Lately, things had shifted.

He found himself seated beside someone else more often than not, listening to a voice that had started to take up more space in his head than he cared to admit.

Today was no different. She was next to him — talking, venting, dissecting every look and word Su-hyeok had tossed her way that week like she was trying to decode something buried deep beneath the surface of their friendship. And he listened. Because of course he did. His eyes stayed on his lunch tray, the same food he barely had the appetite for, picking at it like it might give him an excuse not to react. Her words wove around him like smoke — familiar, persistent, and irritating in a way he couldn’t really blame her for. It wasn’t her fault she liked someone. It wasn’t her fault that someone wasn’t him.

It was frustrating — the kind of quiet, gnawing frustration that came with always being nearby but never really seen.

He glanced up briefly, watching her talk, watching the way her face moved when she was caught up in her thoughts. And for a second, he wanted to interrupt her. Not out of cruelty. Just to stop hearing about Su-hyeok for once. To remind her that someone else was sitting right in front of her, someone who’d been here the whole time. But that wasn’t how things worked. Not for him.

So instead, he kept his voice even and his expression blank as he muttered, “If you’re this into him, you should probably just give him your nametag.”

It came out flat, stripped of any obvious emotion, but that didn’t mean it was empty. If anything, it was too full — packed tight with things he couldn’t allow himself to say. Things like: I’ve liked you longer than he’s even noticed you. I wait for you in the mornings and pretend it’s coincidence.

He didn’t look at her after he spoke. He didn’t want to see whatever reaction flickered across her face — surprise, confusion, maybe a little hurt. It didn’t matter. The words were already out there, and now they sat between them, heavy and sharp, like something that had accidentally broken. He shoved some rice into his mouth, chewing slowly, as if it might somehow muffle the feeling rising in his throat. Jealousy wasn’t an emotion he wore well. It always came out sideways — as sarcasm, as silence, as cold detachment, annoyance. It was easier to pretend he didn’t care than to show how much he actually did.

Because at the end of the day, he wasn’t the guy girls fell for. He wasn’t tall or loud or cool enough to draw attention without effort. He was just Cheong-san — observant, sometimes sarcastic to the point of annoyance. He made jokes to hide the parts of himself he didn’t know what to do with. And when he cared, he cared too much. Always in secret.

It was easier to pretend he was fine than to admit he wasn’t. Easier to act like her words didn’t cut deeper than they were meant to. Because this wasn’t some drama, and he wasn’t the guy who got the girl in the end. He was just the one who waited beside her, silently wishing he had the courage to say what really mattered.