Chapter Text
Not only are you tall, gangly, and awkward; you really are bad with first days of school.
It doesn’t even matter that you’ve been sentenced to them many times before as your father liked to move around a lot—sometimes you wish you could just get over it and at the very least, get used to the nerves. Actually, you wish you could quit moving around so much and just stay a little longer. Because moving usually means that any former friends will now forget you, and you’ll have to start anew with the uncertainty and foreboding sense that things would not go well.
Things never really go well.
You are a shy person, mixed in with your ambiverted desires. You simply want to have a single friend that you could always talk to, that you had grown up with, and know the shared past within you as well as you know yourself. You like to be alone, but you also strongly wish that someone else existed in that warm place; the walls absorbing years of your laughter and tears. You wish for many things, but you know that they are not likely to become a reality.
It’s been this way for the past eighteen years of your life and most likely will remain that way longer yet. After all, Dad isn’t too keen on letting you move away from him, and is determined to keep you in his sights—but this is probably fueled by Mom and you don’t know how to help him with his insecurities. You have wondered what college could mean for you, as it would have to be a semi-permanent life that broke away from the yearly moving. It’s not like you could transfer every year—that would be ridiculous and if Dad thinks that’s how it’s going to be, well, you will finally show him all of his fears by playing the perfect rebellious teen to run away.
Except…you wouldn’t because that’s too scary and you’re unsure of yourself as it stands. Besides, you love Dad and all of his idiosyncrasies. Even if they're troublesome.
Still, your thoughts feel particularly heavy this morning, and your stomach is rolling, your blood feeling like it was replaced entirely with nervous energy. Your heart is beating faster than usual, you realize, after bringing a hand to your chest and you sort of want to escape back to home, where Dad would probably welcome you with open arms.
After all, he would have home-schooled you if his job had allowed him that sort of security.
As it was, he already moved around too much for his employers to be totally happy but sometimes it was a blessing, and sometimes it was a burden. They liked his accessibility to go places for work, and that’s exactly why you were in South Korea, specifically Seoul. This is the place where you had been born, but you're sort of rusty with the language, as you hadn’t used it for quite some time. Japanese, English, and Mandarin Chinese. Those languages had taken prevalence in recent years, and this only causes you to fret even more.
After all, what if you mispronounce something that should be easy? What if you use the wrong word? Surely, you will mess up with the honorifics, and then what will you do? They’d think you’re rude, and probably stupid.
You’ve already grown up much of the time as an outsider, and you really want that to change. You don’t know how, because this is the way it has always been, hasn’t it?
How does one go about reinventing themselves? You don’t really appreciate how easy the media portrays it to be, because you aren’t pretty like the other girls, and nobody flocks to you with questions about where you’ve been in your lifetime.
You have midnight black hair, and your bangs tend to stray over your eyes. Always looking down, you carry yourself with little dignity, as there is little to be found. You slump, and your legs probably look terribly awkward in the skirt you’ve been forced to wear, your chest looks considerably smaller in the jacket too, and you quickly lose any figure you might have had in the uniform that has been made specifically with your measures.
God knows there’s not that many girls with your sort of height.
You hate it. People always say they wish they had your length but they have no idea how it feels. You don’t like to look down on people, and you surely don’t want others to think that you have a big ego because of your genetics.
You wish fervently that you could be tiny, to have to strain to look up at the others, so much so that you could look up noses, and sometimes it hurts so much, knowing it won’t come true. You will forever be a mammoth in this country, which is part of the reason you liked it so much better in America. There, you actually stood a chance. Here?
You don’t think so.
The only thing you seem to be grateful for on this day is that this is the first day of school for everyone, at least for the school year. You’re a senior now, which is a little strange to say after having dreamt of the day so long as a child, but you don’t feel much different than usual.
You’re a little annoyed with yourself actually, and it shows in the sudden burst in speed with your steps.
You’re not exactly running, but you’re also not exactly walking either. A quick jog, you settle on thinking, before you halt in your steps when it looms up ahead of you.
The school building is blocked on all sides with a gate, and inside are the three main buildings that you have only seen on the brochure. The unisex dorm with nearly a hundred rooms to it, the auxiliary building for the pool, gym, and theater goods. There’s an art class in there that you’re hoping on taking part in, but for the most part the main building is just a little bit smaller in comparison to the towering dorm.
You're kind of glad you don’t live on campus but sort of not. It would be nice to have a roommate, but what if you don’t like them?
For now, you push those battling thoughts aside, looking to your schedule with anxiety clear in the way your hand shakes. It feels so heavy in your palms and you want to crumple it up and run.
But you don’t, so instead, you take slow, small steps through the open gate and attempt to look small next to the other students that mill in nonchalantly as they’re voices rise around you, loud and clear. There’s laughter you can remember wishing to take share in, but there’s also shrieks of glee you’re rather glad to not be near—you don’t think your ear drums can take it.
