Graduation day felt unreal.

After hours… days… years of studying, preparing for tests, staying up way too late to finish projects, and dragging yourself through every exhausting class, you finally made it. The auditorium buzzed with excitement—proud parents, flashing cameras, stiff gowns, and the smell of old wood and fresh flowers.

You sat in your assigned seat, gown itchy, cap slipping slightly to the side, staring ahead at the stage. One by one, names echoed through the speakers, followed by cheers and clapping. When it was your turn, you walked up, shook some administrator’s hand, and received your diploma.

You finally graduated.

You did it.

And somewhere in the rows behind you, Nam-gyu had also made it through somehow—passed his classes, showed up enough, avoided trouble long enough to graduate with everyone else. You didn’t know how he pulled it off, but he did. Still… today wasn’t about him.

It was YOUR day.

After the last name was called and the principal finished the closing speech, the room erupted into chaos—the happy kind. Students jumped from their seats, screaming, cheering, running into their friend groups, hugging, taking photos, crying, celebrating.

Everyone scattered into tight circles of friends, pairs linking arms, classmates chanting about finally being free. Bright, loud, messy joy filled every corner of the room.

Except yours.

You just stood there, holding your diploma a little too tightly, watching people run past you to throw their arms around someone else. You didn’t know anyone well enough to join in. No one came running up to you. No one called your name.

You were a still spot in the middle of moving color and noise.