welcome ♡

He doesn’t really know who he’s supposed to report to, and walking around aimlessly while trying to find the general office feels intrusive in some way…

so he ends up in the garden.

It’s really more like a small patch of dirt next to the cafeteria, though clearly well-tended to as could be seen by the neat rows of lettuce heads and baby tomatoes that are just only beginning to ripen. Also, the figure currently hunched over the dirtbed with a shovel in hand, and probably the reason behind why a garden so tiny could look so perfectly maintained— you.

“Hi!” Wonpil greets, silently grateful that his voice hadn’t cracked due to his nerves. “I’m the new music teacher that’s supposed to start today…?” He trails off when you don’t turn to him.

Weird. Were you ignoring him? You probably just hadn’t heard him.

He clears his throat. “Um, I’m looking for the general office. Or, if you could direct me to the principal, that’d be great-”

“Mr Kim! There you are!” Another voice sounds, and he turns to see Principal Lee, eyes crinkling behind her glasses as she smiles warmly at him. “My apologies. I should’ve given you directions during our call. Welcome to our school!”

“Ah- thank you.” Wonpil bows his head slightly as he steps towards the lady, but not before glancing over his shoulder to look at you again.

Your back is still turned to him, though standing now as you water the crops. You don’t acknowledge him, nor do you acknowledge the principal— it’s as though you’re alone, and nobody else is there with you.

Strange.

Principal Lee must’ve caught him staring (shamelessly, as he only belatedly realises), when a small ah escapes her lips. She steps towards you, peeking at the side of your face before waving at you gently to get your attention.

That’s when you turn, and—

Oh.

You’re pretty.

Wonpil blinks when the principal starts introducing you. He only barely manages to catch your surname, slightly stunned as he realises that not only is she using her words— she’s also using her hands.

And that’s when everything clicks.

Oh.

That’s why you hadn’t turned when he spoke. It wasn’t because you didn’t hear him— it was because you couldn’t.

“- and this is our new music teacher, Mr. Kim,” Principal Lee says, signing at the same time.

You smile then, and Wonpil swears he could feel his heart leap out of his chest.

One, because he’s flustered, yes— and slightly guilty that a small part of him had assumed you were being rude by ignoring him. Second, he doesn’t know sign language.

At all.

Wonpil bows as he mutters out a hello, only to remember you can’t hear him, so he ends up adding in a small wave for good measure.

If you notice how embarrassing he’s being, you don’t show it.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t notice you. I don’t have my processors on,” you say while signing, then tapping your ear.

Your gestures are unfamiliar— he’s never had someone talk to him in sign language before— but it’s your words that manage to catch him off-guard, not because they’re unclear, but because they’re even spoken at all. 

And now, Wonpil feels even stupider for not considering it. Of course. Why did he assume you weren’t able to speak?

But it’s different, he realises, the way you form your words. Not in a bad way. Just… softer. More deliberate, like you’re placing them exactly where they need to be. They’re careful in a way that makes him listen a little closer, and Wonpil realises that maybe, this has nothing to do with you being deaf, but everything to do with you.

“It’s okay.” And because his ears are still warm from earlier, he clumsily adds, “I look forward to working with you.”

You nod, the smile not leaving your face as you sign together with your words. “Likewise.”

And for some reason, that gesture sticks with him all the way until he gets home, when he’s sitting in front of his laptop and ready to start crafting his first lesson plan for the term.

Except, Wonpil finds himself opening another Naver tab instead, and before he could stop himself, he types:

how to say hello in sign language

Wonpil finds you in the garden again, this time closer to noon.

The last time he saw you was a few hours ago, during a meeting with the creative committee about an upcoming play that’d be taking place in a few months. It’s something that the school organises annually for the graduating batch, though they’re planning to do something more special this year now that they have a music teacher. He’d learnt during introductions that you’d be in-charge of prop-making, and even though Wonpil doesn’t know you very well, he figures from your paint-stained jeans and crochet cardigan that it made the most sense.

Now, he tilts to look at you, waving his hand in your line of sight the same way he saw Principal Lee did to get your attention. From his research yesterday, he’d learned that tapping a Deaf person on the back without warning could startle them and potentially come off as invasive, and the last thing he wants is to be rude.

You look up when you see him from your peripheral vision, lips settling into your usual smile as you straighten your back. Before you could wave at him, he beats you to it—

Hello.

Your brows raise, before a small laugh tumbles out of your lips.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, and it wasn’t like you were making fun of him. In fact, he had done it perfectly, if you don’t count the slightly-off placement of his hand near his forehead, and the way his eyebrows furrow like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right.

