Bang Chan had been your bully since middle school.

Not the loud, dramatic kind that shoved people into lockers or started fights in crowded hallways. Chan’s version was quieter. Calculated. It began with small things—snide comments said just loud enough for you to hear, teasing smiles that never reached his eyes, a careless shoulder bump that sent your books tumbling to the floor “by accident.”

At first, you thought it was coincidence.

By the third time it happened, you knew it wasn’t.

Middle school hallways were crowded and chaotic, the perfect place for small cruelties teachers rarely noticed. Chan thrived there. He would appear beside you like a shadow—leaning over your desk to glance at your test score before the teacher even finished passing papers back, flicking your pencil off the table during study period, whispering remarks about how perfect you were whenever someone praised you.

“Teacher’s favorite again?” he would murmur with a smirk.

The strange part was that he never seemed angry.

If anything, he looked amused.

And people loved him.

Bang Chan was the kind of boy who drew attention without trying. Loud laughter, easy confidence, athletic talent—he had it all. Teachers trusted him, students admired him, and his friends followed him through the halls like planets orbiting the sun.

You weren’t exactly invisible either.

Yes, you were smart. Your grades were flawless, your notebooks neat, your name constantly praised in class. But that wasn’t the only reason people noticed you.

You were beautiful in a way that seemed effortless. Even when you tried to blend in, eyes followed you down the halls—admiration from some, jealousy from others.

From the moment high school began, attention clung to you whether you wanted it or not.

And Bang Chan seemed to hate that.

If something good happened to you, Chan was there with a sarcastic remark. If someone complimented you, he would appear moments later with a teasing grin and a comment designed to make your cheeks burn.

You told yourself he was jealous.

It was the only explanation that made sense.

Still… there were moments that didn’t fit.

Like the time someone mocked you during lunch and Chan casually sat beside you, staring the guy down until he left. Or the way Chan sometimes watched you quietly in class—thoughtful—before switching back to his usual mocking smile the second you noticed.

You never understood it.

Until recently.

Because something had changed.

Bang Chan was distant.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

You hadn’t realized how constant his presence was until it disappeared. For years he had been like background noise—annoying, persistent, unavoidable.

And then suddenly… nothing.

Days passed without teasing comments. No smirks across the classroom. No footsteps falling into place behind you in the hallway.

You thought you’d feel relieved.

Instead, the silence felt wrong.

Your eyes searched for him automatically in every room, a habit your mind hadn’t broken yet. But Chan wasn’t watching you anymore. He spoke less, laughed less. Sometimes he disappeared between classes entirely.

And for some reason, that unsettled you more than his bullying ever had.

Your heart thumped strangely when you spotted him across the schoolyard that afternoon.

He was sitting alone beneath a tree near the edge of the field, leaning against the trunk with his phone in hand, lazily playing some game.

No friends.

No laughter.

Just him.

You slowed without meaning to, watching him.

For the first time in years, Bang Chan looked… different. Not physically—he was still broad-shouldered, still confident in the way he carried himself. But the energy around him had dimmed.

Your chest tightened as you approached.

Why did it bother you?

Why did you care?

For years you had wished he would leave you alone.

Yet now that he had, the absence he left behind felt strangely noticeable.

Your steps slowed a few feet away from him.

Chan hadn’t noticed you yet.

Or maybe he had… and was pretending not to.