Wendy transferred schools in early October, when the weather was still fickle—hot one day, chilly the next—much like the temperament of the city itself. She wore a long-sleeved uniform, clutched a stack of books, and stood silently at the entrance of her new classroom. No one even looked up. The teacher gave a casual introduction; she nodded politely and bowed before sitting in the last row.
This class was far more "lively" than her old school, but that liveliness didn't include her. The boys had dyed hair, the girls' skirts were obviously altered to be shorter, and after class, conversations were filled with things she'd never experienced—late-night parties, bar hopping, and clubbing. People joked openly about which KTV had better lighting or which bar didn't check IDs. The term "underage" didn't seem to apply to anyone.
At first, Wendy merely observed from the sidelines. But it didn't take long for her to get her first invitation. About a week after she transferred, a girl named Yuna approached her desk, rested her chin on her hand, and looked her up and down with a half-smile.
"We're going to Black Sugar Club tonight. Pretty much the whole class is coming. You should too—it's way better than staying home and being boring," she said sweetly.
Wendy instinctively shook her head—but hesitated. Yuna was popular, beautiful, and always surrounded by people. Her voice carried the kind of sugarcoated persuasion that made people surrender without even realizing it. Wendy forced a smile. "I'll think about it."
That night, Wendy sat on her bed staring at her glowing phone screen. The group chat was flooding with messages: "Meeting time?" "Who's bringing the drinks?" "Wendy, you in?"
Her heart raced. A part of her imagined herself in high heels and a short skirt, dancing under flashing lights, finally not being the quiet girl in the corner.
But then she remembered what her mother had once told her before moving: "Not all noise is worth joining. Just because the river flows that way doesn't mean you have to jump in."
She didn't reply. She turned off her phone, rolled over, and pulled the blanket over her head.
The next day, Yuna looked at her with a hint of disdain. "Oh, so you really are one of those girls who still listens to her mommy, huh?"
Wendy didn't respond. She simply took a sip of water, feeling a dryness in her throat like sandpaper. That week, she could feel herself being pushed out of the class's inner circles. No one invited her to lunch. During P.E., she was always picked last for teams. Behind her back, she heard whispers: "She probably thinks we're not 'proper' enough for her."
But then she started to notice things. The ones who partied late at night were always exhausted in class, their eyes hollow, their laughter forced. Their grades plummeted. Some skipped class altogether. She overheard that Yuna was nearly written up for smoking in the bathroom. Even the class president had said, "I don't remember the last time she handed in an assignment."
Wendy, on the other hand, stuck to her quiet routine. She woke up at 7:00 AM every day, packed her biology and English review books, and headed to the library. There, she listened to soft instrumental music while flipping pages—her day starting not with noise, but with calm and clarity.
She got used to the solitude. In fact, she started to appreciate it.
One evening, while walking home, she passed a convenience store near campus. Yuna and a group of classmates were sitting outside, makeup done, laughing loudly over convenience-store cocktails. When they spotted Wendy, they waved.
"Come hang out!" one of them called.
Wendy smiled and shook her head.
As she walked away, she heard Yuna shout at her retreating back, "You really think you're better than everyone, huh? Is that even fun?"
She didn't turn around.
But in her heart, she thought—Yes. It is.
Because she had finally realized something: not everyone is worth following. Not every party leads to happiness. In a world that constantly tries to pull you in every direction, what matters most is keeping a clear mind and learning when to say no.
Even when the wind is strong, she'd rather stand in it—than drift with it.