You don’t know how anyone can.
“Oppa!” someone shrieks, and it comes from right besides your ear.
Shying away from it, you attempt to move swiftly away but instead nearly face plant the moment a shoulder is struck with your own. Unfortunately, while you’re physically safe, your book bag spills all of its contents and you wince. Kneeling to pick them up, you pray that everyone watching just parts around you.
Someone curses at you, annoyed with how you’ve come to block the entrance and suddenly you feel too pale, as the blood runs out of your face and arms.
Your head is feeling particularly light actually. You scramble to pick up the books, and jam them in none too gracefully before you rush forward, clutching them to your chest. You think you’re out of the clear but unbeknownst to you, someone has been looking at you this entire time.
A hand lands on your shoulder, hitting against you so abruptly that you nearly jump out of your skin, a soft gasp leaving your lips before you turn to look around. You’re a little surprised to see that it’s actually someone only a little bit shorter than you, and you find that you’re able to look him in the eye. He’s very pretty, you think, with eyes that smile despite the disgruntled frown gracing his lips and brows.
“You left this,” he says, voice sounding flat to your ears as he holds out your favorite pen.
“T-Thank you,” you reply, stuttering out because it’s then that your eyes linger long enough to take in the utter beauty he had, which is not something you were used to. Backing away after grasping onto your pen, you find yourself dipping into a bow and you flush because you’re not sure if you were supposed to or not; you haven’t seen an actual bow in a long, long time, actually—not since you'd been to Japan five years ago, as everyone seemed to act super casual in the States. The most you had seen would have been a nod, never the full ninety-degree bow. It felt awkward and likely looked like it too.
This is the moment you realize that your very own culture is not your forte.
It’s also the very second you spot another beautiful face, standing just mere inches away from the boy in front of you, and just for good measure, you find yourself bending over once more, specifically in his direction upon meeting his gaze. You don’t want to look rude, after all.
You don’t linger in the moment after that, rushing away quickly so as to not reveal much more about your face. You don’t want to be remembered as the klutz.
You’re in class when it happens, and you sort of wish it had been better timing.
It seems that you have made a very dire mistake on the very first day of school and you’re not sure what to make of it because it should have been obvious.
“You can see me,” he says by your ear and you jump back, startled as he appears besides you. Your pen falls to the ground and the both of you just look down at it. You don’t want to pick it up now that a few people are staring, but begrudgingly you have to.
You lean forward, and it’s then that he crouches beside you at your desk, “My name is Kim Seokjin. Sorry about that, I seem to have scared you.”
Picking up your clumsy pen with an arched finger, it becomes your turn to stare as you look into his eyes.
Ugh, he’s terribly handsome, and you don’t understand why he would possibly know—you’ve been taught to be very careful about this. Then…you pause as realization hits.
You bowed to him.
You inwardly cringe at your dumb mistake before turning to your notebooks with fully flushed cheeks.
“You can’t hide from me now,” he murmurs, looking impatient, worried, surprised, “Sorry. I know you probably get this all the time but…I need your help.” His voice shook at the end, but you refused to read more into it.
Your fingers are tight with their grip, and the droning of the teacher is blocked out for the breathing you can hear at your ear, despite no breath attached to it. You have never understood how it works; only that you can see them and they tend to bug you just like this one.
“You can hear me; I know you can.” Seokjin fervently says, then, in silence, he sits down.
He’s there the entire rest of the hour for the class—much to your dismay—and even when classes let out for lunch, he is still besides you when you exit the room. You don’t know what to do. You know you’ve never been strong enough to banish spirits. You know the only person who can do it for you is currently off at work, miles away.
He walks besides you, matching your gait, and for some reason this makes you speed up, clutching your book bag to your chest before you quickly attempt to lose him. He follows and in a way you had already known it would be useless. But at least you tried.
You find yourself heading to the cafeteria, but after getting your meal, it’s almost instantaneous that you head out, searching for a quiet place to eat. You find yourself settling on a cement ledge just outside the cafeteria, before you finally speak to him.
“Kim Seokjin,” you say, “I can’t help you.”
His voice is in your ear the second that’s out of your mouth, “Yes. Yes, yes, you can. You’re the only one that can tell them…the only one, only one…”
“I can’t,” you insist, wondering why it always has to be this way. Your tone is wistful, but you know that every single time you’ve ever attempted to help a ghost, it never meant anything good was to take place. Mostly it’s you that ends up hurt, tired, and it’s pointless. They always go away, angry and worse off than before. “I can’t,” you repeat, because this is the only thing you can say.
Eventually…they always leave.
