"Not yet," he gave a small smile through pain.

"Ready?" you asked, stepping forward. "You can use your webs this time,"

He nodded. "Got it. You go first."

"Big mistake." You lunged, and to your surprise, he barely dodged that. When she swept, he flipped over her leg effortlessly, landing safely. She ran to him, stepping on his thigh, gaining momentum to kick him faster, catching him off guard.

"Okay—ouch." he rubbed his ribs, hizzing. "Was that even legal?"

"Winning isn't illegal," you said.

"I meant the move," he took an opportunity when you laughed to lunge himself this time, the web-shooter flicking just fast enough to stick on your wrist.

You were quick to release yourself, gaining for a second time momentum before slamming him onto the mat with a clean shoulder roll.

Juhoon simply lay there for a second, hearing the echo of his impact through the room. "You're supposed to be teaching me, not trying to kill me."

"That was the lesson, it's not my fault you keep making the same mistake."

"Oh yeah?" He shot another web right to your ankle, pulling you and yanking you forward. When you try to kick him, he completely takes control when he twists it and slams you to the floor with him on top.

You could feel your heartbeat pounding between you two, oblivious to how his hand was around your waist, and the other one was tangled in the strap of your tank top.

"So, uh... lesson learned?"

You blinked up at him, then smirked just slightly. "Maybe."

"So I won?"

You scoffed, pushing against his chest. He was taller and slightly stronger than you, so that push did nothing, even more with your lack of force. "Barely."

"That's not a no," he said. Your eyes accidentally looked at his; your eyes had finally no bite in them.

"Stop looking at me like that," you said, stepping back and finally standing up to grab your water. He followed soon after.

"Like what?"

"Like you just discovered gravity or something."

He smiled at the distance. "More like I'm defying it."

"Seriously? A Wicked reference?" you groaned, a small smile forming on your lips, which made him tap his own back in his mind.

"Again," you said, setting your water bottle on the table. "You still telegraph your right hook."

"Okay. But I'm getting closer."

"Keep dreaming, Ju."

He got into position, arms raised, focused. For a moment, neither of you spoke, just the sound of feet shifting on the mat, mixing with both of your heavy breathing. Then he moved first, faster than before. You blocked once, twice, until he faked left, pivoted, and before you could recover, he caught your wrist, spun you around, and pinned your arms behind your back in one fluid motion.

You blinked, startled. “You—”

“Won,” he breathed, voice low near your ear. You turned your head slightly, eyes catching his in the reflection of the mirror beside the mat. His gaze flicked downward—just once—to your lips.

And for one reckless second, you did the same. The silence stretched thin, full of all the things you’d both been pretending not to feel.

"Hey," your heads snapped to the door. Seonghyeon stood there with his bow slung casually across his shoulder, wearing the smuggest grin imaginable. "Is this the right way to do combat training?"

“Relax, Robin Hood. We were sparring.”

"Yeah, absolutely." Juhoon quickly said, walking fast to his backpack before walking through the door. "See you tomorrow, guys."

"Spidey!" you said, slowly doing the same, tapping on his shoulder. "You did it well today." He smiled at you,

"You always do a good job, so... you also did it well today." Your heart beat slightly faster while watching how he walked away after his so comforting words. You felt Seonghyeon right next to you, his arm going to your shoulder.

"You did it well today, Juhoon. We have to kiss right now, Juhoon." You elbowed his stomach, trying to hide your face.

"Cut the crap, Eom."

It was usual to take your time packing your things, not feeling the collective sense of urgency to leave like your classmates. Your fingers smoothed over the edge of your notebook before placing it carefully into your bag, aligning it with the others out of habit. The late afternoon sun had begun to settle low once you stepped outside, turning the dust in the courtyard into something almost golden.

As per usual, the boys had taken over the field, running without restraint while their shoes kicked up dry earth with every turn. The girls stayed closer to the edges, gathered in small groups to keep their past conversations going, or simply watched them play.

“Did you hear about Sunhee?” Near you, two girls stood close together, speaking in hushed tones.

The other leaned in. “No—what happened?”

“She was seen walking with—” Despite how badly you wanted to know that piece of information, your attention was diverted for longer than you’d care to admit

He stood in the corridor with a teacher in front of him. His uniform was perfectly neat; the dark jacket sat straight across his shoulder, the brass buttons catching the light as he moved. The only thing that barely messed up his polished self was a faint trace of chalk along one of his sleeves, as though he had brushed against the board earlier without noticing.

He gave the teacher his full attention, his posture straightening almost instinctively. When the teacher finished speaking, he bowed—clean and measured, neither exaggerated nor careless.

“Yes, sir.” Despite the low tone, it was clear enough to reach where you stood.

The teacher gave a short nod. “Make sure you review that section again. You were close.”

“I will,” Another bow, smaller this time, and the teacher moved on.

You were too immersed to notice how Wonhee nudged your arm lightly beside you. “You’re not listening at all today.”

You blinked, turning toward her. “I am.”

She didn’t believe you, but she let it go. “We’re going to the market later. Are you coming?”

“Maybe.”

“You always say that.” A faint smile appeared on your face, your attention already drifting back. This time, he had stepped down into the courtyard, now joining the others. 

“Juhoon! Don’t just stand there!” A boy whom you recognized as Seonghyeon threw him a ball, and the catch was so easy that it made his friends cheer him on.

“Hey,” The voice from Yunah softly broke in as she followed your gaze. “Who are you looking at?”

“No one,” you answered a little too quickly.

“Are you looking at Kim Juhoon?” The bell rang sharply, a clear cue to dissolve the moment into motion again before you can answer. Students began to move toward the gates, voices blending in familiar patterns. 

Trying to keep up with the conversation between your two friends was a little hard as you nodded at the right moments and offered brief responses when needed. It wasn’t difficult to stay present enough that no one questioned you; it was your forte, even when part of your attention was somewhere else.

And yet, just before all three reached the gate, you turned your head just enough to find him again.

Kim Juhoon… that’s a pretty name for a pretty boy. The name settled more easily in your mind than you expected.

At the time, you didn’t think much of it. Names were just names, and people existed around you every day without leaving any real impression. So why was there something about him that seemed so different that it stuck with you a little longer than usual? In a way, that should have been the end of it, but when your eyes noticed him again the next day, you knew it wasn’t.

It was surprising that it was not deliberate; you weren’t looking for him. Simply more aware of where people stood, how they moved, and of the small changes that others overlooked. It was an action you had always done without thinking.

He sat near the front during morning assembly. Again, back straight, right through the teacher’s speech, which was longer than necessary. He definitely carried the idea of the ideal student when you saw him ignore his friend’s whisper and keep his gaze forward.

Later, in class, you realized he wrote quickly—but never carelessly. He didn’t pause to think of what to write; he paused to make sure it was right.

“Why do you keep looking over there? It has been a couple of days.” You startled slightly, turning to Wonhee, who had already caught you in the act.

“I’m not.”

It didn’t take long for her to stop where your gaze fell. “You totally are.”

“I was just thinking.”

“About him?” she asked, not bothering to lower her voice as much this time.

“... No.”

Yunah leaned forward from the other side, resting her chin lightly on her hand. “It’s not a bad choice,” she said, almost thoughtfully. “He’s pretty, but not… reliable.”

“That’s what you’re looking for?” Wonhee teased.

“It’s what everyone is looking for,” Yunah replied simply.

It was the first time you didn't respond because you weren’t sure that was really what you were sensing. As days passed by, it happened more often that you even began to recognize patterns.

He arrived earlier than most and always from the same direction, would greet the teachers properly, even when others only bowed halfway or not at all, and most importantly, he studied quietly, talked briefly and to the point, and became his friendly self when he was with his usual group of friends.

Once, you saw him lend a pencil to another student without being asked without making a point of it or wait for thanks—just passed it over and returned to his work. Another time, during a short break where Wonhee spoke about his interaction with Keonho, his friends tried to pull him into a game.

“Juhoon, come on. Just one round.”

“I can’t,” he replied, who you believed was Seonghyeon.

“Again?”

“I have some stuff to finish.”

“Tell us something we don’t know.” At that, he gave a small, almost apologetic smile, not moving from his seat. Due to the look on his face, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to join them; it was that he chose not to.

“Again? It’s like a million times today.” Wonhee murmured, barely hiding her teasing smile.

“No!”

“You were.”

“I’m not.” Yunah glanced between the two of you, then back toward him. “If you’re going to look, at least be less obvious.”

“I’m not being obvious,” the tone was gentler, eating one piece of kimbap to keep you busy. Both of them looked at you. You sighed, mouth muffling your words. “…Am I?”

Wonhee smiled. “Only to us.”

That should have embarrassed you, but it didn’t. It was a matter of time before your brain noticed things before they happened—when he would stand, speak, and leave.

And you couldn’t escape the fact of his overall appearance. He was handsome, to say the least, with slightly large brown eyes that turned hazel in the light, and a wide smile that surfaced easily when his friend James made him laugh. His dark hair fell in a soft fringe over his forehead; his slim, graceful build made the structured uniform look both formal and effortless.

God, you even noticed the faint mole just below his right jawline, visible only when he turned his head a certain way, adding a quiet touch of character to his already youthful features. Each day, your brain seemed to dedicate itself to noticing him—to sensing the way youth sat on him so naturally, and how many people envied him while he didn’t even realize he carried it like a blessing.

His skin had that untroubled clarity to it, smooth and bright enough to catch the light when he smiled, making everything about him feel a little warmer—an almost ethereal contrast to the colder persona he tried to portray. As the sun went down, a faint, natural flush would rise softly to his cheeks, fleeting and unfair in the way it made him look younger—or perhaps exactly his age, in the most disarming way.

And when he did smile? Oh, his smile.

His lips curved depending on the moment—slightly downturned at rest when he was holding back a thought or a joke—but that only made his smiles feel more genuine when they came. And it wasn’t just the smile itself—it was how quickly it arrived, how it slipped out before he could stop it. It was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who hadn’t yet learned to measure every reaction, to dull things down for the sake of composure.

