All mornings . Even Saturday and Sunday mornings for us poor high school students. The concept of a ‘weekend’ is lost when you’re a high school student heading into your final year. Ever since the university entrance exams happened for the year above us back in November, the teachers have been drilling into our brains that we are now notorious third years, and our lives should revolve around a single test we will have next November which will ultimately decide our futures. The number of days until this exam is displayed in big numbers at our school gate. As if we would forget.

But some mornings exceptionally . Like, this morning. The sinking sensation of dread I feel in my gut as I open my eyes blearily is never wrong, and it isn’t wrong this time, either. Because, upon checking my phone, I soon discover I’ve apparently slept through not one, but three alarms this morning. I should’ve anticipated something like this happening after I spent the entirety of last night staring up at the ceiling sleeplessly. Well, who can I blame? Both my parents are probably at work by now so there’s no way I can get a ride. Can’t wait to get a license, I think to myself as I jump out of my bed, some choice words on the tip of my tongue.

My morning then goes from bad to badder. My leggings just won’t fit and my jacket buttons would refuse to button, so I decide to leave the uniform jacket open and put a coat on. It’s not like I’ve gained weight or anything. I’ve just grown recently. Or… the jacket’s shrunk.

As I almost run out the house, I quickly calculate the amount of time it’ll take me to run from here to the bus stop. The app installed on my phone tells me I have all of three minutes until the bus comes. Full sprint, I can make it. The next bus comes 12 minutes later and I don’t have that kind of time. I open the door and the gust of cold air that greets my face makes me hesitate a second before I remember what time it is. I quickly step out and the door locks with a di-ding!

“Han Gyeowool,” someone says, and I instinctively look in the direction of the sound. The morning has officially gone from badder to worst.

Idiot! I curse at myself in my head. It’s the pink haired man, of course. He’s looking up at me as I glare at his form. He sits on the ground on my right, curled up in a ball and arms crossed. I don’t bother asking how he knows my name. He stands up slowly and shakes off the snow gathered on his head. Some fall through his body. He doesn’t seem to mind. As he stands, I quickly kneel to tighten the ribbon knot on my runners. Sorry, sir, I have more important business, like catching my bus—

I quickly rise and bolt in the direction of the bus stop without even sparing the man a look. I mean, I try to. Everything would have worked perfectly except that I, a certified idiot at this point, have failed to take one thing into account as I run down the street.

The snow from yesterday.

They had frozen and formed thin, compact ice over the pavement. I vaguely register that someone has tried to increase traction for those who live in this area by pouring sand on the streets, but apparently, this isn’t effective enough, and I fall down in the dumbest way possible. On my . I feel hot tears rising to my eyes in response to the searing pain in my backside, and I bite my lip, trying to suppress them. The bus, I need to catch it, I need to run now, get up—

“You need help?” The ghostly man stands in front of me. I look up and see his face clearly. He doesn’t look like a bad person—but then, the most infamous serial killers in history also looked normal. His dyed pink hair is disheveled and his eyebrows are knotted in concern. He extends his right hand and reaches out to me as an offering of help.

I stare at the hand. Then I stare at his face. “Seriously?” I ask, unimpressed. I flick my hand through his. It passes through effortlessly and I feel nothing more than a brief and slight chill. The sensation reminds me of something. I push away my thoughts. Even in his half-transparent state, the ghost’s blush is evident. He pulls his hand away and holds both his hands behind his back. Paying him no mind, I softly blow warm air on my hand, which I seem to have scratched on the cement during my fall. It’s too late to catch the bus after all, I realize with dejection.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the umpteenth time since I've met him, abashed. Seems like ‘sorry’ makes up 90% of his vocabulary. I look around. At least no one saw me.

“Wait!” he suddenly exclaims. He looks down at himself, then at me again. “Wait, you…”

I don’t bother looking at him, but I can just hear the gears turning in his head. Whatever. I’ve brought this on myself. What’s he going to do anyway? He can’t do anything even knowing I can see him. He can’t grab me and try to stop me from walking away. Sure, he could like, yell. Or cry. But that’s none of my business. Ignore and walk. That’s my rule of thumb.

I should be used to this.

“You can… you can hear me?” he asks. The pain from the fall is slowly growing into a harsh ache. I let out a shaky sigh. I look, rather, glare at his face. Still, he crouches down so we’re eye level with each other. “You can, right?” he adds persistently.

I blink. Look around. Look down at the pavement again. He’s wearing flip flops, for god’s sake. I look up and meet his eyes, then nod ever so slightly, just enough to be seen as detectable movement.

He buries his face in his hands at my nonverbal response and makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a cry. I sit motionlessly, watching him. The bus has definitely left by now. The ghost looks up a few seconds later.

