Guilt and regret surged through his body, it felt like an ice cold wave washing over him allowing small chilled goose bumps to form on his pale skin. He was at fault; he was the president of the student body. He was Zhang Yixing’s classmate, he should have known what was going on, and he should have prevented it. He knew the boy, quiet, dark brunette hair, and a dreamer. Their art teacher had called him that, Zhang Yixing the dreamer who could paint and draw the most amazing portraits Joonmyun could ever remember laying his eyes on.

Joohyun reminds him that it’s not his fault, there are over one thousand students and it’s insane that he should hold himself accountable for just one. She doesn’t understand, sure she’s stricken by grief, like most of the student body, grief not for the kid that everyone barely knew, grief because it happened on campus, while everyone was in class and no one knew a thing.

Joohyun’s grief and Joonmyun’s guilt are two vastly different things because while it takes Joohyun a few minutes to remember who Zhang Yixing is, it only takes Joonmyun a second.

When Joonmyun goes home, after school has finished and he’s attended his academy sessions, he’s greeted with the smell of spices and his mother in the kitchen making dinner. “How was school,” she asks him. She always asks him that, and he always answers vaguely, speaking briefly of his studies and the student council duties. His mother only knows Joohyun by her title of vice-president.

“Did you get a call from the school,” he asks her instead.

“Why,” his mother asks him, turning to face him with a frown. His mother is a member of the PTA, she’s been a part of it ever since his hyung started going to Gidae. Joonmyun was sure that her participation had a bit to do with her pride. The Kim family was well off, even though his father had died when Joonmyun was a child.  His family’s wealth didn’t come from his father; it came from his grandfather and was passed onto his mother, who started to work at his company when Joonmyun’s father died.

The PTA was something she was using to prove to herself, that she could work, and be a part of her children’s lives.

“A kid got hurt today at school,” he tells her.

“Hurt,” she repeats, “how did this kid get hurt and where?”

“I don’t know,” Joonmyun answers, “The teachers said that he did it to himself but others–I mean the students are saying he was bullied.”

“Bullied,” she repeats again, he can hear the anger and confusion in her voice, but can tell it’s not directed towards him. “Are there bullies in your school Joonmyun,” she asks him. He’s supposed to say no, that’s the rule. You don’t tell your mother about the bullies because the teachers will dismiss her concerns with empty promises and unproven statements, while the bullies will somehow figure out you told and if you weren’t already bullied then you were going to be.

“I don’t know,” Joonmyun states again. “I mean I heard stories about bullies but I haven’t witnessed anything.” She’s seething, and with the way she’s blinking rapidly Joonmyun can tell that his mother is thinking, calculating things. He almost feels sorry for whoever is going to face her thought through wrath.

“I’m going to tell the president,” she tells him, her voice calm but it’s a mask, he watches as she slowly unties her