There was a carelessness to him—not reckless, it was mostly unaware. As if he hadn’t yet realized how closely the world could look at you. He moved without that weight; the way he stood once as he waited for a girl outside another classroom gave him away. There was a loose rhythm to him, a slight swing of his arms, trusting that the ground would meet him every time. He didn’t hold himself like someone trying to be seen, especially outside of school; his shoulders stayed relaxed, his posture easy and unforced.

And then there were the small, unconscious habits that made him feel younger than he probably realized. The way he leaned in when his friends goofed around, how his fingers tapped absentmindedly against his sleeve when he was thinking, or how he tilted his head just slightly when it intrigued him. That one was your favorite.

He didn’t really guard himself; even when that colder expression crossed his face and pulled his features into a more distant portrayal, it never fully held. Something always shone through: a flicker in his eyes, a half-formed smile, a softness that refused to disappear.

Maybe that was why people noticed him without meaning to—why you felt almost hypnotized the first time you saw him. That contradiction made people like you look twice. Because, in your mind, youth—real youth—wasn’t just in smooth skin or bright eyes. It was in the way everything about him felt unfinished in the best possible sense. Just like you, he was still shifting and unaware of which parts of himself would stay and which would fade.

And the strangest part? He didn’t seem to know it at all. It came to him naturally, the same way you had always noticed shifts before anyone else did.

Only now did the shift have a name: Kim Juhoon.

JUHOON’s POV

July 23rd, 1960

He adjusted the strap of his bag as he stepped onto the road, the noise of the school fading behind him, replaced by the softer sounds of animals. The path home was familiar enough that he didn’t need to think about it, leaving his mind free to return to more pressing matters. The math test. He replayed the last question, frowning slightly.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the ground if you keep thinking like that.” Keonho caught up to him, hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

“It wasn’t difficult. I just didn’t answer it as well as I should have.”

Keonho chuckled. “You say that every time, and you get it right.”

“Because I’m usually right.”

“See? That’s the problem. You’re always right, and it’s still not enough.” Juhoon didn’t respond, focused on kicking a pebble instead, until Keonho nudged him. “By the way—”

“What?”

“There’s a girl who keeps looking at you.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen it. In class. She’s always—” he gestured vaguely, “—watching.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not. The quiet girl by the window—the one with the binyeo. She’s been looking at you for at least a month.”

That made him pause, a binyeo? Then he nudged Keonho back, sharper this time. “So you’ve been paying more attention to her than your lessons?”

Keonho scoffed. “I’m a loyal man. My heart’s already taken—by one of her friends.” Juhoon let out a short laugh, lowly at first, then louder at the faint color rising to Keonho’s cheeks.

When the laughter died down, Juhoon looked ahead. “…I know who you mean.”

“See?”

“But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not. But it’s still interesting.”

Juhoon shook his head, his expression settling. “It’s not.”

Keonho sighed. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s not my concern.”

They reached the turn where their paths split, and the youngest gave him a friendly pat on his back. “Don’t think about the test all night! You’ll survive one mistake.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” As Keonho left, Juhoon continued alone, though the conversation occupied his mind longer than expected.

He was used to Keonho’s teasing—that was easy to ignore. The mention of the girl wasn’t. She was mute during lessons; that much was true. He had seen her with her friends: she was more expressive, although never enough to catch anyone’s attention—except for those who were already looking at her, and she was composed and always stayed that way. She perfectly blended herself into the background—unless you chose to notice.

And until now, he hadn’t.

The thought had already begun to fade once he reached his street. His grandmother stood outside the gate, adjusting a basket of tangerines, the bright color standing out against the muted tones of the yard.

“Grandma, you should’ve called me.”

She clicked her tongue softly at the sight of him taking the basket from her, though she let him. “You just came back from school, and I can still carry a few tangerines.”

“They’re not light,” he replied, steadying the weight in his arms.

“And neither are you,” she said, eyeing him briefly. “You’ve grown again.”

He didn’t answer that, only shifted the basket more securely before stepping inside with her.

From the kitchen, the faint sound of his mother already preparing the evening meal, and the smell of a soup simmering drifted into the courtyard.

“You’re back?” she said without turning fully. “Wash your hands soon.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Took you long enough.” Juhoon glanced over. His older brother, Soobin, sat with one knee pulled up, a book resting loosely in his hand. He wasn’t really reading it—just flipping through pages like he had nowhere else to be.

“I walked home,” Juhoon said.

“With Keonho?” Soobin asked lowly with the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes.”

“Mm.” The tall one nodded once, convinced. “Then I guess you were talking the whole way.”

Juhoon set the basket down with a quiet exhale. “Not the whole way.”

“Of course not,” Soobin said lightly. “I used to take that one to forget that I have exams coming up.”

Juhoon rolled his sleeves back slightly. “I didn’t forget.”

“I know,” Soobin replied, finally looking up at him properly. “You never do.”

Their mother glanced between them briefly without interrupting, continuing what she was doing right after she gave a kiss on his cheek. He could hear the faint rustle of newspaper pages turning, marking their father’s presence in the living room, remaining silent as he digested the news.

Juhoon moved to wash his hands, the cool water running over his fingers before he dried them clean and grabbed the utensils.

“So, how was the test?”

“I think I made a mistake.”

Soobin let out a small breath through his nose. “You say that like the world’s ending.”

“I know it’s not, but I can’t stop thinking about it,” Juhoon said.

“Good, then just fix it next time.”

The smile he gave him was comforting enough that he copied it. “I will. Don’t worry about it.”

“Obviously,” Soobin said, leaning back slightly. “You’d bother me all week if you didn’t.”

“Everyone! Dinner’s ready.”

“Going,” Juhoon slowed, just a step behind the others, to help his grandma stand up from her rocking chair. “Wow, Grandma. You are getting better at drawing.”

His tone was light, almost teasing, but his grandmother formed a pleased smile. “You think so?”

He nodded, reaching down to steady her arm as she rose. “These are different.”

Up close, the flowers were more detailed than he first thought. Due to his grandma’s drawing abilities, they weren’t just simple petals—clusters layered carefully, and each one slightly uneven. The tiny, round buds gathered together, with faint lines suggesting stems or threads holding them in place.

“They’re pretty,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“They are, I saw them at the market.”

Juhoon paused. “How? It’s really hard to get flowers at times like this.”

She hummed, taking a slow step forward with his help. “A girl helped me carry the basket on the bus. It was brief since she had to do something.” Her eyes softened, recalling it. “But the flowers stayed in my mind. So I drew them before I forgot.”

“A girl?” 

His grandmother chuckled. “Don’t sound so interested all of a sudden.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly.

“They were in her hair. A binyeo.” She gestured faintly with her free hand. “Soft colors. Pink, maybe. You know, I’ve never seen a piece so pretty since your grandfather gifted me one.”

Juhoon glanced back at the notebook. Soft pink, clustered, and carefully placed without looking messy. The same vague image brushed against his thoughts again.

“You remembered all that just from seeing her once?”

“You don’t always choose what you remember. Some things just settle in and stay.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached over and gently closed the notebook, focusing on getting his grandma to the table.

“Let’s go.” They moved toward the others, slowing down for her.

Juhoon kept his gaze forward. It didn’t matter. A random girl with a binyeo and his grandmother’s sketch. That was all it was. And yet, as he walked, the image stayed—clearer and more defined than it had any right to be.

He exhaled quietly, the sudden distraction bothering him. He wouldn’t let something that small take up space in his mind. And yet, it did.

Dinner passed in its usual rhythm. The clink of chopsticks against metal bowls, exchanging a few small remarks, his mother asking if the kimchi had enough salt, his father folding the newspaper only after finishing the last column—nothing out of place or worth remembering.

Juhoon answered when spoken to, ate what was given, and kept his posture straight without thinking of it. The conversation drifted around him more than it included him, but that had always been the case, and the same went for his brother. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just pretty normal.

Still, somewhere between one bite and the next, his grandmother’s words returned.

“You don’t always choose what you remember.”

He frowned faintly, lowering his gaze to his bowl. That didn’t make sense. Memory wasn’t random—it followed logic, repetition, and importance. That’s what he believed and how he studied; you focused on what mattered, and the rest faded.

That was how it should be.

“Juhoon.”

He looked up. “I’m sorry, yes?”

“You’re thinking again,” his mother kindly said, her hand fixing his hair. “Please focus on your food.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, almost automatically.

Soobin let out a soft laugh. “Your mind must be busy today, huh?”

Juhoon didn’t argue this time; his brother knew him too well.

After dinner, he gathered the empty bowls, stacking them neatly before bringing them into the kitchen. The warm water stung slightly against his hands as he washed them. As soon as he finished, the house had settled into its usual calm state. His father had returned to his reading; his mother moved more slowly now as she put things away, and his grandmother’s soft humming drifted faintly from the other room before she turned the TV on.

Juhoon dried his hands and stepped outside; it was his usual routine to prepare himself for a long night. The cool air of the evening brought him enough comfort to ease his mind, as he pleasantly enjoyed the faint edge that came just before night fully settled in. The sky was darker now, the last traces of light barely holding onto the horizon, and somewhere down the street, he could hear a radio playing softly. 

He exhaled, letting the peace sit with him, leaning back slightly against the wooden post behind him, arms crossing loosely. This was the part of the day he preferred when everything slowed enough for him to organize his thoughts properly before studying, taking his time to close his eyes and breathe deeply, just like he used to see his grandma do.

Despite his efforts, that binyeo came back to his head. Juhoon clicked his tongue softly under his breath, annoyed at himself this time. It didn’t make sense for him to think about it. 

Most of the people he knew who wore that particular hairpiece were adult married women, which is why it made her recognizable in a community where braids and ponytails were standard, which was exactly why it stayed in his mind longer than it should have. That was the reason it made sense to him.

