Beside me | ONESHOTs

The next morning started like any other. I rolled out of bed with the same half-hearted groan, went through my usual hygiene routine, and trudged down to the dorm cafeteria for breakfast. The same stale cereal, the same suspicious eggs, and the same dismal buzz of morning conversation filled the air.

Afterward, I embarked on the difficult task of taming my unruly brown curls. No matter how much effort I put into it, my hair always had a mind of its own, sticking out in fluffy spirals that resembled pig tails. Not pig tails in the literal sense, mind you—more like if pigs had brown, slightly golden tails, glistening with an otherworldly shine. If that were a thing, it'd probably be called The Holy Golden Pig, my legendary predecessor in the realm of ridiculous hair.

Wait. Focus, Leif. That's not the point here.

I finished my morning routine with the usual rituals: a quick air kiss to my imaginary boyfriend (don't judge) and a bow to the Fairy Figure of the Teddy Bug—a sad plushie hanging by one leg from my chandelier. It wasn't weird. It was just my way of avoiding total mental collapse from the boredom and monotony of school life. Does that make me crazy? Maybe a little. Fine. Definitely a little.

Anyway, by the time I walked out the door toward first period, everything felt comfortably normal. The same gray hallways, the same ignored presence, the same comforting invisibility. No one looked at me, no one cared about me. Just the usual, unimportant cockroach shuffling through the halls.

I've watched plenty of high school dramas and movies, and none of them prepared me for this place. Those schools always seemed so modern, so "normal," with bright hallways, tidy lockers, and cheerful cafeterias. Here? The Academy of Sedien Raganings feels like something ripped straight out of a horror movie. The buildings are ancient, with massive windows made of small glass panes that distort the light, casting eerie patterns on the marble floors. The doors are enormous, groaning when pushed open, and the entire place has a dark, oppressive atmosphere that clings to you like a shadow.

It took me months to get used to it, to walk these halls without constantly glancing over my shoulder. At first, every creak, every gust of wind through the drafty windows made my heart race. I know it sounds paranoid, but try walking alone down a dimly lit corridor lined with grotesque statues of mythic figures, their cold, lifeless eyes following your every step. Tell me you wouldn't feel the same—a constant, nagging fear that something might leap out from the shadows at any moment.

Anyway, that's straying from the point here.

It was so normal, in fact, that for a moment, I almost forgot what happened yesterday. Almost.

I settled into my seat at the very back of the classroom, nestled in the sweet, reliable shadows of obscurity. My plan for the day was simple: stay quiet, stay unnoticed, and pretend that yesterday—and he—never happened. Easy, right? Except, of course, this is my life, and nothing is ever that easy.

Apparently, the Fairy Figure of the Teddy Bug had betrayed me. My prayers to the fairy didn't help—not that I really expected them to. The bug is still just a teddy bug, after all, with no power over destiny, fate, the universe, God, or whatever cosmic force is supposed to answer desperate pleas.

If anything, it seemed like the bug decided to switch sides. Instead of helping me, it chose to screw me over all over again.

I was comfortably tucked into my invisible cocoon when the classroom door creaked open.

The noise of my classmates—chattering, laughing, slandering each other like the miserable little demons they were—faded into a low hum. A collective hush swept through the room as a shadow crossed the threshold.

Him.

The transfer student.

The girls' giggles turned into hushed whispers, their eyes wide and gleaming. Even the wannabe gangsters shifted in their seats, their postures stiffening with the faintest hint of unease. He strode in with that same eerie calm, his uniform immaculate, his face unreadable. It was as though he'd walked straight out of a black-and-white photograph, untouched by the chaos of the real world.

But all I could think was: How the hell is his face fine?

Yesterday, his lip was split, his cheek bruised. Fifteen hours later? Nothing. Not a mark. Not a trace of pain. It was almost… inhuman.

He walked past me, and I turtled into myself, hoping—praying—he wouldn't notice me. My eyes fixed on the desk in front of me, my shoulders hunched as if shrinking would make me disappear entirely.

It didn't work.

I felt it almost immediately—that piercing gaze, sharp as a blade, stabbing through the air and pinning me in place. It was as though he was daring me to look at him, threatening some unnamed consequence if I didn't.

Against my better judgment, I glanced up.

Big mistake.

His dark eyes locked onto mine instantly, and there it was—that maddening, barely-there smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. A flicker of amusement. Victory.

My blood boiled. How does he do that? How does he always manage to get under my skin? He looked at me as though he could see right through me, as though he could peel away every layer I'd built to protect myself.

And then, just as suddenly, he looked away, as if I was nothing more than a fleeting curiosity.