Still, you understood him, and the fact that he even tried is… kind of sweet.

Hello, you sign back, and Wonpil laughs in embarrassment as he mirrors you, properly this time. He shifts awkwardly for a while before blurting out a soft oh! under his breath, taking out his phone from his pocket.

I’m Wonpil, he types.

“I still haven’t gotten the hang of signing my name yet,” he says sheepishly, and you nod, seemingly in understanding. He wonders if you could lip-read— not like he’d expect you to do that every time he speaks, of course.

You tell him your name and that it’s nice to see him again.

“I really like your garden.” He points to the dirtbed awkwardly, merely for the sake of having something to say.

You laugh again at that, but Wonpil knows it isn’t mean-spirited.

You open your palm, placing your thumb and middle finger together before tapping your chest lightly twice. “Like this.”

His lips part as he studies your movements, fingers curling as he tries to mimic you.

You step forward, glancing at him as though to ask for his permission, before gently taking his wrist and adjusting his fingers for him.

“There.” You smile. “Like.”

You step back, your lips still tugged upwards, and while Wonpil would like to think (or seriously hope) that he’d managed to school his expression, the sudden skip in his heartbeat clearly means otherwise, and only one thought crosses his head in that moment:

Shit. He’s in trouble.

Wonpil is slowly starting to get used to his new routine.

His classes are spread throughout the week, and since there are only three age groups in the school, his Tuesdays and Fridays are usually left free.

He’d often spend that time in the music room— it’s much easier to plan his classes there as compared to the staff room where it’s noisier. Occasionally, he’d find himself in the library, too— but only if you’re there.

Since the day at the garden, you’d gotten quite close to Wonpil. You believe it’s because his schedules aren’t as tight as the other teachers, though it does make you wonder why he chooses to spend his free time with you.

Even when you’re busy organising bookshelves, he’d still be at his usual table by the window, focused on planning out his lessons on his laptop. Other times, he’d be scribbling something down in his notebook. You’d dared to take a peek once, only to realise it wasn’t words he’d be writing down, but music notes.

You didn’t understand it, of course, since you had no reason to pick up a music module back when you were still in school, but Wonpil was kind enough to teach you the basics. In exchange, he’d ask you how to sign a colour, sometimes even a shape— depending on the material you’d be preparing that day.

It’s like we’re exchanging languages, he’d once written down in his music book for you to read, earning a small laugh from you. He decides that no composition of his could even come close to how lovely that sounded in his ears.

Your language may be silent, but Wonpil thinks it’s beautiful, the same way you find the way he translates feeling into music mesmerising.

The idea for the play had just been confirmed, and Wonpil’s finally able to start composing.

The theme is going to be garden-inspired, following a tiny seed that grows into a flower. Along the way, the seed will make other garden friends, with each of them representing different aspects of life like growth and change.

It’s cute, Wonpil thinks, fitting for six year-olds preparing to enter elementary school. The only problem is… he’s still new to working with children, and composing light, playful music isn’t something he’s done before.

Basically, he hit a dead end before he’s even started.

The piano lets out a series of jumbled notes as Wonpil drops his hands on the keys. He’d been hoping that inspiration would come to him naturally, what more now that he’s in a room full of drawings and colour, but his sudden creative block is making it hard for him to think straight.

Perhaps he should wrap up for the day and sleep on it.

A sudden knock interrupts him from his thoughts, and Wonpil looks up to see you.

You step in tentatively. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” He smiles briefly. “Just… brainstorming.” He taps the side of his head.

You nod, peeking at his music book balancing on the lid of the piano. It doesn’t look like he's done much progress— if you count the scribbled-out notes as progress at all.

“Can I ask for your opinion?” Wonpil asks you suddenly, and you raise a brow.

“Of course." You gesture for him to continue.

He picks up his pencil before scribbling down in his book.

The play is garden-themed, and you know the kids better than I do. What do you think the score should sound like?

You laugh. “Wonpil, in case you forgot, I’m Deaf.”

“I know.” He pauses for a moment before scooting to his left, prompting you to sit. You do, and your shoulders brush when you settle next to him.

“Music isn’t just about hearing,” Wonpil tells you slowly, tapping his ear. “It’s also about… feeling.” He signs the last word, one he’d learned from a random YouTube video he watched last night.

He turns back to the piano before hitting a note on the far left— A, if you remember correctly. He does it again, only this time, he brings his other hand to touch the top panel. He looks at you, prompting you to do the same.

He presses the key one more time, and the vibration thrums beneath your fingertips.

