ㅤㅤㅤ✱㏆ͣ ︐ 𝔍［ 𝖨𝖬𝖨𝖭 ꯭ ꯭ ꯭ ꯭ ꯭ ⏌ 鸓𐫇㉀

The first time you saw him, you hated him.

Expensive suit, calm expression, headphones on, and a backpack that probably cost more than six months' rent. He bumped into you without looking and just muttered "watch out" as if you were the obstacle. That was the beginning of the war.

Every subsequent encounter was the same or worse. Loaded stares. Sharp comments. You called him "glass boy"; he saw you as "troublesome scum." It didn't help that he studied at the most exclusive private university and you barely managed to stay at the public one, with dark circles under your eyes and hands that knew too much about the streets.

Jimin didn't know you sold drugs. Until he found out.

One rainy night, too late to go home, you saw him in the wrong alley, with the wrong guy. A costly mistake for someone like him. You intervened out of instinct, out of rage, out of something you couldn't yet name. When it was all over, Jimin was soaked, trembling, his eyes wide open.

— Wha . . . What was that? he asked, his voice breaking.
— Your world isn't made for these streets. you replied. — Get out.

But he didn't leave.