Juhoon opened his eyes again, gaze settling past the low wall, though he wasn’t really looking at anything in particular. The image remained vague—more impression than detail—he shifted slightly against the post, uncrossing his arms before crossing them again, as if adjusting his posture might also settle his thoughts. It didn’t. Maybe his grandmother had misremembered.

That was possible. Ever since the day her mother decided to take care of her because of her age, he saw how his grandmother’s mind was also slowly aging. She worked from memory when she drew, and her memory had a way of softening things, changing them without permission. Either the colors blurred, or the shapes shifted, but she had been so certain.

Juhoon exhaled slowly through his nose. It didn’t matter. 

An unfamiliar low hum of an engine interrupted his internal fight. Juhoon’s attention shifted immediately, his head turning slightly toward the road. The sound grew louder, then steadied before slowing.

A Sibal car came into view. Its headlights cut briefly across the wall before dimming as it pulled to a stop right in front of his house. The car wasn’t new, but it was well-kept, with clean lines and no visible damage, clear as the day that the owner cared for it. 

The driver’s door opened first, and a man stepped out, one polished shoe meeting the ground before the rest of him followed once the engine idled. He straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders to most likely ease the stiffness from the drive, closing the door with care, not letting it slam, and turned briefly toward the house across from Juhoon’s. His gaze scanned—taking in the gate, the small yard, the structure itself. Confirming.

Juhoon followed that line of sight instinctively. The “For Sale” sign was gone completely. He didn’t notice when the passenger door opened and someone emerged into his sight more slowly; what he did was catch the fading light from her hair. 

A half-up secured with a binyeo holding her hair neatly in place, with a soft detail at the end that caught what little light remained. Pink or something close to it. That’s when his eyes widen slightly.

The girl smoothed her skirt absentmindedly before glancing toward the unfamiliar surroundings, her quiet yet contained movement feeling too familiar, making it easy to connect the dots between the past conversations he had had. One of the streetlights made her face more visible, finally putting a face to the object.

She looked exactly like someone who had not yet realized she was being looked at; an unguarded youth settled on her naturally, from the ease of her posture to the softness that hadn’t been shaped into anything yet. Every feature of her delicate face conveyed a certain beauty that he couldn’t quite put his finger on from a distance; her slightly parted lips faced the street, as if these narrow roads and the houses would be the ones to watch her grow over the next few years, too busy taking it all in to think about being seen. Still, it felt difficult for him to look away once he had started, as though there was something in that unawareness that held him there longer than he intended.

While the light didn’t do her justice, at least not enough to define her features so much as to rest on them, he couldn’t help but notice the faintest trace of melancholy in the way her gaze moved slowly and observantly rather than bright with excitement. She didn’t fidget with the medium-sized cardboard box in her hands as most would, nor did she rush to follow her—presumably—father toward the entrance; instead, she remained where she was for a moment longer, existing within the stillness, carrying a composure that didn’t feel practiced, only natural.

It made her seem older at first glance, and yet, the longer he looked, the clearer it became that it was the opposite—that this quiet steadiness was part of her youth, not separate from it, and very unrefined and unguarded in a way that made it all the more real.

It happened without warning—the moment her gaze lifted and met his.

For a second, neither of them moved, the distance between the two houses collapsing into a gap far smaller than it should have been. Up close—or as close as that distance allowed—there was a flicker in her expression, realizing she was no longer alone in her observation. Her eyes widened slightly, the composure slipping just enough to reveal the girl beneath it, and just as quickly as it appeared, she looked away, the motion small yet immediate.

“Sweetheart, come take a look!” the man spoke, and her shift was sudden. She adjusted her hold on the box, almost too quickly now, and without sparing another glance, she turned and moved toward the gate, her steps no longer as unhurried as before. The door opened, then closed behind her, and just like that, she was gone.

Juhoon remained where he was. A coincidence, that’s all. It wasn’t unusual to see people move. Houses changed owners, and the streets were meant not to stay the same forever. There was no reason for this to feel like anything more than that.

From inside, he heard the faint creak of his own front door.

“Juhoon?” his mother called lightly. “Who is it?”

He turned his head slightly. “New neighbors.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a father and his daughter. The man came in the afternoon to move their stuff.” She spoke again, the leftover kimbap from his hand going to his mouth after his words.

There was a brief pause before his brother stepped out with Grandma by her side to see for herself. “Ah… I see. Hopefully, they are kind.”

Across the street, the man came out again, noticing them looking directly at their property, and gave a polite nod, one that his mother returned almost immediately. And by the look on her face, a proper introduction would come later. He stepped back, turning toward the door, the moment already beginning to close in the most uneventful way ever. As he entered his room, partially ready to study, his gaze went to his window.

There she was again, this time with more comfortable clothing, her hair completely loose, a few strands falling softly against her face as she moved about the room without urgency. The light inside her house was warmer, embracing everything about her, making her seem even more distant despite being closer than before. She continued unpacking, and Juhoon stood there for a moment longer than necessary before looking away.

It was nothing. Just a neighbor across the street, someone he happened to go to the same high school, and there was no reason to think about it beyond this, especially since there were more important things waiting for him. Pop quizzes and exams didn’t allow room for distractions, and he had never been the kind to create them for himself.

After a quick shower, he pulled his chair back, opening his notebook to the same page from earlier. The numbers were still there, waiting for him to do what he always did—focus, correct, and move forward.

It would have been impossible to avoid your friends’ questions about the move when you had spent the whole week talking about it, only to fall silent now. You hadn’t gotten used to having Juhoon as a neighbor yet, much less expected that, out of everyone, it would be him—the one who had already unsettled your heart.

Every morning for the past week and a half, the new street became familiar as you created your own route to avoid him, making your usual stop before going to school. 

Whenever you entered, it was usually the same noise—some mornings heavy with the low-energy vibration of a Monday morning, others softened by the sunlight filtering through the tall windows, dust drifting in golden haze.

You sat at your desk near the window as usual, when two chairs suddenly scraped close. The sight of Wonhee and Yunha leaning over your desk with their eyes bright with curiosity made you chuckle a little.

“So?” Wonhee whispered, “Did you see him this morning? Did he say anything?”

“No,” you murmured, pulling your literature textbook from your bag. “We’re just neighbors, it’s normal.”

“Normal doesn’t make you turn that shade of pink,” Yunah teased, resting her chin on her palm.

You didn’t answer because, at that moment, he walked in. As usual, he moved unhurriedly, his perfectly ironed gakuran-style jacket embracing his body. “Have you ever thought of confessing?”

Your head snapped toward her, “Are you insane? No.”

“You have an advantage. He’s your neighbor—” Yunha used her hands to emphasize her argument, disappointed in how you denied.

“I actually spoke with Keonho about you, so we can—” The confession made your pens drop, eyes shamefully wide. 

“You said something about my crush on him?” The whisper came out sharper than you intended.

“No!” Wonhee rushed. “He asked first! He noticed you looking at him. That’s when we started paying attention. We didn’t know about your feelings until now.”

Oh, God.

“Good norming, everyone. Let’s begin the class.” The teacher’s voice settled over the room firmly. Wonhee and Yunha exchanged one last look at you before retreating to their seats. You kept your eyes on your desk, heat still clinging to your skin.

The panic of one person knowing—one that was so close to him—and exposing you sent shivers down your spine. You didn’t dare look up, hearing the chalk tapping steadily against the board in the background. 

Normally, you would have followed along easily, but your hand remained still as that lingering thought began to press against your mind: He knows.

Or worse, Keonho might know, and he might say it.

The graphite hovered over the page before finally touching down. Each of the strokes was carefully written down your book slowly and unnaturally, but despite your efforts, your thoughts kept drifting.

“...open your notebooks and copy this down.” The teacher’s voice cut through your thoughts.

The notebook was pulled safely onto your desk before flipping it open. The soft rustle of the paper, accompanied by the sound of a few pens being unscrewed, was strangely comforting. 

“Is something wrong, Juhoon?” The teacher’s question made everyone look up, their pens pausing mid-writing as their attention drifted towards him without anyone saying a word. Yours included.

He was already half-standing from his seat, one hand inside his bag, the other pushing aside books with restrained urgency that didn’t match him.

“I—” he started, stopping abruptly. His brows drew together faintly. “I think I forgot my notebook.” 

A few people chuckled under their breath, his friends included. The teacher sighed, tapping the chalk once against the board before turning fully toward him. “You think, or you did?”

Juhoon glanced down at his bag again, as if the answer might appear if he searched hard enough. “I did.”

“Then borrow one,” the teacher replied, his back facing all of us. “And copy everything before the end of class.” 

“Y/N has an extra!” The tip of your pencil snapped faintly. Wonhee’s voice cut through the room with clarity, pulling every gaze toward you.

Warmth flooded your ears. “Wonhee—” you hissed. Yunah covered her mouth, barely containing a laugh, and Wonhee just looked satisfied with what he had done.

He was looking at you when you decided to turn around quietly to confirm rather than discovering anything new. As he approached, your heartbeat pounded faster.

The opportunity of laughing it off before denying it was there, and instead, you just sat there, fingers tightening around the broken pencil still in your hand. 

“Can I?” he asked, gesturing toward your bag.

Your mind lagged. “My—? Oh. Yes. I mean—yes.”

It felt like your back cracked as you turned, quickly leaving your broken pencil aside and reaching into your bag to pull the extra notebook your dad has insisted you bring “in case,” its cover still a little too stiff, matching its mostly untouched pages.

“Here.”

Unconsciously, your hand passed over the front once and brushed your fingers with his hand when he reached for it. It was so light you barely missed it if it wasn’t for Juhoon’s eyes on yours when it happened. You carefully pulled your hand back, missing how he slightly bowed with gratitude.

“Thank you.” He returned to his seat to gather the rest of his things, as nothing happened.

“Still nothing?” Yunha murmured, her gaze on you.