A0 is the lowest note on the piano. The vibration is slower. Deeper, he writes in his music book before putting down his pencil, hand skimming to the far right of the keyboard. You feel the vibration again as he presses the key, only this time, it feels different. Lighter, almost.

You laugh, mostly in awe, and he turns to beam at you.

“You feel it, right?”

You nod eagerly. Now you understand why some Deaf people love attending concerts. You’ve personally never been to one, but today it feels like Wonpil’s teaching you things you never knew about yourself. Maybe you’d try it out one day.

His smile drops a fraction. “Can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head, prompting him to continue.

“I don’t know if this is going to come off as rude, so you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to! But I was just curious…” he rambles nervously. “Is there a reason why you don’t wear your processors?”

There’s a pause as you take in his words, before a small giggle escapes your lips. You could see the wariness leave his face, clearly relieved that you hadn’t reacted otherwise, though his cheeks are now painted a faint pink hue, almost like he’s embarrassed.

You try not to dwell on how cute you think he looks, scrunching your nose instead as you sign, too noisy.

Wonpil laughs. That, he understood. You’d taught him that one day when he was telling you about the kids in his nursery class during their first music lesson. Needless to say, managing a bunch of three-year olds by himself was not a walk in the park.

“Anyway," you continue, “why don’t you join me at the garden tomorrow?”

“Oh, garden. That’s a new one,” he utters as he follows your gesture. You notice how Wonpil tends to pick up on your signing despite most of your conversations being verbal, his eyes always trained on your hands like he’s trying to learn even if you weren’t necessarily intending on teaching him.

You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone that keen in learning your language; it’s always been the other way round.

Then again, you don’t think anyone could ever be as sweet as Kim Wonpil.

In an hour, Wonpil’s managed to learn a few new words from you: seed, caterpillar, bee, sunflower.

Granted, it’s difficult to remember all of them perfectly, and he’d often mix up the hand gestures, but you’d laugh it off before gently adjusting his hands for him.

Wonpil totally doesn’t pretend to keep forgetting on purpose just so you’d continue helping him.

Not so bad, right? You beam at him as you pat the soil gently, having just planted a new row of peony roots.

Difficult, he signs with a pout. Your smile grows wider at that.

“There’s a reason why I do music and not this,” he huffs as he rakes the dirt with a gardening fork. “But I guess I did learn a thing or two.”

You nudge his shoulder playfully, and Wonpil stops sulking as he grins back at you. It’s hard to even pretend to be upset when you’re around.

Even now, long after he’s out of the gardening apron you’d loaned him and a pen in hand instead of a trowel, Wonpil can’t seem to stop thinking about earlier. He blames you for that— that gardening session was supposed to give him inspiration, not distract him further! And yet, the rows of music staff in his book still remain empty.

He sighs, mindlessly dragging his pencil across the paper. The random doodle eventually forms into a caterpillar, albeit a crooked one, and Wonpil smiles to himself. You’d shown him how to sign the word earlier— a little crawling motion across your arm— and there was something just so cute and silly about it that he couldn’t help but to laugh as he copied you.

He absently mimics the movement with his pencil, and it ends in a squiggly line right beneath his drawing. It kind of reminds him of a staccato; a set of short, detached notes ascending along the staff-

That’s it.

Wonpil’s eyes widen as he stares at the page, before he pushes his book aside completely. Stretching his fingers, he tentatively presses on some keys, following the staccato rhythm he had gotten earlier. He tweaks the notes as he goes along, but for the most part, he doesn’t think, he just does, until eventually, he ends up with a melody that sounds very much like it could belong in a kids’ musical.

A laugh escapes his lips as he plays the sequence again and again, making sure to write it down in his music book so he doesn’t lose it.

Finally, the first staff is filled. Even if it’s nothing much and he’d probably have to polish it later on, it’s still something, and Wonpil couldn’t wait to show you.

You find Wonpil at the piano in the music room, pencil in one hand, while the other rests idly on the keyboard. He doesn’t notice you standing by the door, too absorbed in scribbling something in the music book balancing on his lap. You can’t help but to smile at the sight. There’s just something so…endearing— and perhaps a little silly— about it; how someone as good-looking as him could also be so nerdy. You don’t mean it in a bad way, of course— you think the passion he has for his craft is admirable, and in the short time that you’ve gotten to know Wonpil, he’s easily one of the loveliest people you’ve ever met.

That probably explains why your heart always feels a little funny whenever you’re around him.

“Oh, you’re here!” Wonpil grins when he notices your presence, wasting no time as he shifts on the piano stool to make space for you. “I have something to show you. I finally figured it out! Ah, I’m speaking too fast, aren’t I? Hold on-”

You reach out to touch his arm just as he’s about to flip to a new page of his music book, nodding at him to signal that you understood. You don’t think he realises it, but he’s always been careful with enunciating his words when talking to you, even if he's practically buzzing.