But I wasn't imagining it. I knew it. Even when he sat across the room, far from my corner, I could feel him. Those flickering glances, those fleeting moments when his eyes would land on me just long enough to twist my insides into knots.

The teacher droned on at the front of the class, but I couldn't focus. I couldn't escape the weight of his presence, the memory of his scent—sharp and intoxicating. Or that smirk. Or that damn kiss.

Like I was nothing. Like I was just some toy for him to mess with.

My stomach churned, and sweat prickled along my back. No one wants a psycho to take interest in them. And that's what he looked like—a psycho.

I ducked my head, staring at the scratched surface of my desk. Maybe if I ignored him long enough, he'd get bored.

But no. Every so often, the feeling returned—that sharp twist in my gut, the prickle of awareness that his eyes were on me again.

I peeked at him once. Just once. A cautious glance to confirm that I wasn't imagining things.

I wasn't.

His eyes met mine instantly, as if he'd been waiting for the exact moment I dared to look. And that expression—my bug fairy, that expression—it wasn't quite a smirk, but there was something maddeningly knowing about it. Something infuriatingly smug, like he could see straight through me, peeling back every layer I'd so carefully built to protect myself. He didn't flinch, didn't look away. He just watched me.

Still, calm, and completely unbothered by the chaos around us. As if I were the only person in the room worth his attention.

No—scratch that. As if I were the only thing worth his attention.

Because what burned in his bottomless, jet-black eyes wasn't empathy, or even interest. It was amusement. Cold, sharp, and unapologetic, like he found my discomfort utterly entertaining.

My cheeks burned as I snapped my gaze back to my desk.

Stay calm, Leif. Don't let him get under your skin. Show him you're not a toy.

But wait—why should it bother me how he looks at me? He's just a stranger. I said I'd pretend nothing happened yesterday, and that's exactly what I'll do.

So be it.

Only after that realization did I finally feel the tightness in my chest loosen. I could breathe again. I shifted in my seat and forced my mind to focus on the important things—like ignoring his gaze entirely.

The rest of the class passed in a haze, but not in a bad way. I dove into the lesson, channeling every ounce of my attention into the teacher's words, my notes, and my role as a top-tier student. If I kept myself busy enough, I could almost forget about him. Almost.

He was just a stranger. No name, no attachment, no significance.

And so what if he kissed me? It wasn't some passionate, heart-stopping moment ripped from the pages of a romance novel. It was a stupid, meaningless little smooch. The kind of thing you might get from a doting mother or an overly affectionate grandmother. Or, in my case, the kind I offered to the Fairy Figure of the Teddy Bug and my imaginary boyfriend in my occasional bursts of silliness.

Sure, it was annoying. Sure, it had made my blood boil. But that didn't mean he had any power over me. I'm not a prisoner of the stupid crap other people do to me.

By the time the lunch bell rang, I felt like myself again. My thoughts were filled with mundane things—like whether the cafeteria had sweet potatoes today and the comforting gray drizzle of rain outside.

I should've been fine.

But my easygoing obliviousness, my blind trust in the comforting routine of being ignored by everyone, turned out to be my downfall.

Because while I thought nobody would bother with me—like always—it was that very assumption that led me straight into my death sentence.

By the time I reached the cafeteria, the dull roar of voices and clattering trays greeted me like a warm, predictable hug. It was the one place where I could truly disappear. No one cared where you sat or what you ate, as long as you didn't make yourself a target. My usual spot—a quiet corner table near the window—was empty, as it always was. Lucky me.

I grabbed my tray, loaded it up with sweet potatoes (the cheapest comfort food for a poor scholarship student like me), and slid into my seat. The rain pattered gently against the glass beside me, the rhythmic hum calming my nerves. For a few blissful moments, it felt like nothing existed except the steam rising from my plate and the soothing cadence of the rain.

But, of course, peace never lasts. Not in my world.

"May I join you?"

That voice. Smooth and honeyed, with an undertone of malice that sent an instant chill up my spine. It was him.

I froze, my fork hovering mid-air. Should I ignore him? Would he leave if I pretended not to hear?

I knew the answer. He wouldn't.

Reluctantly, I glanced up, glaring at him with as much disgust as I could muster. "Why bother asking when you're already making yourself comfortable?" I muttered, my voice laced with irritation as he sat down across me.

He must be from the middle class or higher—his lunch practically screamed privilege. A perfectly balanced meal of vegetables, fruit salad, meat, and rice, plated like something out of a magazine. I glanced down at my own tray and internally sighed. My sad little pile of sweet potatoes seemed even more pitiful in comparison.

