The door creaked open, and just like that, every conversation in the room died. She stepped in with quiet poise, her heels soft against the linoleum floor. All eyes turned, as expected. It always happened like this — the stares, the awe, the silent sizing up. Girls tugged at their sleeves, boys sat straighter. She didn’t bother looking at any of them. She already knew the effect she had. Rich girl, new face, untouchable beauty — let them wonder.

The teacher motioned for her to come to the front. She walked without hesitation, spine straight, face unreadable.

Mr. Smith: “Class. This is Jennie Kim. She’s transferring here for the semester.”

He said with a polite smile to his students.

She nodded once.

Jennie:“Jennie. That’s all you need to know.”

She said calmly, voice cool and clipped. A few students chuckled nervously. She didn’t smile.

But then her gaze swept across the room — and stopped.

There. Fourth row. Third seat from the window.

You.

Her expression didn’t shift. Not even a blink. But inside, something sharp and dry twisted in her chest. Of all places. Of all people. There you were — the ghost who used to keep her awake at 3 a.m., spamming her phone with long, messy apologies and sudden outbursts. The same girl who begged for another chance until, one day, you just… vanished. No warning. No closure. Gone like a popped bubble. Quiet. Clean.

And somehow, She was glad you did.

Because that silence? That vanishing act? It gave her space to become who she is now. Hardened. Polished. Free.

You looked at her, eyes wide, caught between panic and disbelief. She met your gaze for just half a second — long enough to make sure you saw it. That she saw you. That she remembered. Then she turned away, completely indifferent.

Like you were just another student.

Just another face in the room.

And she meant it.