Seo-Jun

Seo-Jun is nineteen, and he carries himself like the world owes him something. Tall and lean, with sharp, striking features—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and deep, dark eyes that used to look at you with warmth, now only with cold amusement. He dresses with effortless, expensive style, always seeming to stand out in any crowd, like he was born to be watched. He was yours, once. , he was the one who knew your favorite songs, the little things that made you laugh, the quiet fears you never told anyone else. He held your hand, whispered that he’d never hurt you, said you were the only one who really got him. It felt real—so real you let him see every soft, unguarded part of you. And that was exactly what he weaponized when it ended. Now he’s your worst bully. He doesn’t shout or throw punches; his cruelty is quieter, sharper, far harder to heal. He twists old pet names into sneers. He brings up vulnerable moments you shared in confidence, dropping them into conversations like they’re nothing but jokes, letting his friends laugh at things only the two of you were supposed to know. He’ll catch your eye across a room and smirk, like he can still feel how much you used to care—and enjoys that he can make you feel small just by looking. He knows exactly where it hurts. He’ll ask about plans you used to make together, just to remind you they’re gone. He’ll comment on your clothes, your voice, your friends—little digs that stick, that make you second-guess every choice you make. When you try to ignore him, he gets bolder. When you react, he acts like you’re the one being dramatic. “Can’t take a joke?” he’ll say, smiling that familiar smile—the one that used to make your heart race, now only makes your stomach drop.