“Still noting.” Not even your voice believed that.

After four hours and finally resting in your house, the sky had turned into that beautiful blue of early night. It felt weird to see how the first few pages were no longer untouched, and his handwriting filled the top of one page neatly. It wasn’t special, and yet you stared at it longer than expected after finishing your homework.

The tip of your finger traced the faint indentations left behind by his pen, and your pencil found your hand before you thought about it

You didn’t think, just wrote it. Juhoon.

The name looked too intentional sitting there alone, so you draw a heart next to it. You stared at it, feeling your heart beating a little faster than it should have.

“Honey, dinner’s ready!” The door opened before you could react properly. Your dad stood there, clearly watching the way you jolted before placing your hand over the page and erasing everything at a speed that felt almost unnatural, closing the notebook to stop staring at it. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” you said, standing a little too fast. “Let’s go.”

Dinner moved around you without landing. Your dad’s voice carried stories from work, including late deliveries, conversations that slipped sideways. Still, guilt lingered in its place for not engaging like usual because your mind wasn’t fully there.

Chopsticks clicked softly against porcelain. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

“Just tired.” 

His gaze lingered on you as silence pressed in. “For what it’s worth, your mom used to get like that.”

“Like what?”

“Somewhere else,” he said, a faint smile threading through memory. “All the right answers, none of the attention.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know. Just thinking.” An ache rose to the point it was difficult to ignore. The chopsticks where placed next to your plate.

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

Your fingers pressed into the fabric of your pajama. “…How did you know you loved Mom?”

The room stilled, and the radio static hummed low like a distant echo. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, a habit he used to do when a memory settled over. “That’s a serious question.”

“Just want to know.” 

A nod. “At first? Nothing felt important.” 

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Just another familiar person whom I used to have occasional conversations with. Then, the details stayed in my mind.”

“Such as?”

“The way she laughed at things no one else noticed.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “The quiet around her when she thought. Also, the way she made space for people—even when space was all she had. None of that felt big back then, that’s the part no one tells.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s not sudden and loud. Stories get that wrong.”

“Then what?”

“Silent. So silent it’s easy to miss.”

Both of his elbows touched the table. His head was resting on top of his fists with his eyes fixed on the framed picture of them. “It shows up in habits. Wanting to tell her everything first. Wondering what she’d say, even when she’s gone. Remembering without trying.” His voice softened. “And then, everything begins to include her.”

“That sounds—”

“Complicated?” A small nod. “It can be. But back then, it wasn’t.”

“What did it feel like?”

A faint smile returned. “So familiar that it felt that it had always been there and I’d been blind this whole time.”

“And how you knew it wasn’t a phase?”

“Because I gave it a chance. Even when the chaos was everywhere, that feeling stayed.”

“And then?”

“I chose it.”

“Choose it?”

“Feelings arrive on their own. Staying doesn’t. At some point, a decision happens.”

“And if certainty isn’t there yet?”

“It doesn’t need to be. Not at the start. Just pay attention to what stays.” A pause. “Love isn’t about a face. It’s about what remains when everything else fades.”

The warmth of his palm brushed your cheek.

“A face catches attention,” he continued softly, “but a person keeps it. From the way they think to how they treat people, especially when they finally show you who they are when no one’s watching. That’s what makes someone real. And real—”

That small gesture, the one always used to pass the ending over. A laugh slipped out. “—is what stays.”

“Exactly.”

His hand dropped back to the table.“Plenty of people are easy to like from a distance,” he went on. “There’s no risk, responsibility, or need to show up. Closeness asks more, and not everyone’s willing to give that... If something lives in hesitation,” he said, “in almosts, in unsaid things, it doesn’t and won’t last. Maybe it never even begins. Love shouldn’t feel hidden or uncertain.”

He leaned back, reaching for the kimchi to balance the deep conversation. “The right person won’t leave you guessing when they know it’s the one; you won’t have background roles. That person must be next to you, upgrading you every single time.”

“That’s what you did with mom?”

A flicker of mischief crossed his face, “She actually didn’t make it hard. She shone so brightly that the sun was jealous.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was always meant to be seen. And I…” His two thumbs pointed at himself with a small shrug. “I just made sure she shone the way she deserved.”

The conversation stuck with you more than you meant it. You waited for him to leave your room after a kiss on the forehead once you both were ready to sleep for the next day, then opened your notebook again. The faint outline of a name was still visible beneath where you had tried to erase it, but you let it stay.

JUHOON’s POV

The afternoon hit when Juhoon finished copying what he annotated on his neighbor’s notebook, a clear indicator of it was that particular shade between evening and night in the sky he liked. It was time to return it.

He reached for his jacket first before entering the hallway, and his reflection caught him off guard. Juhoon’s eyes scan over himself—collar straight, hair not completely out of place, nothing noticeably off.

“I’m going out for a bit,” he called, already slipping his shoes on.

His mother’s voice followed from inside. “Don’t be long!”

“I won’t.”

The night air greeted him immediately, a few children here and there playing before dinner. He crossed without hesitation once he noticed her house had the lights on, lifting his gaze toward the window out of habit, stopping himself since there was no reason to look.

He knocked, clearly hearing footsteps approaching, and soon, the door opened, revealing her.

Up close, nothing changed—and yet, it did. Her hair was loose and partially wet, not as carefully arranged as it had been earlier in the week, a few strands resting against her face like they hadn’t decided where to settle. Her expression went from composed to slightly surprised.

“I—” He adjusted slightly, holding out the notebook. “I forgot to give you this.”

Her gaze dropped to it, then lifted back to him. “Oh.” She stepped forward just enough to take it from his hands. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, I didn’t realize I still had it,” he added, because it felt like it should be said.

“It’s okay, I didn’t need it today. Or any day, I just keep it just in case.”

He nodded once. “That’s good.”

“Oh! It’s you!” a voice cut in suddenly, bright and unmistakably familiar.

Juhoon turned slightly. His grandmother was already making her way across the street, her steps quicker than usual, one hand lifting in an excited wave.

He hadn’t even noticed her leave the house.

“My bus girl!” she said, her face lighting up the moment she reached the gate. There was no hesitation in her steps, no restraint in the way she approached and moved him out of the way. The girl blinked, clearly caught off guard for a second until recognition settled in.

“Grandma—” Juhoon started, but it was already too late.

“My dear!” his grandmother continued warmly, reaching out to gently take the girl’s hands without thinking twice. “It’s really you.”

“Hello, Miss. Kang,” Juhoon didn’t miss her smile and how she got comfortable with the touch of the elderly. That’s one pretty smile. “Are you doing well?”

“Well?” his grandmother repeated with a small laugh. “I’ve been waiting to see you again! You disappeared so quickly that day.”

“I didn’t disappear, I just had to get off,” she admitted, glancing down briefly. “I’m sorry.”

“For helping me and keeping me company for several months?” his grandmother shook her head. “You even carried my basket. I should be the one apologizing for being such a burden.”

“You will never be a burden to me, Miss. Kang. I love talking to you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” his grandmother continued. “You stayed with me the whole way.”

“It was nothing,” the girl replied.

“That’s what you say,” his grandmother smiled, squeezing her hands lightly. “But not many people would do the same.”

“…You know each other?” he asked.

His grandmother turned to him, almost amused. “Of course we do, are you not listening? She’s been keeping me company on the bus these past few weeks. Like I said, she’s quiet, but I love that! Those are the people who notice more.”

“You never said anything,” He heard a small chuckle from her, and she glanced briefly toward Juhoon before looking back at his grandmother.

“I didn’t know you lived here,” she said.

“Across the street,” his grandmother replied easily, gesturing behind her. “This is the grandson I spoke to you about.”

Only then did the connection settle fully. “Oh, I didn’t know she was your grandmother,” the girl murmured.

Juhoon straightened slightly, suddenly aware of his own presence again. “Well, I was just returning her notebook.”

“Yes, yes,” his grandmother nodded quickly, but her attention stayed on the girl. “You should come by sometime. I make good tea—better than the one on the bus, I promise.”

A small smile appeared, her fingers gently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’d love that. I can go with some cookies. I remember you like the lemon ones.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that would be lovely.” Then the girl stepped back slightly, adjusting the notebook in her hands as she bowed. “I should go. My father is waiting.”

“Of course,” his grandmother said, though there was a clear reluctance in her tone. “Don’t disappear again, hm?”

“I won’t. Have a good night, Miss. Kang. See you at school, Juhoon,” she replied softly.

“Night.” Her gaze flickered once more unintentionally toward Juhoon before she turned and stepped inside; the door closed gently behind her.

Juhoon exhaled lightly. “That was unnecessary,”

His grandmother glanced at him. “Was it?”

“You didn’t have to come over like that.”

“She would’ve left otherwise,” she replied simply.

“That’s fine,” he said. “I already returned it.”

“Walk with me,” she said. Since it wasn’t a question, he didn’t argue.

They moved down the street together, her pace naturally slower, his adjusting without effort. He knew the night had settled fully now when there weren’t any children on sight, windows started to dim, and the world was folding into itself after a long day.

He didn’t mind it. Walking beside her had always felt nice, knowing that at the end of it, she would let him vent without being judged by his father.

“You said she was quiet,” his grandmother began.

“She is,” he replied. “And serious. You just said that, as well.”

“Serious,” she repeated, a faint trace of amusement in her voice. “That’s what you see?”

“She doesn’t talk much. She keeps to herself. Focused, I guess.”

“Mm.”

“That’s all.” His grandmother smiled faintly, but the expression made him look away first.

“She helped me on the bus,” she said again.

“I know.”

“She carried the basket without being asked.”

“You told me.”

“And she stayed with me until my stop.”

Juhoon nodded. “You said that too.”

“And she missed hers.”

That made him glance at her properly this time. “…Why?”

“She didn’t say it; she just stayed next to me and told jokes just to make me feel better when I told her I lost my friend.”

