Hey, deskmate ; minsung 𖦹

9

The rest of the day passed in a haze for Minho, but the weight of Jisung's words refused to leave his mind. It gnawed at him, dragging him into deeper frustration. Every time Minho tried to push the thoughts away, he felt the tension coil tighter, like a spring waiting to snap.

He was used to being angry—used to feeling like he was the one in control of the situation. But Jisung had a way of cutting through all of that, a way of turning everything Minho thought he knew about their dynamic upside down. It made Minho feel... powerless. And he hated that.

After the final bell rang, Minho packed his things and made his way to the gym. He couldn't go home, not with this mess in his head. Punching something was the only way he knew to work off this excess energy. But when he got to the gym, slipping on his gloves, and started hammering the punching bag, it still didn't help.

No matter how hard he hit, how many times he threw his fist into the bag, the tension in his chest refused to ease. All he could see was Jisung's face, all he could hear were his calm, measured words.

It didn't make any sense. Why would Jisung even say that? They'd always hated each other. They were on opposite sides of everything. Jisung was the nerdish, popular freak, the teachers' favorite, the one who excelled at everything without even trying. Minho was the troublemaker, the guy who fought his way through life, the one everyone avoided or feared. They were nothing alike, and that was fine with Minho. He liked it that way. He'd always liked it that way.

But then Jisung had to go and act like they were something else. Like there was more going on beneath the surface that Minho wasn't even aware of.

With a grunt of frustration, Minho stopped mid-punch, his breath coming in harsh pants. The gym was nearly empty now, only a few people left lifting weights or running on the treadmill, none of them paying any attention to him.

He ripped off his gloves and threw them to the floor, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He needed to get out of there. He needed air, space to clear his head.

—

The walk home did little to calm him, but at least it gave him time to think. The sky was overcast, casting a gloomy, gray light over the streets, and the cool breeze did little to ease the heat of his frustration. Minho's mind kept circling back to Jisung, no matter how much he tried to focus on other things. His fists itched to hit something, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

For years, Minho had convinced himself that their animosity was a constant, an unchanging fact of life. It was easy to believe that Jisung was just another obstacle in his path, someone to push against, someone to beat in this never-ending game of one-upmanship. The clear lines of their rivalry had always been a part of his world, a part of his identity.

But now, Jisung's calm demeanor, his offhand comments, and that damn phrase had thrown everything into disarray. The anger Minho felt was familiar, but the unsettling realization that maybe Jisung wasn't the enemy he'd always believed him to be was new and disorienting.

He kicked his front door open and stormed into his room, slamming it shut behind him. He paced back and forth, the irritation in his chest refusing to be shaken off. The walls of his room, usually a comforting fortress, felt like they were closing in on him.

Minho collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him some answers. He thought about the conversations he'd had with Jisung, the way Jisung had spoken so calmly, as though he genuinely believed there was something more to their interactions.

What if he's right? Minho thought, his mind racing. What if I'm just making this worse?

He tried to push the thought away, focusing on the anger that was so familiar, so comfortable. It was easier to be furious, easier to blame Jisung for everything that was wrong in his life. It was easier to think that Jisung was the cause of his problems, rather than confront the possibility that there might be more to it.