Complicated Thoughts
I shoved my bag under the desk the moment I got home. Normally, I'd unbutton my shirt and head straight for the fridge, but today I stood in the entryway for a long while without even taking off my shoes. The house was quiet, and that silence grated on me more than usual. Even splashing cold water on my face at the sink didn't cool the heat in my cheeks.
I pushed aside what happened at school. Kang Min-woo had backed off, and the Broadcast Club seniors had turned away. My identity wasn't exposed. I could handle that the old way: hide, deny, endure. The real problem was elsewhere.
Yoon Seo-ah.
The moment her name surfaced in my mind, a strange heaviness settled in. The Yoon Seo-ah from middle school had been clear-cut, at least. She'd drawn a cold line in front of everyone, leaving no room for me to approach from the start. That made it easy, in a way. Avoiding someone you know hates you isn't hard. You just need clear boundaries.
But today's Yoon Seo-ah didn't make sense. She'd cut things off in front of everyone, yet her words had wrapped around me protectively. Even throwing in a lie to do it.
I sat at my desk and opened my math workbook. When my thoughts get tangled, it's better to keep my hands busy. Sure enough, the first problem went smoothly—no overthinking, just jotting equations, answers, moving on.
The snag hit around the fourth line. I couldn't remember what calculation I'd just done. The page was crammed with numbers, but my head kept replaying the classroom scene like a loop: the scrape of a chair pushing back. "It's not him." And the tips of her ears flushing red as she turned to look out the window.
I set down my pen. This isn't working.
The video spreading was annoying. Getting suspected at school sucked. Those were familiar irritations—hide, deny, endure, and they'd fade eventually.
But Yoon Seo-ah's actions were different. They didn't fit my usual explanations.
Don't read into it. The world is simpler than you think. Her reason for covering for me was probably just self-preservation—keeping the sparks from flying her way. That had to be it. I needed it to be.
……But a corner of my mind kept snagging.
If that was really all, why had her face been so tense? Why step up first in front of everyone? Why me, of all people?
The guitar case I usually grabbed the second I ditched my uniform stayed untouched today. No matter how messed up the day, that time always clarified what I needed to do. Not tonight.
The case stayed closed, and I never got up. Turning on the stream now would be stupid.
In the end, that night I couldn't focus on the workbook or the guitar. Even after lights out, no conclusions came—just questions piling up over explanations.
I don't get it.
And that uncertainty lingered longer than I expected.
The next morning, the classroom felt more peaceful than I'd imagined. Or rather, it was so normal it was hard to believe yesterday's chaos had happened.
Kim Tae-yoon was already whining for me to copy his math homework. Park Sung-ho was rambling about basketball or soccer in PE. Kids up front were waving gym shorts around, joking. By the window, someone shared an earbud, watching a video. Utterly ordinary.
So ordinary it made me wonder if I'd exaggerated the whole thing in my head.
"Hey."
Kim Tae-yoon poked my arm with his pencil tip.
"You were such a badass yesterday."
"What about?"
"You know, the Broadcast Club seniors show up, then Min-woo, and suddenly Yoon Seo-ah stands up. Were we filming a movie?"
I flipped a page in my notebook, playing it cool. "It was noisy."
"Noisy? That was next-level. Honestly, I was scared. Yoon Seo-ah's face was terrifying."
Park Sung-ho, who'd been listening, snorted. "I'm more shocked she jumped in like that."
My pen hand paused for a split second. "Dunno."
"You really don't know?"
"I said I don't."
I cut it off too quick, maybe—Kim Tae-yoon blinked, then shrugged. "Eh, probably just hated the classroom getting rowdy. You know how she is about that."
"Timing was too perfect, though," Park Sung-ho chuckled. "You two know each other or something?"
My heart dropped, but I kept my face flat. "Nope."
They dropped it, thankfully. They weren't the type to dig deep—just picking up a funny moment and tossing it out.
The problem was, I couldn't brush it off so lightly.
Know each other. That word gnawed at me. I'd thought yesterday that if it came out, it'd be a hassle. Yoon Seo-ah denying my identity probably tied into that.
Still, that explanation felt... incomplete somehow.
I glanced up, then down quick. Front by the window—Yoon Seo-ah sat straight as ever. Textbook open, mechanical pencil gripped firm. Nothing off on the surface.
It was weird that I was noticing her first now.
Plan was to treat her as background, like always. Middle school had taught me that lesson. She's the story's center; I'm not. Overthinking and approaching just tires me out.
So ignore. Don't care. Act like you don't know.
But hearts don't always follow logic.
In class, when the teacher tapped the board for us to solve a problem, my eyes flicked forward extra. Changing for PE, heading to the hall for moving class—I kept catching her in my peripheral without meaning to.
And tiny things snagged my attention. A slight head tilt whenever I looked. Her pencil hesitating mid-air when my name got called. Stepping aside half a beat early if our paths might cross at the door.
Micro differences. Stuff I'd normally miss entirely.
The issue was how hypersensitive I'd gotten to them.
I mocked myself all morning. What am I doing? Tripping over flushed ears like this.
Yesterday, hiding my identity was priority one. Now I was dissecting her every reaction. Pathetic.
But I couldn't stop.
At lunch, Kim Tae-yoon and Park Sung-ho casually chatted cafeteria food like nothing happened. To them, yesterday was half-forgotten already.
"What's today's menu?"
"Dunno. Pork stir-fry or bust."
"Dude, you're obsessed with pork stir-fry."
Listening to their banter left me hollow. I'd barely slept, but to them, it weighed that little. A quick noise, quick fun, quick weirdness—then gone.
Most things end that way. Big deal to one, less than lunch talk to another.
Maybe a relief.
Thinking that, I grabbed my tray and stood.
I figured the day would pass without incident. Bell rang, kids surged out grabbing bags. I lagged behind Kim Tae-yoon and Park Sung-ho on purpose—together meant noise. Today, I craved solitude.
Class mostly empty, I slung my bag and headed for the back door. Hallway quieter than expected. Field-bound kids were gone; special rooms corridor echoed empty.
I paused, then veered to the back stairs over the main ones. Fewer people, easier.
Halfway down, a familiar melody drifted faintly.
Thought it was my imagination at first. Someone humming something similar, maybe.
No.
One note, two—short phrase, too precise. Unignorable flow.
I froze mid-stairs.
Late Evening at the Alley’s End.
My heart pounded. Not the song from last night's Shorts. One I sang once early in streaming, then buried. No reruns, no clips. New fans wouldn't know it.
And Yoon Seo-ah had heard that melody before the streams. Middle school, second year. I'd hummed a snippet absentmindedly while passing her a textbook.
That day, she'd asked me for the first time: "What song is that?"
Someone was humming it exactly like that.
I looked up slowly.
End of the lower hall. By the window, leaning—a figure sang the tune in a tiny voice.
Yoon Seo-ah.
My mind blanked.
Her side profile toward the window looked casual, like an unconscious hum.
My feet glued to the floor.
Then she sensed me, turned. Our eyes locked straight on.
Her calm gaze flickered; lips pressed tight.
I couldn't speak first this time.
She didn't either.
Silence blanketed the stairwell.
The melody from her lips moments ago felt vanished without trace.
No illusion.
Yoon Seo-ah remembered that fleeting moment.
Even the parts I hadn't sung for her that day.