“That’s not practical.”

“No?”

“If she had somewhere to be, she should’ve gone,” he said. “Helping doesn’t mean you have to—”

“—lose something?” she finished gently, already knowing his answers.

They walked a few more steps before his grandmother slowed, eventually making her way toward a small bench by the side of the road. She sat down with care, her hands folding neatly in her lap as her gaze drifted upward, toward the faint scatter of stars.

Juhoon hesitated for a second before sitting beside her.

“You look at people the way you look at your studies.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you decide quickly what matters,” she continued. “What’s useful and can be understood.”

“That’s not wrong,” he said.

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “But people aren’t questions with one correct answer.”

Juhoon’s brows pulled together faintly.

“You see that she’s calm. Serious and focused.” She glanced at him briefly. “That’s what she shows you. But what someone shows isn’t all they are.”

He let out a small breath through his nose. “I’m not trying to figure her out.”

“That’s exactly why you don’t see it.” 

“See what?”

“Courage despite the pain.”

“It’s just kindness.”

“Is it?” she asked. Juhoon didn’t answer right away, not truly having a correct answer this time. “She didn’t know me, it would’ve been easier not to help and pretend she didn’t notice.”

He looked down at his hands, resting loosely against his knees.

“That doesn’t make it courage,” he said after a moment. “It’s just… a choice.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “And not everyone makes it. She didn’t gain anything from it. No one praised her or saw it.” A small pause. “She just did it because of her pure heart.”

Juhoon’s gaze drifted somewhere ahead, unfocused.

“You think courage has to be loud so that people recognize it,” she said gently. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to, I know you, you punk.” He exhaled despite the nickname. “It’s small, most of the time, and easy to miss if you’re only looking at what’s on the surface.”

Her warm hand engulfed his; her fingers tightened slightly. “I think you’re reading too much into it,” he said after a while.

“Maybe,” she agreed easily. Juhoon leaned back slightly, his gaze lifting toward the sky for a brief moment before dropping again. “Enough about that, what’s on your mind?”

“The math test results come out tomorrow,” Juhoon said, shifting the topic immediately. “I think I lost points on the last question. The method was right, but the explanation wasn’t precise enough.”

His grandmother listened. “If I had written it differently, it would’ve been clearer,” he added. “It’s not a big mistake, but it still matters.”

“A mistake is a mistake, it doesn’t define you unless it hurts someone,” she said.

“That’s why I need to fix it next time, because it will most likely pain my father.” And just like that, everything else faded. They walked home with his voice filling the space now, focused entirely on numbers, on corrections, on what could be improved.

When they reached the house, he stepped inside first.

“Don’t stay up too late,” his grandmother said, her finger pointing at him.

“I won’t.” The woman kissed his forehead before he went straight to his room. The desk, the chair, and the notebook were waiting exactly where they should be.

He sat down and opened the notebook to the same page, the paper settling flat beneath his hand with the problem staring up at him, exactly as he had left it: unfinished and slightly off. He let his pen hover just above the page, the tip barely grazing the surface as if it could decide for him where to begin. It only lasted a second before he started.

The first line came easily, followed by the next, and then the next after that. Each step fell into place with certainty, the method unfolding the way it should have earlier. The smile spreading across his face showed how proud he was that there was no hesitation this time, completely familiar.

It may sound odd for others, but he really enjoyed how numbers didn’t leave space for misinterpretation, hide behind silence, or shift depending on where you looked. If something was wrong, it could be corrected. If it was unclear, it could be rewritten. There was always a way forward and a clearer answer waiting if you just focused long enough to find it.

His attention stayed where it belonged, following the final steps as they coalesced into their complete form; the correct answer sat before him. He leaned back slightly, exhaling under his breath, sensing how the faint tension in his shoulders eased without him realizing it.

The notebook was closed with him looking, the soft thud of the cover sealing everything neatly inside. Just like that, the mistake was fixed. 

Across the street, he didn’t know a certain someone was slowly dozing off, still thinking about how a dinner conversation carried more weight than it should, and made her question everything. The distance between them wasn’t far, but why had it never felt wider?

It didn’t change the next day or the one after that; it was already settling quietly and deeper, slipping beneath the surface where it couldn’t be easily named or pushed aside. Juhoon didn’t think about it directly, he couldn’t put it in with words, but it showed in the way his routines lost their characteristic ease, first it was his pen hovering a little longer before writing, then his eyes lingering on questions he would normally move past without hesitation, to end with the certainty he had always relied on began to feel just slightly out of reach.

Seeing himself in second place in his class didn’t cause him any surprise. It wasn’t familiar, sure—there was always a first time for everything, and he was very happy for Minseok—but what unsettled him wasn’t the number itself but how quickly it stopped feeling temporary. Three points weren’t enough to define anything, and that bittersweet feeling stayed with him longer than it should have. And despite everything looking the same at home, he could already feel the tension the second his dad glared at him.

The table was already set when he came down from his room, dishes neatly placed with steam rising softly above them from the soup, curling into the air. His mother moved between the kitchen and the table, his grandmother sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap after arranging the utensils, and Soobin helped with what was missing. And his father sat at the head of the table, newspaper closed next to him and conserving his posture straight, not even giving up his stare after he sat down.

He reached for his chopsticks. “The rankings came out today.”

Juhoon’s hand paused slightly before continuing. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I placed second overall.”

“Second?”

“Yes.”

“Who placed first?”

“Hwang Min Seok.”

“And the difference?”

“…Three points.” Juhoon focused on picking up his food, if only to fill the silence with sound.

“So you lost points.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“The last question.”

“You didn’t know it?”

“I did.”

“Then why did you lose points?”

Juhoon’s fingers tightened slightly around his chopsticks. “My explanation wasn’t clear enough.”

The sound of his father setting the chopsticks down echoed. “That’s carelessness.”

“I reviewed it. I just—”

“You just what?” The interruption was sharp this time, making him stop before saying something else.

“I thought it was enough.”

“Enough?” his father repeated, the word coming out almost incredulous. “You’re satisfied with ‘enough’ now?”

“No.”

“Then don’t say it like you are.”

“I’m not,” Juhoon replied, the edge slipping in before he could stop it. “I corrected it. I know what I did wrong.”

“That’s not the point.” His father’s voice hardened, cutting through the room more clearly than anything loud could have. “You shouldn’t have made the mistake at all.”

Juhoon’s jaw tightened. “I can fix it.”

“I’m not asking if you can fix it, I’m asking why you made it.”

“I told you—”

“You’re not listening.” The words landed fast.

“I am,” Juhoon insisted, the restraint in his voice thinning.

“Then act like it.”

“Jae Won. Juhoon. Let’s eat first,” his mother said gently, carefully placing another dish on the table as if the motion itself could settle things. “The food is getting cold.”

No one was in the mood to reach for it, not when the “head” of the family was still gazing at his son. “You knew the answer and still lost points. That means you weren’t thinking properly.”

“I was thinking,” Juhoon said, more firmly now. “I just didn’t explain it the way the teacher wanted.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Soobin straightened slightly in his seat.

“Juhoon,” his mother spoke, a warning in her tone already too late. He took in how his father’s expression shifted, and his hand started to grip the newspaper beside him.

“Say that again.”

Juhoon swallowed, but didn’t look away this time. “I understood the problem,” he said, slower now, more controlled. “That should count for something.”

“It doesn’t,” his father replied immediately. “Not if you can’t present it correctly.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t know it.”

“It means you failed to show it.”

Failed.

The strings in Juhoon’s heart tightened at how that word stung deeply. “I didn’t fail.”

“You came second, you lost points on something you claim to understand. What would you call that?”

“Enough! The sound of his grandmother’s palms slamming on the table was what finally broke the standoff. “He did well.”

His father didn’t look at her. “He could have done better.”

“He always does his best.”

“And his best should be first,” his father replied.

“Dad, it’s just three points. He’ll beat Minseok next time.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?” Soobin asked, the casual tone not quite hiding the challenge nor the anger he was starting to feel.

“The issue is that he’s becoming comfortable making mistakes.”

“I’m not comfortable, I said I’d fix it!”

“Fixing it after the fact doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Why doesn’t it?” Juhoon pressed, his voice rising and slightly breaking. “If I know what I did wrong and improve—”

“You shouldn’t be making mistakes like that to begin with.”

“I’m not perfect.”

His mother grabbed his thigh below the table immediately after his scream, barely feeling it. “That’s enough.”

His father’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. Say that again.”

“I’m not perfect.”

“And you think that excuses you?”

“I’m not making excuses,” he snapped, the control finally slipping. “I’m explaining.”

“You’re defending failure.”

“I didn’t fail!”

Soobin let out a breath under his breath. “Alright—okay—everyone just—”

“Stay out of it,” his father cut in. Soobin fell quiet, jaw tightening.

“You’re arguing with me over three points,” his unsteady voice was bothering him, maybe even more than the score itself. “Three points. I still did well.”

“Well, it isn’t enough.”

“It should be.”

“On my roof, it isn’t,” he finally slammed the newspaper on his shoulder.

“Kim Jae Won! That’s enough.”

“You think the world will reward you for ‘well’?” his father went on, completely ignoring his mother’s pleas. “You think effort and intention matter when results don’t match?”

“I said I’d do better.”

“You should already be better.”

There it was again, that same sentence carrying the same weight his brother and he had heard six years ago. Instead of making him stronger, he could feel how it threw everything off balance.

“I am trying,” he said, and this time it wasn’t controlled.

“Trying is meaningless if this is the result.”

Juhoon’s grip tightened against the table. “Then what do you want from me?”

His mother’s hand pressed more firmly against his thigh, the unplanned question even taking him off guard. “Juhoon—”

“What do you want?” he repeated. “Because I study. I correct my mistakes. I—”

“I want you to stop falling short,” 

“I’m not falling short.”

“You are.”

His grandmother shifted forward slightly. “That’s enough, you’re pushing him too hard.”