My poor potatoes, I thought. He's insulting us just by sitting here, flaunting his luxurious feast in front of us poor souls.

"I didn't want to be rude," he said smoothly, his tone so thick-skinned and indifferent it was almost comical. As if crashing my table uninvited wasn't already the peak of rudeness.

I let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, rolling my eyes for good measure. "What an insolent brat."

His lips quirked into a faint smile, something genuine flashing in his usually emotionless eyes. And for some reason, my heart skipped a beat.

What the hell, Leif? Get a grip.

Huffing, I stabbed a sweet potato with my fork, channeling my irritation into the poor, innocent tuber. It didn't help.

"I'm not the one constantly insulting others, though," he said, ignoring his untouched food. Instead, he rested his perfectly sculpted chin in his palm, his dark eyes fixed on me with an unsettling focus.

I tried to ignore him, but his gaze felt heavy. I knew I ate like a hamster—puffed cheeks, quick bites, and all. Maybe even a bit like a rabbit, nibbling away without a care. But seriously, he didn't have to look so pleased about it. Watching someone eat like an animal shouldn't bring anyone that much satisfaction.

I glanced at him, my eyebrows knitting together in frustration. "Can you just eat? Why are you looking at me like I'm some kind of exotic animal?"

He didn't flinch, his gaze steady and unreadable, which only annoyed me more.

"And you know," I added, turning my focus back to my plate, trying to distract myself from his presence, "I wouldn't be insulting you if you just behaved normally. This whole thing is making me uncomfortable."

I hesitated for a moment, biting my lower lip before lifting my head to meet his gaze again. "So, please, Mister Alien—could you let me live in peace? What did I do to you? Did I accidentally offend you in some past life or something? Is that why you're so determined to annoy me all the time?"

I waved dramatically toward my tray, leaning into my most pitiful expression. "I mean, look at me. I'm just a humble, scanty classmate trying to enjoy his sweet potatoes. Can't you let me eat in peace?"

I blinked at him, letting my best "miserable puppy" face take center stage. Acting is one of my hidden talents, and I was pretty sure I nailed it.

But his reaction wasn't what I expected.

He didn't mock me. He didn't laugh.

Instead, his expression darkened, his playful demeanor fading into something heavier, unreadable. His gaze stayed fixed on me, growing more somber with every passing second.

I shifted uncomfortably, the act slipping away.

Giving up on my act, I sighed and casually reached over to steal a piece of meat from his tray. As I held it near my lips, I shot him a challenging look.

"But if you insist on bothering me," I said, a defiant edge in my voice, "you'd better give me something in return. Being in my proximity is a privilege reserved for worthy individuals, and guess what? You don't qualify."

I paused for dramatic effect, raising an eyebrow as my gaze met his unwavering one. "Yeah, I know I'm being petty, but I tried to help you, and you humiliated me. You mock me, play with me, treat me like I'm just some toy. And I hate it. So if you're going to keep humiliating me, at least make it enjoyable for me, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, I bit into the meat and closed my eyes, savoring the rich flavor. A blissful moan escaped my lips before I could stop it. "Oh, holy fairy! Meat! You have no idea how much I've missed you, darling!"

I turned to face him. "Gimme more, oh wealthy lord of meat."

And then he chuckled.

The sound was low and amused, like he'd just won some invisible game. His eyes gleamed with that infuriating, mysterious light that made my stomach twist. Only then did I realize what I'd done.

"Oh, shit," I hiccuped, my hands flying up to cover my mouth as heat rushed to my face. My cheeks burned so fiercely I was certain they were glowing. 

But instead of laughing at me or saying something smug, he did something far more shocking.

He reached over, speared another piece of meat with his fork, and held it out to me.

I stared at him, completely dumbfounded. He hadn't moved from his casual position—chin still propped on one hand—but now his other hand extended toward me, offering the juicy morsel like it was the most natural thing in the world. His lips curled into the faintest shadow of a smile, calm and confident, as if he knew I wouldn't refuse.

"Say 'ah,' my little princess," he teased, his voice soft but rich with amusement.

My brain short-circuited.

"Who's your little princess, you old perv?!" I hissed, my voice rising in pitch as my embarrassment doubled. "Why are you always humiliating me—"

Before I could finish, he gently pressed the meat against my lips, and my body betrayed me. Instinct took over, and I bit into it, chewing hurriedly as the flavor melted on my tongue.

Damn it, it was delicious.

"Fine," I mumbled around the mouthful, my pride hanging by a thread. "If you keep feeding me, I'll let you call me that."

His smile deepened, the glint in his eyes growing brighter. 

And just like that, he'd turned my fussy temper into his personal playground.