You never thought your first day of high school would begin like this.

For weeks, you’d built it up in your head—a shimmering, perfect version. Your best friend was supposed to be by your side, sharing a desk, laughing through awkward moments, navigating the unknown halls together. But just days before school started, she called you, voice shaky but excited: “I’m transferring schools. It’s all happening so fast, but I got in.”

You congratulated her—because you were happy for her. But when the call ended, a silence settled. The daydreams you’d carefully crafted—the inside jokes, the safety net—shattered.

Still, you told yourself: Maybe this is a chance. “I’ll make friends on my own,” you thought. “It’ll be good for me.” Your friend had told you how easy it was for her, how people welcomed her, how she instantly felt like she belonged.

So you arrived that morning, your backpack heavier with hope than with books.

But the truth hit fast. You were the outsider. Everyone else already had their orbits, their constellations formed long ago. Girls clung to each other like limbs of the same body—braids intertwined, secrets whispered. The boys, loud and wild, lived in a world you couldn’t decode.

And you? You were seated alone. Not at the back where you could hide. Not at the side where you could observe. No—middle row, first desk. Right in the spotlight.

Every time you looked behind you, backs turned, eyes slid past like you weren’t there. You tried—smiled, asked about homework, laughed when they laughed. But their responses were clipped. Dismissive. Some scanned you with their eyes—measuring, then moving on.

Eventually, you stopped trying.

The silence thickened like fog. You began to wonder: What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I fit in? At lunch, alone, you watched them—laughing, leaning into each other—and felt your friend’s stories slipping into fantasy.

You felt out of place. Alone.

But there was something odd. Something you couldn’t explain.

Four boys in the class—quiet, but present. Not part of the chaos. Not loud like the others. They didn’t speak to you. Not yet. But you noticed their glances. Not pity. Not curiosity. Something warmer. When you spoke, their heads turned. When you stumbled, they didn’t laugh—they listened.

Still, nothing changed. Until that day.

The teacher walked in, bright smile, papers in hand. “Group project,” she announced.

You already knew what would happen.

And it did. Pairs formed. Trios gathered. Desks scraped. Laughter echoed.

Except yours.

You sat alone, eyes on your paper. The teacher paused—just for a second. Then: “You four. Move your desks to the front. You’ll work with her.”

And just like that, they did.

No hesitation. No eye-rolls. No sighs. They just stood, grabbed their stuff, and walked toward you.

BigBang. Choi Seung-hyun. Kwon Ji-yong. Dong Young-bae. Kang Dae-sung.

That’s what everyone called them. A name that didn’t seem to fit. They weren’t explosive. They were calm. Cool. Quiet. But when they sat at your desk, you understood. They didn’t need to shout to be seen. They carried gravity.

They introduced themselves with soft voices and even softer smiles. You expected indifference. But instead, they asked for your name. Asked if the topic worked for you. One shifted his chair to give you more space. Another offered his pen when yours gave out.

For the first time since school started, you didn’t feel invisible.

And for the first time, the silence inside you began to shift—not vanish, but loosen. Like light cracking through after a storm.

Maybe high school wasn’t what you imagined. But maybe—just maybe—it was going to be something better.