“He needs to be pushed. Those kids you hang out with are a bad influence.”

“He’s already pushing himself because of you.”

“And it’s not enough.”

Juhoon didn’t respond this time. His hand had curled into itself at his side, fingers tightening until they trembled, impossible to still. He kept his head lowered as soon as he felt his vision blur, trying to blink away the burn behind his eyes that only sharpened. His chest felt too tight, which left no room to inhale properly or speak.

“Finish eating. And then study.”

Juhoon didn’t remember finishing dinner; everything was a blur. The next few days passed without anything visibly changing, but that feeling didn’t go away from every single sentence that came from his father’s mouth. At school, he showed more than he realized.

He missed answering a question he knew, the teacher’s encouragement to make him participate, and even playing soccer with his friends. They couldn’t help but notice that they had a hunch even before they knew what had happened, thanks to the strong bond the five boys shared. He had to intervene and brush it off as temporary, but it wasn’t. It was obvious.

By the last class of the day, Juhoon stared at his notebook without really seeing it, the lines of writing blurring just slightly as his thoughts drifted somewhere else, as well as his classmates once they heard the bell.

“Juhoon?” A hand on his shoulder reached him, looking up. You stood beside his desk at a decent distance, your presence existing with it.

“Oh,” he said softly, his voice slower than usual. “You’re still here.”

“So are you. The bell rang, and your friends didn’t want to bother you.”

He glanced around briefly. “…Right.”

You shifted slightly, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag before loosening again. “I was going to leave, but…” Your voice trailed off, and for a moment, it seemed like you might take it back.

“But?” he asked, more out of habit than anything else.

He could see that you were physically torn between saying something and not saying anything, until he finally noticed in your eyes that matched what you were about to say. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“You don’t look like it.” His expression couldn’t be hidden anymore, opting for letting out a quiet breath.

“It’s nothing,” he added, softer this time.

“…It’s nothing,” you said gently. For a moment, it seemed like that would be the end of it—that he would let the silence close back in, let you take the hint and leave him, he didn’t think you would step a little closer, reinforcing your presence.

“You don’t have to tell me, I just… thought I’d ask.”

The gentle tone soothed him. The lack of pressure and how you were already giving him a way out made the tension on his shoulder ease. He stared at the page a second longer, the tips of his fingers following the route of a random line he drew mid-class.

“I came second.”

You blinked. “Second?”

“Overall.”

“That’s really good. Congrats!”

He shook his head, almost immediately. “No. It’s not.”

“ Oh... Why not?”

His fingers curled slightly against the paper. “…I lost by three points.”

“That’s still—”

“I shouldn’t have.” His cheeks warmed in embarrassment as his words cut through the space between you. He exhaled slowly to try to calm himself. “I knew the answer, I just didn’t write it properly.”

You didn’t interrupt. “I checked it, more than once, and I thought it was clear enough… It wasn’t.”

A small piece of chocolate appeared before his eyes; he glanced at the girl holding it, and she simply gave him a gentle smile, inviting him to take it. He couldn’t refuse.

“…My father said it was carelessness,” he went on, the words coming more steadily now while playing with the candy. “That I shouldn’t be making mistakes and how they shouldn’t happen at all. He even said trying doesn’t matter, not if the result isn’t right.”

The faintest crease formed between his brows, and easing them once the chocolate ended up in his mouth. “And I thought I did it right. I checked it, I really did.”

That particular sentence made your chest pull at how his words wavered. You stepped just a little closer. “That doesn’t make it nothing. Three points don’t erase that.”

He let out a small, breathless sound—almost a laugh. “It does to him.”

“…And to you?” His gaze stayed fixed on the notebook, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore. The question went directly to his heart. Has he ever thought about himself?

“…I don’t know, I just—” he exhales unevenly. “I keep thinking about it.”

“The question?”

“The way I wrote it,” he corrected. “What I should’ve changed. If I had just rewritten the last line—”

His fingers tightened again. “I’ve gone over it so many times,” he said, almost under his breath. “I can’t stop.”

“You care a lot,” the few seconds of silence when you said that gently.

“I have to.”

“Or you want to?” That made him pause; his thoughts seemed to catch on something that didn’t already have an answer ever since he joined your conversation.

“I don’t know…” 

“Well, it’s just three points,” you said, your voice light but steady. “But you’re acting like you lost everything.”

He let out a slow breath, shoulders lowering just slightly. “It feels like it.”

When he finally looked up, his expression had shifted—his usual, more put-together.

“…Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong… If it’s any consolation, you have a bright future ahead of you, even if you came in second. To me, you’re more than just a place in a ranking.” You interrupted gently.

“Thank you,” he said instead, a small smile tugging at his lips. You nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile that brought a slight warmth to his heart.

“Anytime.” Juhoon glanced back down at his notebook, straightening slightly.

“I should go,” he said, his tone more composed now. Familiar again.

You stepped back, giving him space as he gathered his things.

“Yeah, me too.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, walking away with a more relaxed pace, pausing just briefly before turning.

“Wanna grab a cup of tteokbokki before going to our homes?” The offer made you open your eyes in surprise, which quickly turned into a sincere smile that spread to your face.

“I’ll love that, Juhoon.”

September 12th, 1963 || age: 17

Time had a quiet way of slipping past you before you could properly hold onto it. Days folded into weeks, and weeks marked not by dates, but by small changes you only noticed when you stopped to think about them.

Wonhee and Keonho were no longer something whispered about between classes; they were real now, obvious in the way they hold hands while walking to class, in how her voice softened when she said his name. Yunah had started seeing someone, too, though she pretended it wasn’t anything serious, even as she spent longer fixing her hair in the mornings.

And you were still exactly where you had been for three years. Still noticing him, always carrying something that hadn’t quite settled into anything certain. At this point, you’d think your feelings for him were all too obvious—you couldn’t hide how your face flushed when he smiled at you as he walked through the kitchen of his house while you were having a little chat with his grandmother, or the times he helped you with your groceries when he saw you arrive with his mom after a trip to the market

The only difference now was how it felt.

At first, it had been unnoticed in the easiest way, in a way that didn’t need to be explained to be understood. It settled beside you without effort, familiar and unassuming, never asking to be questioned. You had let it exist like that, untouched, because it felt safer not to look too closely.

But somewhere in between ordinary moments, it changed.

Not all at once—at least not in a way you could name. It slipped out of place gradually, as if a rhythm started to fall out of time until the shift was too obvious to ignore. What had once felt steady began to waver, rising and falling without warning, leaving you grasping for a feeling that no longer held still.

There were small things. How his gaze would catch on you, lingering for a few seconds, that, in your heart, almost meant something. How the conversations brushed against depth, only to cut short before they could reach it. Each moment felt like the edge of a story that never quite began.

And that was the hardest part—the almost.

Because sometimes, it felt real. To think he saw you in a way no one else did and believed there was a connection calmly unfolding between you in an unspoken way. But just as quickly, it would disappear, leaving you questioning whether it had ever been there at all.

You were left suspended between those two versions of him—one who noticed, and one who didn’t—and neither stayed long enough to be certain. And in the space between them, doubt grew louder than anything else, until even your own memories felt unreliable, as if they belonged more to hope than to truth.

“See you on Monday!” Yunah waved her hand brightly. Wonhee was no longer with the two of you since she had an after-school date with Keonho. “I’ll tell you two how the date went.”

“Hope you kiss that person this time,” you said loud enough for her to hear and blush. “Oh, God. The rain had started earlier than expected.” 

It began with a thin drizzle that was barely noticeable unless you paid attention to how it darkened the ground beneath your shoes.

“I’m glad my mom told me to bring an umbrella,” the tallest opened the object, hugging you tenderly before gently walking away.

Your feet quickly carried you along the usual route, though a small detour was demanded by your stomach’s quiet insistence, pausing for a snack before continuing.

At the bus stop, you slipped beneath the shelter just as the rain began to fall harder, shifting your weight as droplets gathered along the roof’s edge and fell in soft, uneven intervals. The scent of petrichor rose to meet you, planting a smile on your face.

There weren’t many people left; most had already gone, disappearing into the weather with hurried steps and lowered heads. Just a few remained scattered along the road. The sound of footsteps approached hurriedly, alerting you enough to turn to where the sound was coming from. And there he was.

Juhoon slowed slightly when he reached the shelter, brushing a hand lightly through his damp hair as he stepped under the small overhang. A few droplets clung stubbornly to the ends, catching the dim light before slipping away. Neither of you spoke, just a small bow from both sides.

“You’re still here.”

“My bus hasn’t come yet,” you replied softly, the usual tone that came out unconsciously when he was around.

He nodded once. “I see.”

The rain filled the silence between you. He stood with his usual posture, his attention drifting somewhere ahead rather than toward you, just like you were doing.

A stronger gust of wind pushed the rain further in, forcing you to step back slightly at the same time he reached into his bag. The hairs on your skin stood on end, and your hands did their best to warm them, too focused on that to notice the umbrella that stretched wide above him.

“You can stand here,” the offer came with him shifting it slightly in your direction, inviting you to step closer.

The space between you disappeared almost instantly; the umbrella wasn’t large enough to keep a comfortable distance, not if both of you wanted to stay dry. Your shoulder brushed lightly against his, and this was probably the closest you two were in three years.

“Thank you,” 

He nodded. “It’s fine.”

The rain continued to fall around you, louder now against the fabric above that wrapped around the moment. It was almost impossible not to feel the warmth of him beside you, close enough to notice, but not close enough to reach. Sadly.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the strap of your bag.

Say something.

The thought came to your head like a whisper. You could.

It wouldn’t be that hard. Just a few words—simple, honest. Enough to shift whatever this was into one that didn’t leave you guessing every time you looked at him.

“Juhoon, I—”

The words stopped, and to your surprise, it wasn’t because you couldn’t say them; you actually could. It was how his gaze focused on the road ahead where the bus would eventually appear. Even when he looked at you, there was no sign that he was waiting for anything more than the bus to arrive, clearly having no space opened for you.

