TRY TO HIDE ━━ yandere weak hero class

'i have loved you for the last time'

[Sieun]

I watched her leave with Suho until they turned the corner and disappeared. The sound of her laugh lingered longer than it should have, curling around in my head like smoke I couldn't wave off.

It was strange. I'd had people ask me if I was okay before—teachers, classmates, even my dad when he noticed the bruises—but it never landed. It was always just words, empty, like throwing a rope that wasn't tied to anything. But when she asked... it was like she actually meant it. Like she was ready to hold the rope if I grabbed on.

I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and started walking in the opposite direction of where she'd gone. The street was crowded with kids in uniform spilling out of the gates, but I felt oddly separate, like I was moving underwater.

At the corner store, I caught my reflection in the window—collar still stretched from earlier, hair messy from the scuffle. I looked tired. Weak. Pathetic. No wonder they picked me.

But then I thought of her eyes, the way they didn't flinch when she looked at me. The way she didn't laugh along or pretend not to notice. She just... asked. Simple. Direct. And for a second, I almost told her everything.

Almost.

"Sieun!" Someone called my name from down the street. Yeungbin's voice, sharp and mocking. I ducked my head quickly and kept walking, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me react.

My steps quickened. I thought of Suho walking her home, of the easy way he carried her bag and made her laugh. Something twisted inside me—an unfamiliar weight I couldn't name.

By the time I reached my own street, I knew one thing: I didn't want her to see me as weak again. Not like this. If she was really going to look at me like that—like I mattered—then I had to be someone worth the look.

I tightened my grip on the straps of my bag.

Tomorrow. I'd start tomorrow.

***

My dad was still on his trip, meaning I was still on my own. The silence in the house wasn't peaceful—it was suffocating. Every corner of my room pressed in on me, every tick of the clock too loud.

Her eyes wouldn't leave me. Moonlight on water, steady and impossible to look away from.

I picked up a blank sheet of paper, my pencil trembling slightly between my fingers. It wasn't the first time I'd drawn someone, but it was the first time I needed to.

The curve of her cheek. The slope of her nose. The way her lips pressed together when she was concentrating. I sketched fast, almost frantic, afraid the image in my head would slip away if I didn't catch it right now.

Her eyes were the hardest. I went over them again and again, shading, smudging, darkening. They didn't look quite right—too flat, too shallow—so I started again on another sheet. And then another. Each one a failure, each one discarded in a pile at my feet until the floor was littered with her face staring back at me from different angles.

I didn't notice how late it had gotten. My hand cramped, graphite smeared across my palm, my knuckles aching. Still, I couldn't stop.

It wasn't enough to draw her once. Once wouldn't hold her. Once wouldn't keep her here.

By the time I leaned back, the desk was covered in her. Dozens of eyes, dozens of mouths, dozens of versions of her that would never measure up to the way she looked in the fading light outside the school gates.

And yet... it was comforting.

Like surrounding myself with her.

I pressed one drawing flat against the desk, traced the pencil lines with my fingertip, and felt my chest tighten. If anyone else saw this, they'd laugh. They wouldn't understand.

But I understood.

This was the only way I could keep her close without losing her.

I slid the drawings into a neat stack, tucked them under my bed where no one would ever find them. Still, I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, imagining her face in the dark.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized—just one glance, one word from her, was already too little.

I wanted more.

I picked up a blank page from my desk and started shading.

At first, it was just her profile. The way her hair had fallen against her cheek that afternoon, how the sun had caught in her eyes when she'd turned to look at me. My hand moved on its own, faster than my thoughts, as if the pencil already knew her better than I did.

But the outline wasn't enough. I filled in the details—her lashes, the slight curve at the corner of her mouth, the softness in her jaw. I kept erasing and redrawing, pressing harder each time, until the paper began to tear beneath my strokes.

I didn't stop.

Another page. And another. Each time, her face emerged sharper, clearer, like she was sitting in front of me again. And yet, none of them were quite right. She was always slipping just out of reach, like the memory of a dream that vanishes the harder you try to hold onto it.

The clock ticked past midnight. My lamp buzzed faintly. The pile of papers grew at my feet, each one with her face staring up at me, almost accusing. My heart wouldn't slow down.

Why did I feel like if I didn't draw her, I would forget her?

Why did it hurt, the thought of her smiling at someone else the way she smiled at me earlier?

I leaned back, staring at the latest sketch. The eyes weren't right—not yet. They needed more light, more warmth. The kind of warmth she'd only shown me.

I caught myself smiling.

It was insane, maybe. But looking at the page, at her staring back at me, I felt calmer. Safe.

Like maybe this way, I could keep her with me.

Forever.