min Yoongi bullying a chuby girl black girl named kris but he secrely likes her. And his bullying becomes a problem and the kris's father is abusive and she tell yoongi. By accident. He reads her journal but continues to bully her. When kris gets a...
The sticky-sweet smell of cheap marinara sauce hung in the air of Seoul Arts High's cafeteria, a scent Min Yoongi had come to associate with profound boredom. He slouched at his usual table, a fortress of coolness manned by his small but influential crew, watching the daily parade of students with half-lidded, disinterested eyes. His gaze, sharp and assessing even in its feigned apathy, kept snagging on one particular figure.
Kim Kris moved through the crowded room with a kind of deliberate, quiet grace, a stark contrast to the giggling, fluttering clusters around her. She was, as some of the less creative bullies liked to whisper, *chubby*.
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Yoongi found the term uselessly simplistic. It was like calling a classic car merely "old." Kris had a presence. Curves that spoke of homemade meals and hearty laughter, skin the rich, warm tone of dark roasted coffee, and hair that was a masterpiece of intricate, tiny braids cascading down her back, sometimes adorned with little golden beads that caught the light.
Today, her shield wasn't enough. She was balancing a tray laden with a bowl of that dubious spaghetti, a banana, and a carton of milk. Park Jihye, a girl whose malice was only matched by her dedication to being Yoongi's echo, "accidentally" stuck out a foot. The stumble was slow, almost cinematic. The tray tilted. The spaghetti bowl slid first, a single meatball leading the charge like a cowardly general, before the whole red, saucy mass landed with a wet *splortch* right on the front of Kris's pink dress.
A pocket of silence collapsed into a ripple of snickers. Kris stood frozen, her eyes wide, looking down at the disaster blooming across her chest. A single strand of pasta dangled from one of her braids.
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Yoongi's stomach did a weird, tight flip. It wasn't sympathy. It was something more irritating, like seeing a valuable painting splattered with mud. The urge to cut through the noise, to fix the awkwardness with a well-placed, scathing remark, was overwhelming. It was his default setting.
"Nice aim, Jihye," Yoongi drawled, his voice cutting through the giggles. He didn't raise it; he never had to. "But if you wanted to give her a new pattern, you should've gone for abstract expressionism. This is just tragic realism."
