Chapter Text
Chapter 1 — Where It All Began
The silence in the house was almost comfortable. Almost. The muffled sound of the television leaked through the crack in the bedroom door. It was always the same program: news, tragedies, some old soccer game being replayed just to fill the emptiness of the living room. The sound of the alarm clock was no longer an alarm; it had become a cruel reminder that life went on, even when everything inside him wanted it to stop. The room was small, barely fitting the narrow bed and the makeshift desk.
On the walls, no photos, no paintings, no sign that someone really lived there or considered that place “home.”
Minho opened his eyes slowly, without haste, feeling the familiar weight pressing on his chest even before he got up. He turned off the alarm clock with a dry slap and stayed lying there for a few seconds, staring at the cracked ceiling of the room. The same water damage he knew by heart, the same crack forming a map that led nowhere. The moldy ceiling stared back at him, motionless, indifferent.
It was his way of passing time, waiting for the clock to move, waiting for the week to end, just waiting for something he never knew how to name. It was such a common scene that sometimes Minho wondered if the whole world had stopped and he was the only one still moving.
He swung his legs off the bed, his feet touching the cold floor as if he needed to prove to himself he was still there.
The routine unfolded without emotion: clothes, backpack, bitter coffee waiting in the kitchen.
In the kitchen, without paying attention to what she was doing, his aunt stirred the coffee slowly. She didn’t look at him. Minho didn’t expect her to either, it had been years since communication between them was limited to practical sentences and short glances.
— Eat something. — she said without raising her eyes, her voice worn out from someone who had long since given up caring like before.
Minho nodded, sat at the table, and mechanically served himself by grabbing the stale bread on the table. He bit into it without hunger, the dry taste crumbling in his mouth like dust.
The coffee was strong and bitter, just the way he hated, but complaining had never been an option. The silence between them was so dense that it seemed to have its own weight. And, in a way, Minho preferred it like that. It was better than empty conversations. It was better than questions he didn’t want to answer. It was always like that. Practical words. Automatic gestures. No space for feelings. Minho didn’t hold a grudge; he had learned early on that family ties didn’t necessarily mean love, and if they did, it was a luxury for a few. And he wasn’t one of the few.
He didn’t blame her, he didn’t feel anger, in fact, he felt almost nothing. It was as if life had anesthetized everything inside him over the years. Love, anger, fear, hope. Everything had turned into an empty space.
He put on the wrinkled uniform: black pants, white shirt, navy blue jacket. Everything still smelling like cheap, new fabric. He tied the worn-out sneakers and slung the backpack over his shoulders. In the cracked mirror, he stared at his own reflection for a moment. The expressionless face, the sunken eyes, the closed mouth of someone who had gotten used to holding everything inside. Minho wasn’t sure when he started feeling like this, that kind of tiredness that didn’t go away with sleep or rest. Maybe it had been since he learned that, sooner or later, everyone leaves.
He threw the backpack over his shoulder and ran towards the exit, not giving his aunt a chance to say anything, but he felt that she gave him one last brief, hard, silent look before he went out the door.
The morning air was cutting, the day still struggling to be born. The cloudy sky seemed to weigh down on the old buildings and the cracked streets. The wind dragged papers on the ground while the first crowded buses passed by, coughing smoke and urgency, making the wind push dry leaves across the cracked sidewalks while the city woke up lazily and with frustration.
The boy pulled the hood over his head, the earphones muffling the sounds of the world as he walked through the streets of the old neighborhood, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn jacket, feeling the rough fabric against his fingers. Minho walked through all of it like a shadow. He wasn’t seen, he didn’t want to be. The world moved, noisy and urgent, but inside him, everything remained silent. It was safer that way.
Upon arriving at school, he felt the discomfort grow. The courtyard was bustling with too many people, too much noise, he didn’t feel like he belonged. Unknown faces, scattered laughter, shoves and reunions. Groups formed at a frightening speed, new faces connecting like puzzle pieces that Minho knew he would never fit into. He crossed the courtyard with firm steps and lowered eyes, ignoring some curious looks that fell on the “new boy.” It wasn’t new. It wasn’t important. Minho crossed through it all like someone crossing a minefield, alert, indifferent.
The building seemed as tired as he was.
Peeling walls, the strong smell of cleaning products barely masking the mold ingrained in the hallway. The voices echoed loudly, all overlapping. Minho ignored the bumps he received in the hallway on his way to the classroom while the students interacted among themselves. In the classroom, he chose the last seat by the broken window. The dirty glass let the light in through crooked beams, painting the floor with disconnected shadows. He sat down and rested his chin on his hand. Outside, the movement of the street looked like a silent movie, too distant to touch him.
