Jisung-Loser

Jisung used to think high school was just a waiting room for people who didn’t know what to do with their lives yet. Like a giant purgatory with lockers and fluorescent lights. You walk in at thirteen, get chewed up by the system, and maybe—if you’re lucky—you walk out four years later only mildly fucked up.

And Jisung? He was already halfway there when he showed up.

He had his board, busted headphones blasting shitty MP3 rips of Nirvana, and a backpack that smelled vaguely of weed and spilled Monster. People didn’t really talk to him unless they wanted something—usually a lighter or the answers to last week’s math quiz. Jisung wasn’t cool. Wasn’t popular. Wasn’t even interesting. Just some weird burnout kid in ripped jeans and a hoodie three sizes too big, scribbling song lyrics in the margins of his history notes.

And then there was Minho.

He was everything Jisung wasn’t: clean, golden, the kind of guy who looked like he actually belonged in this messed-up teenage soap opera. Too good for this town. Too good for Jisung.

So naturally, Jisung fell for him like an idiot... Even knowing that Minho had a damn girlfriend.

Anyway, tonight was one of those typical stupid parties for the richest kids in school.

And of course, Jisung wasn’t invited to the party.

He never is.

But his friend Chris got grounded for hotboxing his dad’s car, and suddenly his plus one was up for grabs. He told Jisung to “get out of your cave for once,” and honestly? He was bored. Depressed. The usual. So he said yes.

The house was already pulsing when Jisung and Chris arrived—someone’s older brother had turned the basement into a low-budget club, complete with strobe lights and way too much Axe body spray. People Jisung barely recognized were grinding against each other like they were auditioning for MTV’s Spring Break. Red cups everywhere. Music so loud it made it impossible to think.

It smelled like teen spirit. And feet.

Jisung stayed close to the wall, hoodie up, blunt tucked behind his ear like he was some kind of tragic poet. He sipped something that tasted like gasoline mixed with peach Snapple and tried not to look like he wanted to go home.

The party was loud, sticky, and smelled like someone tried to mop the floor with tequila and desperation. Jisung shouldn’t have gone, but Chris had mentioned Minho might be there, and Jisung had this bad habit of making decisions based on people who didn’t even know he existed.

The lights were low. One of those cheap disco balls spun lazily from the ceiling, casting fractured reflections over beer cans and half-drunk memories. Jisung was nursing a warm drink, crouched near the back door, pretending to text someone. No one ever texts him. His phone’s mostly empty memes and voice memos of song lyrics he never finishes.

That’s when Jisung saw them.

Minho and that stupid bitch, Seohyun, his girlfriend.

They looked like they stepped out of a magazine spread. Her in a short red dress, laughing like it was something she was born doing. Minho in a leather jacket over his school uniform—casual perfection. His hand resting on the small of her back like it belonged there. She leaned in to whisper something, and he flashed that trained, careful smile. The one he always puts on when adults are watching.

Rumor had it their parents had been pushing them together since forever. Seohyun's family was loaded. Minho’s family was loaded and Catholic. The kind of people who still say “that lifestyle” like it’s some kind of disease.

And Jisung?

He’s the kind of guy they’d cross the street to avoid.

Anyway...

The party spiraled out of control in a way that didn’t even surprise Jisung. Sirens. Screams. The sound of blue and red lights flashing through the windows, casting frantic reflections on everyone who was too drunk to realize the cops were already outside.

Everyone started running like it was the apocalypse.

Jisung didn’t.

He just stayed there, watching the flashing lights as a couple of guys bolted for the backyard. But as soon as the back door opened, someone slammed into him.

Minho.

He stood there, breathless, his eyes filled with something Jisung couldn’t name. And before Jisung could even react, Minho grabbed his arm and pulled him down the hallway.

People were shoving past them, the sounds of the house falling apart around them... and then, suddenly, they were in a small, dark coat closet under the stairs.

It smelled like dust and old leather.

They didn’t say anything for a few seconds. The chaos was still raging outside, but in here, it felt like they were in a different world. And Minho didn’t let go of Jisung's arm.

Their breaths were shaky. Jisung could hear Minho's heart pounding. And his own.

Minho stepped closer to Jisung, slow, like he was giving him a chance to back away. Jisung didn’t.

“Are you okay?” Minho whispered.

Jisung couldn’t answer. Not really. His heart was hammering in his chest, brain spinning, lungs barely working.

So he nodded. Just once.

Minho didn’t let go of his arm.

Jisung could feel everything—Minho’s warmth, the tremble in his fingers, the heat of his breath. The sirens outside were getting louder, voices yelling, but in here, everything was still.

Minho leaned in. Slowly. Like the universe had slowed down just for them. Like he was asking a question without words.

Jisung didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Minho’s lips hovered so close to his that it was maddening. The kind of closeness that hurt. But he didn’t close the gap. Neither of them did.

Just that space between them—aching, electric, unsaid.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Minho murmured.

“You mean the party?” Jisung asked, voice barely audible.

Minho didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to Jisung’s mouth for a split second—then back up.

“I mean with you.”

But he didn’t run.

He didn’t move.

They just stayed there, breathless, hearts syncing like some cruel joke from the universe.