chapter 1

They don’t notice me.

That’s the first thing I learned about Hwa Yang Academy—the higher the walls, the less people see what’s underneath. The uniforms are pristine, the corridors are bright, and the smiles are fake. The students here glide like they’re above gravity, perfect and polished, with gold-plated names and family trees longer than the Han River.

Then there’s me.

I press my back to the cold stone behind the east staircase, just far enough behind the oversized ficus plant to disappear. I’ve timed it. At this angle, no one walking down the hallway will glance left. They’re all too busy chasing dreams their parents bought for them. I’m not part of their world. I never was.

And yet, I watch it anyway.

My fingers curl around my sketchbook, its leather edges cracked and worn. I hold it like a secret, a shield. My grandmother gave it to me on my first day here. “Draw what you feel,” she whispered with that soft smile that made her eyes crinkle. “Even if no one listens, your heart will still speak.”

So I do. Every day. From the shadows.

The hallway hums with noise—shoes clacking, laughter echoing, lockers banging open. But my eyes are searching for just one thing. One person.

There.

Lee Ji-won.

I see him as soon as he turns the corner. He always walks like he knows where he’s going, even if he doesn’t. His uniform blazer is unbuttoned, his tie loosened just enough to look effortless. His black hair falls across his forehead in that frustratingly perfect way. Everyone watches him—but not the way I do. Not closely.

I see the way he tugs his bag strap tighter when the noise gets too loud. I see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he speaks to someone. I see the smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

And I draw it all.

I slide the sketchbook open and flip to a blank page. My pencil moves before I think, tracing the tilt of his chin, the line of his shoulders. He leans against his locker now, talking to Min-ho, but his gaze drifts—just for a second—to the window.

There’s always something distant in his eyes. Like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

I wonder what he would look like if he smiled for real.

“You’re so weird.”

I freeze.

The voice snakes around me, smooth and sharp. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

Yoo Na-ri.

Her heels click closer. I hear the amusement in her tone. “Seriously, hiding behind plants again? What are you even doing?”

My chest tightens. I snap my sketchbook shut and hug it to me like armor. “I’m not hiding.”

She laughs, soft and cruel. “You’re spying. Again. Let me guess—drawing Ji-won oppa like some lovesick fangirl?”

“I’m not—” I try to say, but my voice comes out thin.

Na-ri steps closer, blocking my view of the hall. “Do you really think he’d ever look at you? A nobody scholarship girl with cheap shoes and a ratty notebook?”

I stay silent. Words stick in my throat like needles.

“Seriously,” she says, her voice colder now. “This isn’t some drama. People like us and people like you don’t mix. Get that through your head.”

The bell rings.

She smirks, gives my skirt a once-over like I’m a stain, and walks away.

And I—I can’t move.

Everyone rushes to class, the hallway emptying fast. I wait, frozen, until the last echo fades. Only then do I slip out from the alcove, my face hot, my heart too loud.

I don’t go to class. I can’t.

Instead, I duck through the side doors, past the art wing, to the garden courtyard. No one comes here in the morning. It’s quiet, green, safe. Lavender blooms in soft waves behind the benches, and the stone walls are warm from the sun.

I sit on the far bench, hidden behind a tall bush, and finally let out a shaky breath.

This place is the only one where I can breathe.

I open my sketchbook slowly, flipping past the page of Ji-won’s half-finished portrait. My hand trembles. Na-ri’s words still crawl under my skin.

I turn to a fresh page.

My pencil moves again—not to draw Ji-won, but my halmeoni. My grandmother. Her soft smile, her tired eyes, the delicate lines of her hands folded in her lap. I remember how she stayed up late sewing my uniform before the entrance exam. I remember her tears when I got the scholarship. I remember her voice, gentle but steady.

“Even when they don’t see you, you are here.”

I blink hard. The pencil presses into the page a little deeper than I mean it to.

I wish I could tell her how hard it is.

“Is that your grandmother?”

I jerk up so fast I nearly drop my sketchbook.

And he’s there.

Ji-won.

Standing in front of me.

I stare, wide-eyed, too shocked to speak.

He gestures toward the drawing. “The woman in your sketch… she looks kind.”

I nod dumbly. “She is.”

He steps a little closer. “You’re… Seo Ha-run, right?”

My mouth goes dry. “You know my name?”

He smiles, faint but real. “Of course. You sit near the window in homeroom. You’re always drawing when the teacher turns around.”

I think my brain breaks for a second. He noticed?

He looks at the sketchbook again. “You’re really talented. There’s emotion in your lines. Like you don’t just see people—you understand them.”

No one’s ever said that to me.

Not once.

My voice comes out quieter than I mean. “I just… I don’t know how to say things. So I draw them instead.”

“That’s a good way to live,” he says. Then he glances toward the school building. “You’re skipping class.”

I flush. “Just needed some air.”

He nods, then sits beside me—not too close, just enough that I can smell the faint scent of pine and something clean. I don't dare move.

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Neither do I.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s… peaceful.

“I come here too, sometimes,” he says. “When it gets too loud.”

I glance at him, startled. He meets my gaze and shrugs, almost sheepishly. “Everyone always wants something from me. Sometimes I just want to disappear for a bit.”

Something aches in my chest.

I nod. “Me too.”

He looks at me for a long second. Not past me. Not through me.

At me.

And then he smiles—small and warm.

“I’m glad you didn’t disappear today,” he says.

And then he stands, brushes invisible dust from his blazer, and nods once before heading back toward the building.

I sit there, still frozen, still gripping my sketchbook.

And then I laugh. Quiet, surprised. A real laugh.

Because maybe—for the first time—

someone really saw me.

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