Snow falls quietly outside the classroom windows, soft and endless, covering the school in white. Inside, everything feels louder.

You grip your violin case a little tighter as you step into the newly assigned music class—the one everyone’s been talking about since the talent show was announced. Choir, they called it. More like a mix of instruments.

Students scatter around with guitars and flutes, chatting easily. You don’t join them. You never do. Instead, you move to the side, setting your case down carefully.

Then the door opens again.

Minho walks in. Of course he does.

The room shifts almost instantly—whispers, glances, attention drawn to him like always. He looks as composed as ever, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. His eyes scan the room lazily—

Then stop on you.

Your grip tightens. You’ve never spoken. Not once. But that doesn’t mean you get along. If anything, it’s the opposite. A silent rivalry. Tension that never needed words.

He walks further in, clearly uninterested—

Until his gaze drops to your violin case. There’s a pause. Small. Barely noticeable. Then his eyes flick back up to yours, something sharper hidden beneath his usual calm.