Wonpil relaxes before he continues, “I finally managed to start on the first song. It’s still a work in progress, but- I wanted to tell you anyway,” he laughs sheepishly, like he’s embarrassed.

He pats the lid of the piano: your usual spot. You place your hand on the wood, and a second later, he starts to play. 

The pulses come in quick taps. Light, almost playful. It reminds you of rubber boots splashing into puddles after a rainy day, or children hopping during a game of hopscotch. You could feel the space between each note, some high, some low, and somehow, even without sound, you understand what he’s trying to show you.

He turns to you when he’s done playing, a boyish grin on his lips before he signs: how did it feel?

And for some reason, that’s the question that completely unravels you.

Because he didn’t ask you how it sounded. He asked you how it felt. And maybe, you’re making it a bigger deal than it should be. He’d probably said it mindlessly and you’re dwelling on it for no reason at all, but neither of that changed the fact that his words had stirred something in you. Something… soft, like a flower that’s just beginning to bloom.

You sign back. I love it.

“Yeah?” Wonpil lets out a breathy chuckle. “See, I was thinking of what you taught me yesterday. The caterpillar.” He flips to a previous page of his book, pointing to a scrawny doodle at the top right of the page. “It inspired me to write this. It’s called a staccato. Where’s my pencil?” He mutters under his breath in the midst of his explaining, searching the fallboard.

You tap his shoulder, splaying your palm upwards in front of him. “Write it here instead.”

Wonpil’s lips part, like he’s taken aback at your request, before he nods, pulling your wrist towards him gently. He traces his index finger on the inside of your hand, spelling out the word. Staccato.

You smile, and when he meets your eyes, he smiles too. It’s only then do you notice how close you are, and the lack of distance between you both causes your heart to stutter.

Just like a staccato.

You expect Wonpil to let go, but he doesn’t, only hesitating slightly before bringing his finger to your palm once more and writing down another word. Thank you.

Your pulse quickens, and now it feels like there's a drum in the middle of your chest, fast and loud.

You wonder if there’s a term for that too.

“Okay, class! Who remembers what song we learnt last week?” Wonpil points to the set of notes written on the whiteboard next to him before capping his marker.

A few hands shoot up, and Wonpil pretends to ponder loudly as he taps on his chin, earning a few giggles from the kids. “Yes, Yijin?”

“Hot Cross Buns!” The boy chirps enthusiastically, the triangle in his hands clinking at the sudden movement.

“That’s right! Good job, Yijin!” Wonpil leans forward to give him a high-five. “Today, we’re going to move on to the second part of the song. But first, can anybody tell me the name of this note?”

You watch from the back of the class with a soft smile on your lips. It’s clear that Wonpil’s gotten more comfortable at teaching now as compared to when he first arrived, especially since the kids love him so much. He’d gone from standing awkwardly at the front of the class to sitting cross-legged with them on the foam mattress on the floor, opting to peruse the small whiteboard on the easel instead of the wall-mounted one behind him. It’s easier to engage with the kids that way, he’d said.

You feel a tug on your sleeve, and you turn to see Sera, one of the quieter kids in his class. You realise that she has her arms reached out to you, a pair of castanets in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” You ask.

“I don’t know how to play,” she mumbles shyly.

You smile, shaking your head as you put your hands over hers. “We’ll play together, okay? I’ll help you.”

The girl nods, your words seeming to calm her down slightly as she scoots closer towards you.

“Now, this one is called a semi-quaver.” Wonpil points to a set of four notes joined together with a line on top. “See how they’re holding hands? This means that they’re really fast— like they’re running a race together! It sounds like this.” He raises his hands to clap a steady beat, like a metronome, before he sounds out the notes with his mouth. And even though you can’t hear him, you’re somehow able to understand.

Ta-ta-ta-ta.

You find yourself mimicking the rhythm, tapping the back of Sera’s palm with your index finger mindlessly. Two semi-quavers make up one regular note, and you realise that what you’re playing feels familiar— a staccato.

There’s another tug on your sleeve. When you look at Sera, she’s already looking at you with a bashful smile, her small hands clicking the castanet according to your tapping.

Your lips part in surprise before they settle into a proud smile. Good job, you sign before patting her head, and the little girl giggles.

In the midst of it all, you don’t notice Wonpil watching you, softly, longingly, like he’s the one on the receiving end of your gesture. He knows he should look away, but he can’t, and even though the classroom is growing increasingly noisier, he thinks the thumping of his heart still remains the loudest.

