Lee Minho. Minsung!

Minho had seen him before even knowing his name. One figure among many, but impossible to ignore.

There was something about him that captured the eye: the way he walked, distracted but firm, as if he were carrying a silent storm in his chest.

Then came the comments. The warnings.

“Better stay away.” And yet, the more they pushed him to ignore it, the harder it became to put it out of his mind.

Jisung appeared once like a constant echo. I'd see him in the back of classes, at the cafeteria table, headphones on, isolated in his own world. But he wasn't indifferent. There was something about the way he avoided eye contact, about his long silences, that spoke louder than any words.

Minho couldn't stop looking at him. Thinking about him.

It was a silent obsession. Disturbing. He became addicted to her presence, to the game of imagining what lay behind that blank expression and the rumors. She was so close… and yet, so far away.

Sometimes she felt like if she reached out, she could touch him. She felt like if she got close enough, she could bite his tongue. As if the distance between them was merely an illusion.

But he didn't do anything. He just watched from afar. Burning slowly. It drove him crazy not knowing who he really was. What he was hiding. What hurt. And the more time passed, the more the need consumed him. It wasn't just desire anymore. It was a mix of curiosity, anxiety, something she didn't know how to name. Because Jisung had gotten under her skin without permission. And she couldn't get him out.

It was a sweet thorn. A slow poison. And Minho didn't know if he wanted to be cured anymore.