If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be standing on a stage, almost beating the star pupil of a school that looked like a fashion ad for brain cells and privilege… I would've laughed so hard I'd choke on my own mediocrity.
And yet, here we were.
The Monday after the debate, the hallways smelled of floor polish and quiet suspicion.
Not tension. That was too loud for this school.
This was subtler. Like everyone had started watching me from behind designer sunglasses.
My locker was closed. Neatly. But when I opened it, someone had rearranged the books.
Tiny thing. Easy to miss.
Except I remembered exactly how I stacked them. Math on top, English in the middle, History on the bottom, because history bored me the fastest.
Now? English was on top.
Like someone had reached in and touched my things just to remind me they could.
I didn't say anything.
I just adjusted the books back to my order and closed the locker calmly.
Because if this was the new strategy—psychological micro-harassment 101—then fine.
Let's play subtle.
I got to class early. No one looked up when I entered, but I caught the tiny change in atmosphere.
Someone had told someone something.
Yuri gave me a nod when I passed her desk. Not warm. Not cold.
Just enough to say, "We're still pretending we're neutral, right?"
I gave her the same nod back.
Across the room, Haeun looked entirely unbothered. She was tapping through something on her phone, head slightly tilted, like the screen was telling her secrets about the future.
I sat.
My seat was still mine. For now.
The teacher walked in, called for silence, and then said, very casually:
— "Quick housekeeping before we begin. We've received a request from administration to update any missing personal information in the student system. For those of you with incomplete files—medical records, past schools, emergency contacts—you'll be notified this week. That includes recent transfers."
A pause.
Just long enough.
Everyone turned their heads. Slowly. In my direction.
I blinked.
Then stared at the board as if it were the most fascinating list of macroeconomic indicators in human history.
Because they weren't just announcing a policy.
They were announcing me.
And the fact that I was a blank.
I found the admin note in my school inbox an hour later.
Subject: "Request for Data Completion – Student File Lee Nina"
The body was short. Formatted. Cold.
Dear Student,
Your profile is currently missing the following:
– Academic history prior to transfer
– Parent/guardian contact
– National registration number (temporary or permanent)
Please report to the Main Office before Friday 4 p.m.
Failure to comply may affect your student standing.
Cute.
They didn't even pretend it was just an oversight.
This wasn't about records. It was about proof.
I had no past.
No files. No family. No documents.
And now, they were politely asking me to explain how I existed.
In writing.
At lunch, I sat on the edge of the courtyard with a bowl of lukewarm rice and what may have once been fish.
Across the lawn, Haeun was laughing at something on her phone, surrounded by a semi-circle of well-coiffed side characters.
She didn't glance my way.
She didn't have to.
She knew.
Of course she knew.
I poked at the rice and tried to breathe through the pressure rising in my chest.
Because I wasn't panicking.
Yet.
But the thing about pretending to be someone for long enough is that eventually, someone asks you to show your ID at the door.
And I didn't even have a fake one.
Back in class, I pulled out my notebook and opened a fresh page.
At the top, I wrote in small, careful letters:
"What Do They Actually Know?"
Then I started listing:
My name = fake.
My age = re-issued.
School = no transcript.
Guardian = none listed.
Prior address = left blank.
Photo = auto-uploaded from current records.
The system had accepted all that because someone higher up had let it.
But now?
Someone lower down was poking around.
Not to verify.
To expose.
And if they managed to drag a real adult into this… a real investigation… I wasn't just expelled.
I was gone.
Vanished.
Right back to being nobody.
That evening, I didn't go straight home.
I wandered.
The streets near the school looked different when you didn't have a destination. Richer. Louder. Like the world had more neon than I remembered.
I ended up in a convenience store just off the main road. The kind that had thirty different kinds of gum and no working bathroom.
I bought a pack of triangle kimbap and sat near the window, watching people go by.
None of them looked like me.
All of them looked like they knew where they were going.
My phone buzzed.
A message from a number labeled simply: Admin Contact.
"Hi Nina. Please let us know if you'll need assistance collecting your documentation."
No name. No warmth.
Just a little push.
I didn't reply.
I just stared at the screen, thumb hovering, mind racing.
Because this was it.
Not a crisis.
Not a fire.
Just a gentle, institutional hand nudging me toward non-existence.
The next day, I went to class like nothing was happening.
Because that was the plan.
If they were going to erase me, I'd make sure I was burned into the room first.
In Ethics, I raised my hand. Asked the kind of question that makes teachers pause and other students scribble down your name like it might come up later.
In Literature, I quoted an author no one else had read and backed it up with a personal anecdote about libraries and dead languages.
In Math… okay, Math still hated me. But I got the group problem right before Rayan did, and he gave me a look like he was recalibrating his entire opinion of my brain.
Which, to be honest, I'd been hoping for.
After class, he caught up with me in the hallway.
— "You've been busy," he said.
— "Is that your version of 'good job'?"
— "No. It's my version of 'what are you distracting everyone from?'"
I didn't blink.
Didn't smile.
Just shrugged.
— "Survival. It's a hobby."
He didn't press. But I saw it in his eyes.
He knew something was happening.
Not what. Not how much.
But enough.
And for once, I didn't feel like I was the only person taking notes.
Friday.
3:40 p.m.
I stood in front of the Main Office with my ID card in my hand and zero documentation in my bag.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
I could've turned around. Could've gone in. Could've lied.
But the problem was—
I didn't have a lie that could hold up anymore.
So I stood there. Frozen.
Until someone walked past me. Tall. Gray sweater. Clipboard.
Professor Im.
The man who once told me that this school watched students like surgeons watched tumors.
He didn't stop.
But as he passed, he said—barely above a whisper:
— "If they're checking now, it means you've already passed the threshold."
I turned.
— "What threshold?"
He didn't answer.
Just kept walking.
Like I'd asked a question he wasn't allowed to hear.
At 3:59, I turned away from the door.
Walked down the hallway. Out the building. Into the street.
Not fast. Not panicked.
Just steady.
I didn't know if I'd be expelled next week.
Didn't know if someone would come knocking with a clipboard and a voided file.
But I knew this much:
I'd spent my whole life being a girl without a past.