And somehow, the realisation that he might just be falling for you isn’t as scary as he thought it would be.

With only two months left to the play, both you and Wonpil start to get busier— you with prop-making, and Wonpil with dry runs and rehearsals. Still, in a school this small, it isn’t difficult to cross paths with him, because the garden has somehow turned into an unofficial spot for you to bump into each other in between your respective schedules.

You don’t know if Wonpil is doing it on purpose. It wasn’t like the both of you would intentionally agree to meet up— the garden has always been ‘yours’ even prior to knowing him, and when you’d be there tending to the crops after hours, he’d show up with his messenger bag slung over his torso, like he’s done for the day. And somehow, without fail, he’d end up kneeling beside you on the dirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a shovel in hand instead of going home.

Sometimes, he’d even be there before you, pacing aimlessly on the grass patch like he’s merely taking in the fresh outside air (though very obviously waiting for someone), only to break out into a wide grin when he sees you, quick to ask you how your day was as he hands you a cup of coffee he’d gotten from the cafeteria.

Even if Wonpil doesn’t realise what he’s doing, you don’t think you mind if it means getting to spend more time with him.

Today is the same, except now, he’s already clad in his apron, kneeling on the dirtbed with his back to you as he tends to the blooming peonies that you’ve planted just a few weeks prior.

“Oh, hi.” Wonpil turns to smile at you when he senses you approaching.

You wave, placing your bag on the grass before moving to join him. “What happened to not having green thumbs?” You ask teasingly.

He shrugs mindlessly. “Figured I’d give you a head start.” He pauses, placing his shovel down to turn to you. You’ve been busy lately. I wanted to help, he explains in broken sign.

Your lips part at that; not out of shock that he was kind enough to go out of his way to help you, but more so the fact that he noticed. It’s been a hectic last couple of weeks, with most of your time being spent in the school hall, making trees out of cardboard and patching up costumes with whatever scrap fabrics you could find in storage. Your days have been ending later and later because of that, today being no different, and even though you’ve grown accustomed to the sight of Wonpil in the garden, you weren’t expecting to see him still here at this hour.

I hope I’m doing this right, Wonpil continues sheepishly, looking almost nervous at your lack of reaction, and completely unaware of the effect he’s left on you.

He’s gotten better at that too, you realised— signing. You’re not sure if this has anything to do with your conversation the other day, but it leaves a certain warmth in your chest nonetheless. You think it’s less about that and mostly to do with Wonpil himself, though. 

Just as he’s about to start rambling again, probably something about his phone lying on the dirt currently playing a YouTube video about planting peonies, you quickly catch his wrist, and Wonpil startles at that.

I appreciate you, you trace the words right above his pulse, the same way he did to you the day in the music room.

Wonpil blinks once, maybe twice, before his lips bloom into a smile, soft and slow, like a flower unfurling in spring. Without a doubt, it’s a sight that’s quietly grown to be your favourite.

After all, you’ve always found blooming flowers to be beautiful.

You’ve never liked wearing your implants.

You’d gotten them when you were younger, and while they helped a lot in school, you also had to deal with headaches often due to all the noise and layered sounds. It wasn’t the most pleasant feeling, but back then, you knew you couldn’t afford to stop wearing them completely no matter how badly you wanted to— because removing them meant not being able to communicate with people. Removing them meant lesser job opportunities.

It wasn’t ideal, but you learnt from a young age that not everyone was willing to accommodate to your needs just because you were a little different, so you had to learn to adapt. Until eventually, you were fortunate enough to land a job with people that accepted you as who you were.

You never saw the need to wear your processors anymore since you started being a teacher’s aide here. The children don’t look at you like someone missing something— to them, you’re just their art teacher. The one who helps them mix colours, who laughs when paint gets on their sleeves.

Sometimes, without meaning to, you’d end up teaching them your language too. Small signs slipped in between lessons, curious hands mimicking yours. You’re not officially teaching it, but the fact that you can, makes this place feel a little more like it was meant for you.

You think that might also be the reason why you feel so comfortable signing with Wonpil— he’s never once pressured you to communicate with him verbally, never made you feel like you were difficult despite the communication barrier. If anything, he’s always been the one to meet you halfway, putting in the effort to learn sign, to slow down whenever he’s speaking, to keep his pencil and music book with him in case he ever needed to write something for you, until eventually, you stopped feeling the need to rely on your voice to talk to him.

Kim Wonpil is too kind, which is why right now, the moment you reach home, the first thing you do is to pull out your cochlear case. 

