[This is the point of view of Yerin]
Shimiki Yerin closed the door to the student council room behind her, the soft click echoing far louder than it should have.
It was empty.
That alone was enough to make her pause, fingers still resting on the door handle. The student council room was rarely silent—there was always someone arguing over documents, complaining about workload, or asking her questions she already anticipated. Order existed here because people existed here.
But today, there was no one.
The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across neatly arranged desks and stacked folders. The air felt still, almost heavy, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Yerin straightened her posture instinctively and walked to her desk.
They're probably avoiding me, she thought, the realization landing quietly but firmly. No panic. No outward reaction. Just a mental note filed away like everything else.
She set her bag down, removed her blazer, and hung it carefully on the back of her chair. Her movements were precise, controlled. If there was a storm brewing inside her, no one would ever know by watching her hands.
She sat down and opened the first folder.
Budget reports.
She scanned the numbers quickly, pen already moving as she corrected errors, rewrote notes, and highlighted sections that needed revision. Usually, she delegated this work. Trusted others to handle parts of it. That was what leadership required.
But today, she did everything herself.
One document became two. Two became five. The ticking clock on the wall grew louder as minutes passed, but Yerin didn't look up. She welcomed the repetition—the scratch of pen on paper, the familiar structure of tasks. Work was safe. Work was predictable.
Work didn't whisper.
Yet no matter how focused she tried to be, the words she'd overheard earlier crept back in.
Lesbian.
Pervert.
She stares at girls.
Her pen hesitated for just a fraction of a second before continuing. Anyone watching might not have noticed. Yerin herself barely allowed the pause to exist.
Rumors were inefficient. Illogical. She understood that. She had dealt with them before—minor gossip, exaggerated complaints, childish misunderstandings. Usually, they dissolved when ignored or confronted with facts.
But this was different.
This wasn't just about her reputation as student council president.
This was about who she was being accused of being.
Yerin leaned back slightly in her chair and removed her glasses, pressing her fingers against the bridge of her nose. Her eyes burned—not from tears, she told herself, but from exhaustion.
Her parents' faces surfaced uninvited in her mind.
Her mother's sharp voice. Her father's quiet but immovable opinions. Dinner conversations filled with expectations and absolutes. Right and wrong. Proper and improper.
People like that are unnatural, her mother had said once, casually, while watching the news.
Yerin had nodded back then. Because nodding was easier.
What would happen if they heard this rumor?
The thought tightened her chest.
If a teacher mentioned it. If a neighbor whispered. If someone sent an email, pretending concern. Her parents valued reputation almost as much as results. Their daughter—the perfect student council president—being associated with something they despised?
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt beneath the desk.
They won't believe it, she tried to reassure herself. It's just a rumor.
But rumors didn't need to be true to be believed.
Her pen slipped, leaving a thin line of ink across the page. Yerin stared at it for a moment longer than necessary before neatly crossing it out and continuing.
She worked faster.
Schedules. Event planning. Discipline reports. She took on tasks meant for three people, then five. Her handwriting remained flawless, her notes concise. If she could just finish everything—if she could just stay busy enough—then the thoughts wouldn't catch up.
But anxiety was patient.
It settled into her shoulders, her spine, the quiet spaces between breaths. Every creak outside the door made her heart jump. Every muffled laugh in the hallway sounded like it might be about her.
She imagined opening her phone to messages she didn't want to read.
She imagined being called into the principal's office.
She imagined her parents sitting across from her at the dining table, disappointment heavy and suffocating.
Yerin swallowed.
Calm down.
She had faced pressure before. Expectations. Scrutiny. Loneliness. This was no different. She had built herself on discipline and control. Emotions were things to be managed, not indulged.
She replaced her glasses and stood, organizing completed folders into neat stacks. The room looked exactly as it should—clean, orderly, productive.
She, on the other hand, felt anything but.
As evening approached, the sunlight faded, replaced by the cold glow of fluorescent lights. Yerin hadn't noticed the time passing until her stomach tightened with hunger. She ignored it.
Finally, she sank back into her chair, hands resting in her lap.
For a moment—just a moment—she let herself breathe.
Her chest felt tight, like something was pressing inward. Her thoughts spiraled despite her best efforts. What if the rumors escalated? What if Ryohan Ren kept pushing? What if silence was a mistake?
Her fingers trembled.
She clenched them into fists beneath the desk, nails biting into her skin. The sharp sensation grounded her. Pain was simple. Understandable.
"No," she whispered to the empty room, the word barely audible.
She wouldn't break.
Shimiki Yerin did not crumble under rumors. She did not panic. She did not cry where others could see. Whatever happened, she would handle it properly, quietly, efficiently.
Just like everything else.
She stood, gathering her belongings, and took one last look around the empty student council room. Rarely had it felt so lonely.
As she turned off the lights and stepped into the hallway, her expression was composed, her posture perfect.
No one would know that anxiety was clawing at her chest.
No one would know how afraid she was of the people she loved the most.
And no one—absolutely no one—would see how close Miss Perfect was to cracking under the weight of secrets she had never been allowed to speak.