The teacher arrived and started talking, but the words dissolved before reaching him.
He saw the man’s mouth moving, saw the students nodding, heard low laughter and bored comments. None of it crossed through him. Formulas on the board, dates to memorize, expectations to meet.
Everything sounded distant, muffled by the noise inside Minho’s head.
He spent the morning on autopilot, responding mechanically when called, pretending to be present when, in reality, he was miles away. Minho had become a specialist at surviving without connecting. The secret was simple: expect nothing. Don’t expect friendship. Don’t expect kindness. Don’t expect empathy. That way, when nothing came — and it wouldn’t — the fall would hurt less.
During the morning, the voices around him became blurred shapes. Some classmates chatted excitedly, exchanging impressions about the school, about teachers, about new students. It was in one of these moments that Minho allowed himself to observe around him. Minho saw a group of boys together writing dirty words on the board, a boy isolated at the back of the room sleeping, resting his head on a pink pillow, and in front of him, a group of boys talking a little louder than necessary.
— Jay didn’t come today? That’s strange, he never misses the opportunity to beat someone up on the first day of school. — said the freckled boy, his tone sounding surprised but relieved at the same time.
Minho tried to hide the curious expression that appeared on his face but felt the gaze of a red-haired boy sitting nearby. Minho lowered his head and continued writing in his notebook; he hated being stared at while distracted, he felt too vulnerable with so much running through his mind.
Before Minho could try to focus on the conversation again, the bell rang.
During break, while everyone ran to the cafeteria or the courtyard, Minho preferred to stay invisible, staying in the classroom. He watched the window, and from time to time, his gaze got lost in the figures moving through the courtyard. Faces blending together. Voices echoing and getting lost.
— Damn it, Jay! Being late on the first day of school is crazy. — said one of the boys, laughing in the hallway. — What did your dad say to let you in?
It was then that, by pure chance, his eyes caught a different movement outside the classroom. Hearing voices coming from the hallway, Minho straightened up in his chair, putting himself in a defensive position, his mind starting to create scenarios where he might be bullied by that boy — by the tone of his voice, it was clear what kind of person he was, exuding arrogance. But before Minho could think of anything, he heard a loud crash of something hitting the lockers.
— What the hell are you talking about? — a sharp voice, apparently someone clenching their teeth, sounded right after the loud crash.
— I-I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m sorry. — the first voice sounded much less arrogant than the first time. Minho found it amusing how teenagers were arrogant until someone even more arrogant showed up.
— Next time I hear you talking about my dad, I won’t let it slide, got it? I want you to send me those photos by the end of the day. Get out of here before I change my mind.
Minho didn’t react outwardly, he remained still. But inside, something was recorded.
Maybe…
The bell signaling the end of the break sounded like an uncomfortable relief.
The rest of his classes passed quickly. When the bell for the end of classes rang, Minho left the room before the flood of students could engulf him. He passed through a corner of the courtyard, where the shadow of a small tree gave him some protection from the sun, watching people as someone who observes a show they were never invited to.
And then he saw it.
On the other side of the courtyard, a timid, almost imperceptible movement. A boy. Backpack slipping from his shoulder. Wrong steps. Frustrated attempts to blend in without drawing attention, with an expression mixing confusion and a desperate attempt to look normal. He seemed as out of place as Minho felt every day. Minho quickly looked away, as if it were too dangerous to see something of himself in others. Minho knew: relationships were traps. Connections were weaknesses.
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, the boy had already disappeared into the crowd.
And Minho remained there, still, invisible.
As always.
It wasn’t time yet.
But the clock had already started ticking.
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Hi! I honestly don’t know if anyone will actually read this, but if you made it this far, thank you so much for your patience — I hope you enjoyed the story!
I’m not exactly sure when the second chapter will be out, but I promise it won’t take too long!
Just a few things I’d like to mention:
First, English isn’t my first language (you might have noticed), but I’m doing my best to write as well as I can!
Second, this story is inspired by the drama Weak Hero Class. It won’t be a direct copy, but there are definitely some inspirations and little references.
And lastly — and maybe the most important — the last time I wrote a story, I was around 12 years old, writing about Harry Styles being my boyfriend (lol), so I’m sorry if my writing feels a little rusty!
Also, I’m still learning how AO3 works, but I’m doing my best!
Thank you for reading all of this — take care and see you in the next chapter! :)