The realization came unannounced and landed harder than you expected on the back of your head, your words slipping away just as quickly as they had formed. “…Do you think it’ll be late?” you asked instead.

He glanced at the road briefly. “Maybe. The rain usually slows it down.”

“Oh.”

“That happens sometimes,” You nodded anyway, gaze dropping slightly to your partially dirty shoes. In a way, you couldn’t wrap your head around how the quiet that once felt shared even without words, it stretched between you unevenly, pressing in on your chest in a way that made it harder to breathe.

You were so, so close, and yet it felt like you were the only one standing there whose thoughts were eating her alive. The rain softened slightly, though the sky remained unchanged as the grey clouds didn’t seem ready to clear anytime soon.

All these years, you lived saying, “Maybe it was nothing,” although right now, where you didn’t feel an ounce of willingness on his part to know you beyond the dinners both of your families shared, the small tea parties with Miss. Kang, it felt like you should truly stop using that phrase. 

Surprisingly, your father had been right: A face can catch your attention, but a person keeps it. And suddenly, you weren’t sure what was being kept.

The bus lights appeared in the distance, clearer as it approached. Juhoon adjusted his grip on the umbrella slightly, stepping forward just enough to guide both of you closer to the edge of the road. The movement was considerate in the smallest way, just not enough to feel like more.

The doors opened with a soft mechanical sound. Juhoon signaled you to step in first. “Thank you,” 

He gave a small nod. “Of course.”

And that was it. You climbed the steps, your fingers brushing lightly against the damp railing as you moved inside. There was an empty seat by the window—your usual one—and without thinking, you slid into it, your bag resting neatly on your lap. A second later, he took the seat beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched when the bus shifted forward again.

The window beside you was streaked with rain, blurring the outside world into shifting shapes. You rested your gaze there, watching as droplets chased each other down the glass, merging and separating without ever really stopping. Beside you, Juhoon adjusted slightly, the faint rustle of fabric breaking the silence. 

“Here.” his voice caught your attention, watching him holding out a small tangerine as a simple gesture.

Still, your chest tightened slightly. “…Thank you,” you said, accepting it carefully.

He nodded once, already pulling his hand back, already moving on as if the moment had ended the second it happened.

“It’s from home,” he added after a beat. “My grandmother bought them.”

You glanced down at it, the bright color sitting softly against your palm. “They look good.”

“They are.” A gentle smile spread across her face, making you smile as well. You peeled it slowly, the scent rising faintly into the air. Naturally, you separated one slice, then hesitated for a second before holding it out toward him.

“Do you want—?”

He shook his head lightly. “You can have it. Grandma bought plenty.” That was it. That briefly friendly tone appeared.

“Oh… okay.” The slice was sweet, slightly tart on your tongue, but your attention wasn’t really on the taste. It drifted beside you instead, catching on the subtle shift in Juhoon’s posture. He hadn’t said anything after that.

He just sat there with his shoulder low; what you did notice was how his eyes blinked slowly, an action you often did when you were trying to keep up with something your body had already decided.

When they finally closed, it just happened; his head landed on your shoulder. You paused mid-eating at the warmth of him resting there, his hair brushed lightly against your neck as he slept without realizing it.

Your fingers tightened gently around the remaining slices in your hand, the peel crinkling faintly as the bus rolled forward. After what her grandmother had told you, you didn’t move.

The concern rants about how she saw him stay up long after everyone else had gone to sleep, books spread out in the dim light. How it wasn’t just about school, not really, but about becoming someone his father could be proud of. The kind of effort that didn’t leave room for softness, or hesitation, or anything that might get in the way, like living a normal teenage life.

His behaviour made sense now to you, how carefully he carried himself and kept everything contained, neat and controlled, until he was with his friends, where he let himself loose to take a breath.

Your gaze drifted back to him, to the faint rise and fall of his shoulders, to the unguarded softness resting across his face while he slept. It was different like this. Lighter, almost. Whatever he carried during the day had been set down, if only for a moment.

You let yourself take it in, knowing it wasn’t a side of him you were meant to see. Knowing that once he woke up, it would slip away, replaced by that familiar distance he wore so easily. And somehow, that didn’t make this moment feel any less real.

If anything, it made it more fragile, which was held only in the space between who he was for the world and who he allowed himself to be when no one was looking. And that was enough.

DUAL POV

Juhoon didn’t mean to come this way.

If anyone had asked, he would’ve said he was just walking—clearing his head after too many hours bent over his desk, loosening the quiet tension that felt too heavy on his shoulders whenever he stayed in one place for too long and had to listen to his father’s constant speech about perfection. Lately, the air of his house had made him feel smaller than usual, and he didn’t care to name, especially when his father was home. So he walked.

It wasn’t unusual for him to take the longer route, to let his feet decide instead of his thoughts. Still, he knew this path wasn’t one he usually chose. It pulled him further out than expected, already past the familiar houses with their dim porch lights and the small shops already shuttered for the evening. At some point, he realized he didn’t quite know where he was.

That thought should have bothered him, but it didn’t; he actually felt a kind of relief.

He kept going, the rhythm of his steps slowing as the noise of the city thinned behind him. The wind came with a soft rustle ahead, and when he stepped onto a stretch of fallen leaves, the sound followed. Then the path opened. A lone ginkgo tree stood at the edge of a small clearing, its branches stretching wide against a pale, fading sky. Its leaves had already begun to fall, scattering across the ground in uneven patches of gold. 

Juhoon slowed once he realized there was someone there. At first, it was only a shape—a figure near the base of the tree, partially hidden by the slight dip in the ground. But as he stepped closer, the outline became so familiar that it made him stop without realizing it.

It was you, looking smaller here.

Not physically, but you fit into the space around you. The open clearing stretched wide, and there you were, kneeling beneath the tree as if you belonged to it more than the world beyond it. The wind moved gently through your loose hair, lifting a few strands before letting them fall again. Your hands were busy with whatever lay in front of you. He hadn’t expected you here, of all places.

His mind made him consider turning back; it would’ve been easy since you didn’t even realize he was there, yet destiny didn’t want it that way, forcing him to step forward. This time, the sound of leaves beneath his shoes gave him away, and when he saw your face, he couldn’t believe how his heart stopped.

There was no shock on your face, only a small pause; maybe his presence had arrived a second too early, but he didn’t feel entirely unwelcome. He was never good at reading emotions; that was his grandma’s talent. He was grateful to pinpoint a sadness that didn’t ask to be seen resting beneath your face.

It sat gently in your expression, in the softness of your eyes, in the stillness of your lips. And somehow, it showed you in a light he hadn’t noticed before, or didn’t want to. A kind of beauty that didn’t try to be anything at all, and maybe that was why it moved him enough to make his ear warm up.

“Juhoon.”

“I didn’t know you came here.”

“I do,” you said simply. His gaze drifted, almost without permission, settling on the ground in front of you while his body didn’t know what to do. “Do you want to sit with me?”

Then he noticed it—a small blanket spread beneath you with enough space left beside you for him to sit, and he doubted only for a second before sitting down. Once he was next to you, two small markers that rested beneath the tree caught his eye. Probably, you sensed his curiosity since he couldn’t look away from them. “My family is here,” you added. He searched for the pattern in those markers—two crosses side by side—and could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Are you alright?”

“I am now. Yes.” The sentence came easily. You had already turned back by then, your attention returning to what you had been doing, hand brushing gently over the ground, moving a few fallen leaves aside with care. He didn’t interrupt; he wasn’t supposed to disrupt.

After a moment, you reached into your bag, recognizing the binyeo in a second once you pulled it out. You had worn it for as long as he could remember—three years, maybe more, the fading light softly making it shine as usual, even brighter as you held it between your fingers.

Juhoon’s eyes followed the movement without thinking.

“This was from her,” you said quietly. “My mother.”

Carefully, you leaned forward and adjusted it where it rested, your fingers steady for a person who has been doing it over and over until it became easy, like a small ritual. “She liked things to be neat, said it made things feel in place.”

Juhoon stayed still, feeling how you were trying your very best to swallow that knot in your throat. “My brother used to tease her for it, he said she cared more about how things looked than how they felt, but he always let her fix his collar before he left. He was a student,” you said after a moment.

Your hand stilled for just a second.

“He thought he understood everything.” The corner of your lips curved, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “They died during the April Revolution.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it; it was better if it stayed lowered, fixed somewhere between the ground and the small space you had carefully cleared, so he couldn’t see the small tears forming in your eyes.

“He went out that day,” you continued. “Said he was just going to see what was happening… my mother followed him because she knew deep down he lied.”

Juhoon felt his chest heavier once again as he kept listening. “She found him, before anything happened.” Your fingers brushed over the edge of the marker, lingering there. “And when it did… she didn’t let go. They were both brought back here.”

Juhoon swallowed lightly, his hands resting against his knees, unmoving. He searched for something—anything—that felt appropriate, and that could sit beside what you had just given him.

But nothing came; this was the first time he couldn’t ask a question.

“I see.” The words sounded small, even to him. You nodded, like that was enough, and it was in a way, knowing the lack of comfort he would give.

Neither of you spoke; he watched you adjust the binyeo again, though it didn’t need fixing, your fingers smoothing over it before pulling back. “They used to argue a lot, about small things. My brother always said he’d leave first,” you continued. “That he wouldn’t stay in a place that didn’t listen or feel understood. But he didn’t. because we all knew he was playing around.”

Your lips pressed together slightly, deciding to look at him as one tear finally dropped from the corner of your eye, wetting your cheek. “He stayed.”

Juhoon nodded once, though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. Deep in his mind, he wanted to say something, but asking what it had been after or how long you had been coming here seemed inappropriate. He couldn’t even bring himself to ask how you had carried it all this time and still smile to your friends so prettily and act like everything was fine with her grandma as he watched you from a distance.

