CHAPTER ONE

Seo Chang had always harboured a strong dislike for anything that disrupted the carefully organized flow of her daily routine. To her, every aspect of life functioned best when it adhered to a meticulous schedule and a well-thought-out plan. She found comfort and a sense of control in this structured way of living, ensuring that everything was accounted for and proceeded without unexpected surprises.

This preference for order was deeply ingrained in her personality, a trait she developed from a young age. Growing up, she often found herself alone at home, as her parents were frequently occupied with demanding work schedules. Without their presence, Seo Chang had learned to manage her time independently, filling her days with routines and systems that brought a semblance of stability to her otherwise solitary life. Over time, this habit became second nature, shaping the disciplined and orderly individual she had grown to be.

For Seo Chang, maintaining order and structure in her life was more than just a preference—it was a hopeful strategy. She believed that if everything in her world remained organized and predictable, it might somehow create room for her parents to spend more time with her. This belief, though quietly optimistic, was one she clung to during her lonely days at home.

However, as the years went by, reality slowly began to set in. The likelihood of her parents' work schedules easing enough to allow them to be more present in her life seemed increasingly slim. While this realization was difficult to accept, her commitment to her structured habits had already become deeply ingrained. What had started as a hopeful effort to bring her family closer had evolved into a way of life—a routine so familiar and comforting that it felt like a part of who she was.

"Seooooo, are you even listening to me?" The frustrated voice of Seo's project partner cut through the silence, her tone teetering between exasperation and disbelief. Seo glanced up lazily from her notebook, her thoughts miles away from whatever had been said moments ago. Truth be told, she couldn't even recall her partner's name. Was it Alexander? Alexandria? Or maybe just Alex? She hadn't bothered to ask again, nor had she made much effort to remember, deciding instead that it was an unnecessary detail.

The Gryffindor girl, sitting across from her, looked as if she were on the verge of tearing her hair out, her patience wearing thin from Seo's apparent indifference. With her arms crossed and her foot tapping, she was clearly waiting for an explanation—or at least some semblance of an apology.

Seo, however, felt no inclination to provide either. Instead, she met the girl's fiery gaze with an unbothered expression, her tone flat and uninterested. "No, I wasn't listening," she admitted bluntly, her voice devoid of any remorse. If anything, her deadpan delivery only served to fan the flames of her partner's frustration.

The Gryffindor girl's expression flickered, just barely betraying her offence at Seo's blunt response, but she quickly masked it. Clearly deciding her time wasn't worth wasting on an argument, she pressed on without missing a beat.

"Anyway, I'll just repeat what I said," she began, her tone upbeat as though brushing past the moment. Seo opened her mouth to protest—why bother?—but the chatty Gryffindor was faster. "Have you ever talked to that handsome fella in your house? Actually, no, of course, you must have! How silly of me!"

Seo nearly groaned, her patience already wearing thin. She didn't need to ask who the so-called "handsome fella" was. She knew exactly who the Gryffindor was referring to, and she didn't need to think twice about it. This wasn't the first time someone had asked her the same tired question, and she was certain it wouldn't be the last.

The topic irritated her to no end. It was one of the many reasons she avoided associating with the fan-obsessed girls who spent more time idolizing people than focusing on anything remotely productive. This fascination with the blonde Ravenclaw—whom Seo privately referred to as "Weasel"—was a phenomenon she neither understood nor cared to.

As the Gryffindor continued her enthusiastic ramble, Seo had already checked out of the conversation. She let the girl's words dissolve into background noise, staring off into the distance with a look of quiet exasperation. She had no interest in entertaining another discussion about Weasel and his inexplicable charm. If anything, she was debating whether getting up and leaving might be the better option.

Seo called him "Weasel" because, in her mind, it had to be his surname. She wasn't trying to be mean—it was just her best guess. To be fair, Seo was notoriously bad with names. Remembering them was one of those pesky inconveniences she had learned to ignore over the years. In fact, names were just one item on a long list of things she found bothersome and unnecessary.

Friends? Inconvenient. Holidays? Pointless. Romance? Definitely not worth the effort.

It wasn't as though Seo was bitter about these things; they simply didn't have a place in her life. She had never experienced the luxury of celebrating her birthdays—not once. Family dinners were a foreign concept to her, and the idea of having friends over to hang out was something that belonged in the realm of other people's lives, not hers.

She had no friends, so there was no need to remember anyone's names. No birthdays meant no reason to celebrate holidays. And as for romance, well, it never stood a chance when she didn't even have basic friendships to build from.

But Seo didn't feel sorry for herself. She didn't yearn for what she didn't have, nor did she resent the life she led. It was just the way things were—a continuous cycle she had grown accustomed to. It was her normal, and as far as she was concerned, it worked just fine.

Seo Chang was fine with it. She had long accepted that her life didn't resemble the typical experiences others seemed to cherish. She didn't feel the sting of missing out because, in her mind, there was nothing to miss. Her world was structured and solitary, and she preferred it that way. The absence of friends, holidays, or romance didn't feel like a loss—it was simply the way things had always been.

She found comfort in the simplicity of her routines, in the quiet predictability of her days. While others might have seen her life as lonely or incomplete, Seo saw it as efficient and uncomplicated. She didn't have to deal with the messiness of relationships or the emotional highs and lows that came with them.

So when it came to things like remembering names or indulging in sentimental traditions, she didn't see the point. Her detachment wasn't born out of sadness or bitterness but from a practical understanding of what worked for her. This was her life, and as far as Seo was concerned, she was perfectly fine with it.