You’ve been thinking about it for a while, and with the date of the play approaching, you figure you should probably try to get used to your everyday sounds first. That also meant hearing Wonpil’s voice for the first time, and for a moment, you let yourself wonder what he could sound like.

Warm, probably. Gentle. Maybe a little breathy when he laughs due to how big his grins usually get. You’d never be able to get the full picture even with your implants on, that much you knew, but it’s close enough— close enough to be him, and you’d take what you can get.

And suddenly, you feel like the you from many years ago, nervous to start school for fear of being different, only this time, it isn’t the world that feels overwhelming.

It’s how you feel for him.

You carefully drag the last tree into place before you take a step back on the stage, searching the completed set-up for any adjustments.

The assembly hall has always been colourful to begin with, but all the cardboard foliage and felt trees has made the room brighter, in a way.

You feel a sense of pride wash over you. Even though you’ve been involved in the annual play since you started working here, somehow, it feels different this time.

The silence of the hall is interrupted when you hear the doors open, followed by children shuffling in noisily as they sing,

“Line up, line up, one by one!”

You’d forgotten that that’s how things usually work around here; how the teachers would use an instructional song for every task because it made managing the kids a little easier. Even though you haven’t worn your processors in a while, you could recognise the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as the children sang-

But then, a voice cuts through.

Easy. Light.

That makes you turn around immediately.

“Left foot, right foot, don’t you run-”

The kids follow, some off-beat, some a little too loud, and Wonpil laughs.

That’s when it shifts.

Because even through the distortion, even through the sharpness, the sound spreads warm… and unmistakably his.

As if on cue, Wonpil meets your gaze, his lips instantly blooming into a wide grin as he waves at you, but his smile drops slightly when he notices your ears, almost like he’s confused.

You know he wants to approach you, but his attention is quickly stolen by his students asking him to continue the song. You quickly leave the stage— rehearsal will be starting soon, and you’d be able to catch him later anyway.

It takes a couple of minutes to get the kids ready in formation, even with the help of the other teachers. Wonpil only takes his place at the keyboard when the lights start to dim, and out of instinct, he takes one last glance over his shoulder to look at you, now standing at the back of the hall. In the dark, he can’t really make out your features, but he smiles anyway, though it’s mostly to ward off his own jitters. It’s probably the nerves building up to the actual day of the play which is only a week away from now, but more than that, it’s also the first time he’d be playing the entire production in front of you. And especially now that you’ve got your processors on…

Wonpil isn’t given the time to dwell on that fact before he receives the cue to start, though he knows you’d probably be sitting at the back of his mind regardless.

You always do.

His fingers fly across the keys like he’s practiced for the past couple of months. The stage, though, is anything but controlled.

One of the caterpillar kids is facing the wrong way. A sunflower is waving at an audience who isn’t even there yet, and the line he spent more than five minutes drilling earlier dissolves within seconds.

Still, they keep going, guided more by enthusiasm than timing, and despite the missed cues and uneven steps, there’s something so earnest in the way the kids move, unpolished and real.

Wonpil smiles to himself.

And out of instinct, he glances over again to look at you.

But you’re not there anymore.

He turns back to this keyboard, trying to ignore the worry that’s starting to bloom in his chest. You’re okay, right? Maybe you needed to take something from the classroom? Or the garden. You probably just needed to go to the washroom.

Shit. Wonpil knows he could make up all the excuses he wants, but nothing could stop his uneasiness, because he knows.

He knows how uncomfortable wearing your processors are. He knows how noisy it gets, how you’d get headaches just from trying to process sound alone. He might not know exactly what you go through, but the fact that you don’t wear them on the daily is enough for him to understand.

“Mr. Kim?”

Wonpil blinks out of his thoughts, only to realise everyone is staring at him— including the kids on stage, no longer dancing as they wait for his cue. He looks down to his hands, resting idly on the keys.

“Oh,” he mutters before clearing his throat. “Oh- sorry.”

A giggle sounds on stage. “Teacher Wonpil, you’re silly!”

Despite himself, he chuckles. “Yes. Sorry, everyone!” He calls out, louder. “Shall we take a water break?”

There’s a chorus of agreements as the children skip to their water bottles, and Wonpil gives the teachers an apologetic smile before he excuses himself out of the hall.

That’s exactly where he finds you.

“Hey.”

You look up, lips tugging into a smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes like it usually does.

Wonpil exhales softly. Are you okay?

You nod. “I just needed some air.”

Your hands are clasped together in front of you, and that’s when he realises— you're no longer wearing both of your processors.