“And you can see me,” he affirms with certainty. I don’t say anything, but I suppose it was less of a question and more of a statement. There’s a few moments of silence after this. The man seems to space out, looking less sad and more a mixture of exasperated and relieved now.

“I… I used to go to your school,” he says, breaking the silence. The change of subject surprises me a little; I thought he’d go straight into interrogating me, but instead, he’s pointing at the nametag on the left side of my chest, which is coloured black and white. My name is stitched onto the white tag in black thread, the three syllables that make up my name, Han Gyeowool, standing out against the black. “You must be in the 42nd year of graduates. I was in the 39th, so I had the same colour. Wow, it’s already been three years…”

“Ah,” I say in the most uninterested tone I can muster.

“Is that man still principal? Mr. Kim Hangchul. Bald, glasses, always lowkey disappointed in all of us, and really just wants a nap?”

I laugh even before I can register what I’m doing. That’s a perfect explanation of him. I almost nod and answer, but quickly come back to my senses—this person does not exist. I’m talking to nothing right now. If someone were to see me now, they’ll think I’ve gone mad.

Well, I’m not mad. Nothing is out of the ordinary. I’m going back to my house. I’ll have some breakfast, make myself some warm barley tea, then leave for school—perfect. I rise from the ground, brush the sand off my palm, and get started on my new and improved plan immediately.

“W…wait! Gyeowool! Han Gyeowool!” he calls urgently as I quickly turn around and walk away. “I really…I’m not trying to harm anyone!”

Sure, that’s what they all say. I refuse to indulge this...this figment, this person that simply does not exist any longer. So I unlock my door (the same happy di-ri-ring sound greets me) and walk in the house, closing the door behind me with an air of finality. The door locks itself.

I throw off my shoes and run to the kitchen and immediately fill the electric teapot with water, leaving it to boil. The warmth seeping into me is therapeutic and my mood begins to lift again. I don’t talk to things that aren’t real, and ghosts certainly are not real. I open the rice cooker and scoop myself a bowl, then set the timer on the microwave to 40 seconds. I’ve started to hunt in the fridge for the side dishes that my mom claims to have left me, then I hear him again.

“Sorry, I just—”

“Can you just leave me alone?” I slam the fridge door shut and snap at him. Again with the ‘sorry’s—this is really starting to get on my nerves. No one is watching me here, at least. I can speak freely. “This is my house.”

“At least I didn’t follow you inside yesterday,” he says quietly, staring at the pattern on the floor.

“Wow, good job,” I say sarcastically. “But now, see, you followed me in today. So what’s your point?”

“I waited outside the whole night until you came out,” he continues, ignoring my retorts. The way he speaks just screams pathetic. I don’t want to sympathize with this random guy. “It was cold. Really cold.”

“You’re dead,” I deadpan.

“Dead people feel cold too,” he protests, sounding a bit like a kicked puppy. “It’s freezing. I’m wearing this…” He tugs his short sleeved shirt. “I don’t even have a jacket.”

“That . Sorry, I’ve never been dead.” I walk to the microwave shrieking at me that the rice is warmed up.

“I’m not asking for a lot.” He says in a serious tone again. “I… For four months. No one noticed me or even glanced in my direction no matter how hard I tried. But then you...you did.”

“That ,” I say in the same tone. “Because I wish I didn’t.”

His face drops. “I…” The ghost stops, at a loss for words.

“For you, this must be some special unique occasion you wish to cherish. But really, sir, I don’t give a .” I put down the rice bowl on the table too hard. I hope it hadn’t cracked just now, but the air is too tense to check. “Please leave. I’m asking you, an intruder, nicely.” I point at the door.

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, then closes it. I keep pointing at the door. With his shoulders hunched and his feet dragging, he slowly walks out of the house.

When his figure has completely disappeared through the front door, I check the rice bowl. Thankfully, it hadn’t cracked. I let out a sigh I hadn’t known I’d been holding.

I hope that’s the last time I ever see him again.

_{heyyy guys it’s citrusmilk here to elaborate on some stuff mentioned in the chapter specifically relating to korean schools n stuff}

_{“42nd and 39th year”: so in an american school, gyeowool would have been the in the graduating class of 201X, but here jimin mentions “42nd” and “39th” year. that’s bc in korean schools, the first graduates of a school after its establishment are referred to as the 1st year (in other words, the first year of graduates), meaning that jimin’s year was the 39th year of students to have graduated from that school and gyeowool’s will be the 42nd.}

_{the uniform name tags: every year in korean schools is designated a colour coded name tag so it is easy to see what year a student is in upon seeing their nametag. this is important in korea as age automatically sets hierarchy and the way people address each other. the colour combos also rotate as the third year graduates and the new first years join. so, by seeing that gyeowool has the same nametag colour as he once had, jimin was able to deduce that she's three years below him and would be in her second year of high school}