After Nari's blunt little pep talk, I hadn't been able to stop thinking. My mind kept spinning replaying every conversation, every betrayal and every possible way I could deal with this.
*Should I go confront them?
No… they'd just twist it all around, make it seem like I was being dramatic. Like I was the problem.
Ignore them completely? Pretend it never happened? That only works if it stops hurting.*
No, if I really wanted to make them regret it—even just a little—I had to start with myself. I had to be more confident. Stronger.
Since then, I'd been obsessively reading articles, watching videos, all about building self-esteem and becoming the kind of person who didn't fall apart so easily.
During one of our club sessions, the field was occupied by the basketball team, so I just sat on the bench, scrolling through my phone. *Most people say the first step to confidence is changing your appearance, changing your energy.* That's what the video said, anyway. I was looking through a bunch of hairstyle ideas when someone sat beside me.
"You've been kind of distracted lately,"
It was Min-jae, one of my club seniors, with a bottle of iced tea in hand and that relaxed smile he always wore.
"Everything okay?"
"Ah—yeah," I said, quickly flipping my phone face-down. "Just… looking at haircuts."
"Why?" he asked, a little amused.
I exhaled. "I don't really like my current hair. I just want something new, I guess."
"I like your hair," he said casually, glancing at the field.
Was he serious?
I tried to laugh it off. "Yeah, a few people have said that. But I want to feel... different."
Min-jae turned his gaze back to me, more serious this time. "You'd look beautiful either way."
That made my breath hitch.
Was he flirting? Or was I just *that* desperate for warmth, for someone to actually see me?
I glanced away, pretending to scroll, but I couldn't focus on the screen. My heart gave a tiny flutter I didn't want to admit was real.
Now that I thought about it...
Min-jae had always been nice to me. Quietly kind, gently observant. I'd just been so wrapped up in Joon-seo that I never noticed.
Was that just how he treated everyone? Or… did he see me as something more than just a junior?
I didn't know. But the thought lingered heavy and distracting
Then suddenly—SMACK!
A basketball slammed into his back.
"Ow—seriously?" Min-jae groaned, rubbing his shoulder as his iced tea spilled all over his clothes.
"Sorry, my bad!" someone called lazily from the court.
I turned toward the voice.
Of course. Tae-woo.
Min-jae let out a deep sigh, glancing down at the spreading stain. "That punk."
He stood up, brushing himself off. "I guess I'll see you later, Eun-ha," he said, giving me a half-smile. "Need to go clean this mess."
He looked over at Tae-woo again—brief, unreadable—then walked off.
I watched him leave, then turned back toward the court.
Tae-woo was already back in the game, completely unbothered, like nothing had happened.
No apology in his expression. No glance in my direction. Just… focused, serious, cold.
Or so I thought.
I noticed him glancing my way—just once. For a flicker of a moment, it felt like he did it on purpose.
*Ah, there goes me overthinking,* I muttered under my breath, turning my attention back to my phone.
I made my way to a beauty parlour I'd come across on social media, one of those highly-rated places with sleek photos and glowing reviews. I didn't tell anyone. I didn't even fully know what I was looking for—just that I needed to feel different. Needed to feel *new*.
The stylist welcomed me in with a cheerful smile and offered me a seat. I hesitated for a second before sitting down, fidgeting with the ends of my hair. "I want to change it," I told her. "Like… completely."
She tilted her head and studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, let's try something that brings out your features—but still feels like *you*."
She recommended a few styles while flipping through a digital catalog, and I picked one almost instinctively—the kind of effortless look I'd never dared to try before.
The process took hours. Washing, trimming, curling, dyeing. The faint smell of hair products filled the air, and I sat there, watching strands of my old self fall to the floor, bit by bit. My back ached from sitting still so long, but I didn't complain. I just stared ahead, quiet.
Finally, the stylist stepped back and said, "All done."
I slowly turned my head toward the mirror.
For a second, I didn't recognize the girl staring back at me.
Dark black hair, silky and smooth, cascaded down in soft waves, framing my face gently. It looked mature. Elegant. Beautiful, even. Not the girl who cried in bed for two days. Not the girl who got left behind.
A completely different version of myself.
One that looked like she could finally start over.
Before heading back home, I made one last stop—a small boutique tucked between cafés. I picked out a black cardigan, soft and slightly oversized, with my initial stitched neatly near the hem. It felt personal, like a quiet declaration of self. I imagined how it would look layered over my uniform—clean, polished, and just a little different from the old me.
I also swapped out my usual studs for a pair of delicate hoops—small enough to stay subtle, but enough to make me feel just a bit bolder. Then came the nails. A perfect nude pink, glossy and clean, like something straight out of a Pinterest board. It wasn't flashy, but it felt *put together*—intentional.
Finally, I chose a chunky bracelet. Not too loud, not too plain. Just enough to catch the light when I moved.
Everything I chose wasn't just about appearance. It was about reclaiming something I'd lost: a sense of control. Of who I was… or who I was slowly becoming.