You must’ve noticed his staring. “I… wanted to hear you,” you admit quietly. “I haven’t used these in a while, so my ears haven’t really gotten used to it yet,” you chuckle as you fiddle with the one of the implants in your hands, then looking past his shoulder to peek into the assembly hall. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

A beat.

“I wanted to see you if you were okay.”

Your lips part at that, as though having not expected his response.

“Wonpil, I-,” you pause, shaking your head as you rephrase your next words. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to- I didn’t mean to interrupt-”

“Why are you apologising?”

You go quiet.

“It’s not fair,” he continues, frustrated. “It’s not fair that you had to push yourself like that. You shouldn’t have to, given everything you’ve done for the kids.”

Your heart skips at his words.

You’ve never had someone be so… passionate about your comfort.

Still, you chuckle. “I don’t expect the world to cater to me, Wonpil. Seeing the kids happy is what matters most.”

Wonpil’s heart clenches at that— how are you still smiling? After everything?

“But you matter too,” he mutters under his breath.

Your brows shoot up. You’re not sure if you’d heard him correctly, if you'd read his lips properly, and as if reading your mind, carefully, he raises his hands to sign, clearer, this time.

You matter to me.

You haven’t seen Wonpil since the last rehearsal.

With only a few days left to the play, it’s understandable— he’s probably been occupied with practicing with the kids, if not by himself. You know he’s a perfectionist, even for something seemingly simple as a children’s play.

You also haven’t worn your processors since, deciding there’s no use in trying to strain yourself. You’re still on the fence about wearing them on the day itself, but that’ll be a bridge you’d cross when you get to it— regardless, you’re sure you’d enjoy the show either way.

You hum to yourself as you tend to the peonies in the garden. Amidst all the production preparations, you haven’t been in a while, and somewhere along the way, your flowers have finally bloomed fully, petals unfurling in soft shades of pink. You’re suddenly reminded of Wonpil from a few weeks ago, clumsily hovering over the soil, hands too careful for someone who clearly has no idea what he’s doing-

And there you go again. You’re thinking of him. Again.

It’s easy to come to terms with your feelings for Kim Wonpil, but admitting it out loud? Not so much. If anything, the thought of telling him hasn’t even crossed your mind— maybe because things have always been easy for the both of you. Natural, that there’s never been a need for you to question it.

Until now, that is.

Because now that you do, you can’t help but wonder if telling him would change anything. If it’d make things… strange. You do work together, after all.

You decide to file that thought for another time— the sun is setting, and you might get chased out by the security guard if you don’t hurry and pack up.

You step back into the building to fetch your bag you left in the classroom, but your attention is quickly stolen by the fact that the assembly hall lights are still on.

Wonpil doesn’t see you when you stand at the door, his back to you as he sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with something in front of him.

You knock once. 

He turns around, slightly startled, before he realises that it’s just you.

“Hi.” He’s slightly breathless as he stands up. “You’re still here?” He asks, a little too quickly.

You tilt your head as you slowly step in. You too, you sign.

Wonpil grins sheepishly. “Yeah. I was just… testing something.” He motions awkwardly to the set-up behind him.

His keyboard sits next to the stage, like it has been for the past few rehearsals, though the lone speaker on the floor— the thing you realise he’s been tampering with earlier— is a new addition you haven’t seen before. You highly doubt it belongs to the school seeing as the hall already has a built-in PA system, so you figure it must belong to Wonpil personally; though you can’t really figure out why he even needs it in the first place.

It’s nothing, he adds, like he knew you were going to ask. Are you leaving already?

You nod.

Okay. Let me… He turns around, clumsily turning off his set-up before picking up his bag. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

A small chuckle escapes your lips, mostly at how weird he’s being, given he’s mixing up both his speech and sign, like he doesn’t know which one to use today. Are you sure you’re okay?

“Yeah! Yeah. Just-” He pauses, switching to his hands. Nervous.

You nod, beaming. You’ll be fine. I know you’ll do great.

Wonpil laughs before muttering under his breath, “that’s not what I’m worried about, though.”

You tilt your head, motioning for him to repeat. You hadn’t caught what he said.

But he only smiles, shaking his head. Nothing.

And he knows you’re unconvinced, but you choose to let it go anyway.

Wonpil exhales a quiet sigh of relief.

That was close.

The seats in the hall are slowly starting to fill with parents, and from his place by the door, Wonpil swallows nervously.

He’s been in a fit of jitters since he woke up this morning— it’s been a while since he last performed in front of a crowd, and even though this is nothing compared to the larger-scale events he’s done in the past, there’s still something so nerve-wracking about trying not to mess up in front of an audience.

