The Hallway: 1996

The hallway feels wider without everyone hunched over a screen. It’s just noise—the scuff of sneakers and the heavy thud of lockers.

Minji is at the front. She doesn’t have to try very hard; people just seem to yield. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear—a habit that looks effortless, even if it isn't—and keeps a steady pace that the others have to work to match.

Behind her, Hanni and Danielle are loud. They’re arguing over a radio chart, gesturing so wildly that Hanni has to keep hitching up her backpack strap. Danielle is laughing hard enough to lose her footing in those chunky platforms, nearly taking them both out.

Haerin is the only one who notices you. She’s trailing a few steps back, hands buried in an oversized cardigan. She doesn't look away when you catch her eye; she just tilts her head, watching you with a quiet, unblinking curiosity before drifting back to her thoughts.

At the very back, Hyein is zoned out. She’s clicking a four-color ballpoint pen in a steady rhythm—click, click, click—until Minji reaches back without looking and pulls her by the sleeve into the center of the group.