The night of the debate wasn't a big deal.
I mean, it was—objectively. There were lights, judges, a panel of terrifying alumni, and probably enough gossip to last the rest of the semester.
But for me?
It just felt like another day where I had to pretend I belonged somewhere I clearly didn't.
The blazer I wore wasn't mine. It belonged to Jin Yuri.
She'd lent it with a kind of quiet smile that said, "Wear it well, and don't ruin it."
No pressure.
I didn't have the luxury of choosing outfits or rehearsing speeches in front of parents or sipping ginger tea for vocal clarity.
What I had was a lukewarm convenience store kimbap, a borrowed blazer, and a backpack that still smelled like ramen seasoning.
And yet, I wasn't nervous.
Not exactly.
I was... alert. Like my whole body was on edge, but my brain was too tired to panic properly.
Probably the closest I'd get to feeling powerful.
The school auditorium had been transformed for the night.
Spotlights. Velvet ropes. Folded programs. Real judges with real degrees.
Students were already seated in rows, murmuring, fixing collars, brushing invisible lint off their sleeves.
I found my seat and sat.
No one said hi.
But they looked.
People always look when they're not sure if you're supposed to be there.
I kept my back straight and reviewed my notes.
Not because I needed to—but because if I didn't keep my hands busy, I might actually punch someone just to feel something.
Across the room, I spotted Park Mijin. Senior. Flawless. Debate queen.
She was sipping water like it was champagne and adjusting her mic with the casual grace of someone who'd probably won trophies for it.
When our names were called, she didn't even glance at me.
Which was fine.
I was easy to overlook.
Until I wasn't.
he moment they called my name, my legs stood up before my brain caught up.
I crossed the room, stepped onto the stage, and adjusted the mic like I actually knew how to handle it.
The lights were hotter than expected.
I tried not to blink too much or wipe my hands on my skirt. Pretty sure that's not how you project confidence.
In the front row, a few judges looked mildly awake. One was already scribbling something, probably "Nervous but upright."
I started talking.
Just the intro. Nothing dramatic. No metaphors, no "ladies and gentlemen of the court." Just a clean setup.
My voice didn't crack.
That was something.
I laid out the first argument.
Simple. Sharp. Built it like a sandwich—bread, substance, bread again.
Nothing fancy. Just… solid.
No one laughed. No one booed.
People were listening.
That was new.
I finished my bit, stepped back, and tried not to trip walking off the stage.
Park Mijin stood as if someone had summoned her from a pedestal.
Her posture said, "This is my house."
She spoke with total ease. No notes, no hesitation. She even managed to smile halfway through like she'd rehearsed it in the mirror and the mirror had applauded.
And yeah—her argument was good.
Better than mine?
Sure.
But not by much.
Which was the part that mattered.
When she was done, I had a chance for a quick response.
So I did what I'd always done best.
Not dominate.
Just survive well enough that people double-check the scoreboard.
And if I did that here?
It meant I'd be harder to erase later.
They posted the scores on a projector like it was no big deal.
First: Park Mijin – 91.
Second: Me – 89.
Not bad.
I didn't jump up and down. Didn't clap for myself. Didn't cry.
I just nodded once and went to grab the free grape juice someone left near the folding chairs.
A few people looked over.
Some whispered. Some nudged each other.
One girl from the junior class said "nice job" like she wasn't sure if I spoke Korean or not.
I thanked her anyway.
Yuri passed by and gave me a polite little wave. She didn't stop. But she didn't look disappointed either, which was something.
Haeun stayed seated in the back row, legs crossed, arms loose.
She didn't clap.
She didn't glare either.
But her eyes followed me as I walked out.
Like she was making room on a list that didn't have my name on it yesterday.
I could've stayed.
Smiled. Networked. Shaken hands with the judges like a good girl with a bright future.
But I didn't.
I slipped out the side exit, tossed the juice cup in the bin, and walked home with my earbuds in and nothing playing.
Because honestly?
I didn't need music.
I just needed the noise of my own feet on the sidewalk.