Wonpil checks the time. About five more minutes before the doors would close, and he’d have to take his place below the stage, right in front of everybody.

He swallows again.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to see you.

You look different today, in a white dress dotted with tiny flowers and a blue wool cardigan in place of your usual tee and jeans. The colours of your outfit sort of matches his, he realises, and before Wonpil could even chide himself for how silly it is to be thinking about that right now— he sees the processors on your ears, peeking out slightly from behind your hair.

You must’ve noticed his staring.

“Hey.” You pat his arm, and his eyes meet yours again. “Don’t worry. I’ll be alright.”

“I-” Wonpil pauses before he shakes his head, switching to his hands. I want to show you something, he clumsily signs.

You tilt your head.

Now?

He nods, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no more parents are arriving before he takes your wrist, leading you inside.

In hindsight, he knows he should’ve asked first— holding your hand like this out of the blue is kind of weird… even if he might not necessarily hate it.

But he’d overthink about that another time. Right now, the both of you stand before one of the chairs in the audience— specifically, the first one in the front row, right behind where his keyboard is set up. You notice your nameplate on the seat immediately, your name scribbled in colourful crayon and framed with crooked flowers. It was from an activity in the younger class you did a few weeks ago, to make one for each teacher as part of their contribution to the play. You’d expected to see it today, of course.

Just… not here.

You smile at him, confused. This isn’t my seat.

Wonpil shrugs as he purses his lips, like he’s trying to hold back a wide smile. I made some changes.

And that’s when you notice it— the same speaker you saw from last week, now tucked beneath your chair, the cable plugged in from its back just long enough to reach Wonpil’s set-up. The circular front presses slightly against one of the chair’s legs, like it’s deliberate. Like… it’s meant to be there.

The lights start to dim.

“I gotta go,” Wonpil mutters before you could say anything. A pause. Wish me luck?

You’re still in the midst of processing everything, processing how he did this for you, but quickly, you reach out for his wrist before he could turn away.

And there, right above his pulse, you trace with your finger,

I’ll be right here.

Just in case he needed reminding.

Wonpil smiles at that, a little pink, before he nods shyly and takes his place in front of you.

You take a sharp breath as you settle in your own seat, your leg resting slightly against the speaker under you. And before you could second-guess yourself, you take off your processors, letting them rest on your lap.

The room falls into silence.

And then— the first note.

You can’t hear it, but it reaches you anyway, the low, steady vibration travelling from the speaker, through your chair, and finally… into you. It goes on continuously, until it turns into a rhythm you can follow.

Just like that, you understand.

Just like that, you don’t feel like you’re missing out on anything at all.

The school has settled into a comfortable quiet this time of night. You didn’t need to hear to know— you could feel it in the way the hallways have dimmed, in the way the air is stiller. Calmer.

It’s gotten colder, too. The leaves of your crops and the petals of your flowers sway softly with the gentle breeze, making you shiver just a little bit. You wrap your cardigan tighter around your frame.

The door swings open, and out steps Wonpil, still catching his breath, hair slightly out of place, energy spilling out of him before he could even utter a word.

“That was- did you- okay, wait, the second part- I think I messed it up a little bit but I don’t think anyone noti-”

He stops mid-sentence when he finally looks at you, properly.

You’re already looking at him, of course, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“Oh,” Wonpil exhales softly. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot. Um.” He raises his arms to prepare to sign, only to shake his head in the end as he steps towards you instead, slowly reaching for your wrist.

The second time that night.

He traces your palm.

You felt it?

You meet his eyes. They seem to glimmer in the moonlight.

You nod. I did.

“That’s a relief,” he exhales, his usual grin making its way back to his lips. “I was so scared it wouldn’t work out. That speaker, I had to drag it from my parents’ studio-”

“Wonpil.”

“Right- my parents’ studio…” He trails off as he attempts to sign the words, but you quickly catch his hands with yours. That gets his attention.

Finally.

You turn his hand slightly, opting to write the words on the inside of his palm, because saying it— even signing it— out loud feels too much for your heart to handle, but after tonight, after everything, you don't think you could keep it in anymore.

I like you.

He blinks.

Once. Then twice.

Like he’s forgotten to do anything else.

Until eventually, he exhales slowly. “Yeah?”

You nod. And because you feel a little braver now, you lift your hands to sign.

A lot.

Finally, he exhales a laugh, somewhere between a mix of disbelief and relief, before shaking his head at himself.

“Gosh, I-” He stops himself. I like you too, he signs, slower this time. Careful. More certain. And then, softer,

I think I have for a while.

And just like that, you understand him— completely, effortlessly, the way you always have.