Seokjin comes to sit beside you, before looking to his hands, “Why?” His voice is a croak, and you can only imagine what sort of hell he has been faced with since his death. But you won’t let yourself get in too deep, because that is the sort of mistake you led yourself into before and it is never kind.
Especially the young ones, and this boy, man, looks several years your senior but still young enough for it to send warning signs. No one dies young with a happy story to tell.
The both of you are quiet, as he slumps forward, hands to his face. Then, his voice is a whisper before he continues, “Sometimes I feel like I’m with them still, and that I’m still alive. Sometimes it feels as if they’ll see me, and we can go back to laughing at stupid jokes. The moment,” his breath shuddered through his body, and you're certain he would be crying if he were able to, “between living and death, when I see it…it’s terrible.”
You jolt up, leaving your lunch tray to the side, before pacing off the side, arms wrapped around your waist in hopes that you’ll feel warmer against the chill.
“Help me,” he says to you, and you want to.
But you can’t, because it would be a mistake, one that would ruin you once more.
“I won’t,” you tell him, facing away, and it’s then that you nearly jump out of your skin for the umpteenth that day.
Crasshh!
The sound is loud and blaring, coming right from around the corner, and its then that you see the boy from earlier.
“Jungkookie,” Seokjin says besides you, “please don’t…”
Laughter fills the air and you tilt your head to get a better look and it’s then that you notice the trashcan, beaten in with such ferocity and vehemence that you wonder what it had ever done to the boy. There are others with him, it looks like, but he’s the obvious leader on the assault against the poor plastic bin. Its contents are emptied, smashed all around, and it's him who is laughing the hardest.
“Tell him to stop,” Seokjin says besides you, jabbing a finger in the crazy boy’s direction.
“What?” you hiss without thinking. “Why me?”
“Please,” he begs, and despite the way his face looks built for smiling, it scrunches up in a painful way, and it looks as if actual tears are there for a second. Your heart pounds in your chest, unsure of what to do, shaking like a leaf on the ground.
You look back to the trashcan scene, before meeting Seokjin’s gaze. They look softer now, still in their grief, but trying to convey words that you want to ignore. You openly groan, before pointing to him with a sharp tongued response, “You owe me and this will be the end of us, understand?”
Relief and surprise crosses over his features but you decide not to waste time and instead rush over to the trashcan with a feigned expression of horror.
“Why are you doing this!?”
He’s laughing at you, you think, saying, “Hey, you’re the girl from earlier today!”
You can’t help but stick your tongue because you know after this, he’ll never see you again, “Leave poor inanimate objects alone and pick on someone your own size!”
Then, you set it up right, knocking out all of the distortions to the plastic before returning the trash to its rightful place. “You shouldn’t damage school property,” you tell him, refraining from pointing a finger at him, “you’ll get in trouble.”
Seokjin stands beside you, vigilant, but he says nothing.
Jungkook’s face screws up, as if not expecting to be told such a thing. Then, very sharply, he spins on his heel, face tilted back to look at you, “Don’t speak to me so formally. We are not friends.”
You flush red, realizing your mistake.
“Well,” Seokjin starts, “that went better than I thought it would.”
You don’t let yourself look to the ghost until the others are gone, following after the disgruntled teen, then you whisper, “See? I can’t help you, Kim Seokjin.” Your gaze is wistful, as you brush aside your bangs, annoyed with the sudden wind. Your voice turn soft, however, right before you look to the man next to you, “The words…they aren’t suited to being said from me. Not when it should be someone else’s voice, and someone else’s face. Do you understand?”
“But I can’t say them for myself,” he tells you, and you nod.
“You have to let them find it for themselves, after all,” you whisper, hands clutching tightly to the bracelet across your wrist.
“What’s your name?” he suddenly asks, and you feel your brows raise.
With a smile, you say, “Hana.”
“Hana, you…are a kind person. I can feel it, and I hate to take advantage of that but…,” he leans in closer, reaching out to touch your hair, but you feel nothing instead, “my best friends are doing a lot more than beating around stray trashcans and since my death, I fear…I’m so afraid, Hana. I’m afraid that they will ruin themselves. They say it’s all in homage to me, doing all these things, but I could never…please, you have to help me. Help them! I would do anything!”
You should say no. You should just walk away. You should ignore it.
Except…his voice is shaking like you’ve never heard before, and his expression looks like…it looks like Mom’s.
Slowly, and wondering where your sense had gone out to, you nod. “I’ll help you…but,” you suck in a breath, then, with hands leaving to your hips you say, “but you have to help me out too!”
His expression looks priceless, and it’s then that you see that smile you had only imagined to be there. It’s bright, and his eyes light up with it, cheeks looking soft enough to touch, and his laugh is enough to make you feel better about accepting.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” you respond, because you can say nothing more before heading back to your lunch tray.