. You'll always be garbage."
"No one loves trash. They throw it away."
She didn't remember running.
Only that her feet carried her out—through the back stairwell, past the last classroom, all the way up.
To the rooftop.
Cold wind slapped her face. She gripped the railing.
And screamed.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just a broken sound that tore through her throat like glass.
Her knees gave out.
She crumbled to the wet cement floor and sobbed—violently, like she was coughing up her soul. Her fingers clawed at her blazer, trying to breathe.
Everything hurt.
Her lungs. Her memories. Her silence.
"Why was I born?"
"Why does no one ever stay?"
"Why did they ruin me before I even had a chance to live?"
She didn't hear the door open.
Didn't see him standing there.
Ji-hoon.
Still. Silent. Shocked.
He had followed her after noticing she never came down.
He had never seen her like this.
Not cold. Not submissive. Not quiet.
But breaking.
Hae-won gasped for air, knuckles white against her forehead, mumbling things that made no sense—names, maybe. Apologies. Pleas.
Ji-hoon stepped forward once. Stopped.
Then again.
"…Hae-won?"
Her body jolted.
She turned toward him, face streaked with tears, eyes wide—like a cornered animal. She backed away from him until her shoulder hit the railing.
"Don't touch me!" she choked.
"I wasn't going to—"
"You already do!" she screamed, voice raw. "Every day! You break me down and they watch! And I let you. Because it's better than what waits at home."
Ji-hoon froze.
She laughed—hysterical, bitter. "Isn't that pathetic? You think you scare me? My father burned my hand for spilling soup. You're nothing compared to him."
She held up her palm.
There it was.
A pale, warped scar.
His eyes widened.
"I hate all of you," she whispered. "I hate that I still want someone to care. I hate me."
Then she collapsed again, arms over her head, sobs shaking her small frame.
Ji-hoon didn't speak.
He just stood there…
And for the first time—
He understood something.
This wasn't about bullying.
This was about survival.