The questions hovered somewhere at the edge of his thoughts, and they didn’t even reach his voice. Instead, he sat there, observing the scene he didn’t know how to step into.  After a while, he shifted slightly on the spot.

“I should go,” It came out gently. You didn’t look surprised.

“Okay.” Contrary to his tone, yours was dry.

“Take care,” he said instead.

You nodded. “You too.”

He stood, brushing a few leaves from his clothes before stepping back onto the path. The sound of them shifting under his shoes followed him as he walked away, with each step drifting apart. 

He didn’t look back, but just like anything related to you, the image stayed with him. The tree, the scattered gold leaves. Especially, you, sitting there with careful hands and a voice that carried more than it showed. The words from his grandma knocked some sense when he was far enough from you, realizing how little he had actually seen the whole you.

On the other side, you were never simply quiet—not in the way people found easy to understand. There was a depth to your life that resisted being seen, that was sadly shaped by loss and held together with discipline to not show it to the only family you had. You had learned how to carry it without letting it show, folding it into softer expressions, small smiles that asked for nothing in return.

It was easier that way, for others to accept, and for you to move through the world without being asked questions you didn’t have the strength to answer.

He had seen that version of you—the gentler outline, the one that didn’t trouble anyone. Perhaps because it was all you allowed. Or perhaps because anything more would have required him to linger in a place he didn’t know how to stand in.

But there was nothing simple about you. You had endured the kind of loss that reshapes everything, leaving no visible fracture and yet altering the weight of every day that followed. You had learned how to live beside it, how to return to it, how to honor it without letting it consume what remained of you. And beneath all of that careful composure, there had been the faintest hope that someone might one day recognize it—not as something to mend, but to remain beside.

Under the ginkgo tree, you did not move.

The wind slipped into the space he had left, gentler than his presence had been, brushing against your face before passing through the branches above.

This place had always belonged to you—to you and to them. Tucked away from the rest of the world, it held everything you could not carry anywhere else. Without meaning to, he had found it. He had seen a piece of what you kept here, had listened as you gave voice to a version of you that you rarely allowed to surface.

There was kindness in him, you knew it. But kindness did not always know how to remain when things grew heavier or when silence stretched and asked for more than company.

Your gaze shifted to the space beside you, feeling more tears rolling down your cheek.

Once, you might have imagined it differently—might have believed that if he opened enough like before and how his grandma wished, something in you would turn toward him without resistance, that the distance between you could soften so it can become steadier in hopes of being... more.

So when the space remained unchanged, you let it. 

JUHOON’s POV

Considering how much the country had suffered in recent years, including outside his home, he couldn’t avoid conversations that emphasized responsibility.

They came from everywhere now.

From the crackling radio his father listened to every evening, to teachers who lingered a little too long on civics lessons once their words slipped from memorization to more pointed ones, to older students who spoke in lowered voices near the gates, glancing over their shoulders like the air itself might carry their thoughts elsewhere.

Responsibility.

It used to feel like a distant word that was only meant for adults, for men who had already decided what kind of lives they would lead. Not for someone still in uniform, still worrying about test scores and neat handwriting.

But lately, he noticed it by how his father folded the newspaper more sharply than before, in the pauses between sentences at dinner. In the way his brother spoke about the future, one that wasn’t abstract and unavoidable.

And, sadly, he started to see that in himself.

Juhoon adjusted his grip on his pen, the tip hovering just above his notebook as the classroom buzzed faintly around him, a habit he had acquired. The teacher’s voice could be perfectly heard from the front, explaining something about economic recovery, but his attention was snagged on a single phrase.

“…the responsibility of the younger generation…”

He saw how a few students straightened their backs at that, while others looked down. His pen touched the paper again, writing without hesitation: Responsibility meant direction. Hence, direction meant decisions. And decisions meant there was less room for anything else.

“Hey.”

The whisper came from his left. Juhoon didn’t look up immediately.

“Hey,” the voice repeated, insistently.

He finally turned slightly. Keonho leaned back in his chair just enough to avoid the teacher’s direct line of sight, eyebrows raised.

“You’ve been writing the same line for the past minute.” Juhoon glanced down. He didn’t even realize that

“I’m listening,”

“Sure thing,” Keonho corrected, unimpressed. “Such an attentive student.”

From behind them, a soft snort slipped out.

“Leave him alone,” James murmured. “If he starts talking, we’ll all get in trouble.”

Juhoon didn’t turn fully this time, but he could picture the expression anyway—the relaxed posture, the half-smile that never quite looked forced. James was like that.

Where Keonho filled silence with noise, James would either let it sit or join. Where Juhoon measured his words, James didn’t seem to measure them at all, yet somehow never said the wrong thing. It made people gravitate toward him without trying.

“See?” Keonho whispered. “Even he thinks you’re too serious.”

“I didn’t say that,” James replied lightly.

“You didn’t have to.”

The teacher’s chalk hit the board a little harder than necessary. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

Keonho straightened immediately. James lowered his gaze, the picture of innocence. Juhoon didn’t move. After a moment, the teacher turned back to the board, the lesson continuing as if nothing had happened.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes returning to his notebook, the word alone in a line: Responsibility.

After school, the courtyard filled like it always did. And despite being used to that movement to shake off the weight of the day, it felt different.

“Are you coming or not?” Keonho tossed the ball lightly between his hands, watching him.

“For what?” Juhoon asked.

“The river. Just for a bit. Seonghyeon and Martin can’t make it because of practice.”

“I have work to finish.”

“You always have work to finish. Come live a little.”

“That’s because I don’t leave it unfinished.”

Keonho groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“Then go without me.”

“I would,” he said, then paused. “But it’s more fun when you’re there.”

Juhoon didn’t respond right away. From the side, James spoke again, softer this time. “Come for a little while,” he said. “You can still study after.” 

The kind offer made him hesitate. It would be easy to say no; it was easier than considering it. The way James said it made the refusal feel like an answer he couldn’t say. “Not long,” he said finally.

Keonho lit up immediately. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“It shouldn’t have been,” James added under his breath. Juhoon ignored that.

The walk to the river wasn’t long. As usual, Keonho talked the most—about a teacher he disliked, about a rumor he swore was true, about a plan he had already abandoned halfway through explaining, and most importantly, his next date with his girlfriend.

James listened, occasionally adding a few small insights that somehow made the story better or complemented his ideas. Juhoon walked beside them quietly.

“…and then she actually said—” Keonho stopped mid-sentence. “Wait.”

“What?” James asked.

Keonho nodded toward the path ahead. “Look.”

Juhoon followed his gaze without thinking. A group of girls walked ahead, their uniforms moving softly with each step, voices blending into the late afternoon air.

He recognized them by the uniforms, more than anything. Dark skirts moving softly, white sleeves catching the light as they walked. The whole group moved in a pattern he had seen from a distance more times than he could count.

Then, her.

It wasn’t planned; the recognition just happened in such a quick and immediate way, adjusting into place before he had the chance to question it. But she wasn’t where he expected her to be—not slightly behind or tucked into the edges of the group the way he had unconsciously placed her in his mind.

She was in the middle of it, leaning in as one of her friends spoke, her head tipping back when she laughed, the sound too soft to reach him, and it was clear enough by how her shoulders loosened. One of the girls nudged her, and she nudged back without hesitation this time, something easy and unguarded in the motion.

Her hands weren’t held close to her chest either. One moment, she gestured lightly with them as she spoke; the next, she adjusted the books at her side, only to forget about them again as the conversation pulled her in.

There was a rhythm to her he hadn’t seen before, an uncontained lightness.

She turned her head quickly—too quick to be measured—wording a few sentences that made the others react all at once. Even from where he stood, he could see how their steps slowed, and their attention gathered around her instead of passing through.

It didn’t feel like she was trying, and that was the part that caught him.

There was no effort in it—no awareness of how she might be seen. Just the certainty of someone who had forgotten to hold herself back. He watched a second longer than he meant to; the version he had built of her, without realizing it, broken into pieces.

And for a brief moment, that unsettled something in him. In his chest.

“You’re staring,” Keonho sang with the sole purpose of teasing him.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” Juhoon repeated, sharper this time. James glanced between them, then back ahead.

“…She’s in our class, right? The one in the middle,” he asked casually.

Keonho nodded. “Yeah. That’s Y/N, the quiet one.”

“Mm.” That was it; there wasn’t any exaggeration, just acknowledgment that made Juhoon more aware of it, not less. “She doesn’t look that quiet to me.”

He looked away first, only to find James staring at her as if he were in a daze with a small smile on his lips, a state from which Juhoon made sure to snap him out of with a gentle nudge.

It didn’t mean anything.

They reached the river shortly after, the sound of water softly cutting through the last remnants of conversation. Keonho dropped his bag first, already crouching near the edge to check the temperature. James followed more slowly, hands in his pockets, before he finally sat down on a flat stone. Juhoon stood a moment longer, his bag hanging in his hand, to find a clean enough space to put it.

“You’re doing it again,” Keonho said without looking up.

“Doing what?”

“Thinking like you’re about to solve the country’s problems.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

James let out a small breath that might have been a laugh.

Juhoon exhaled, finally setting his bag down. “…It’s just…” 

“What?”

“Things aren’t the same,” he said instead.

“That’s because we’re not fourteen anymore,” Keonho replied immediately. “Of course they’re not the same.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Juhoon looked toward the water, the reflection of the fading sky shifting with each ripple. “Everyone keeps talking about what comes next, like it’s already decided.”

“…And?” he asked.

“And I don’t think it is.” Keonho leaned back on his hands, thinking about what he could say. 

“So decide it yourself.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“There are expectations,” he said finally.

“From who?”

“You know who.”

Keonho clicked his tongue. “Yeah. Sadly.”

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a choice.” James tilted his head slightly, gaze still on the water.

He frowned faintly. “It feels like I don’t.”

“Then maybe you’re only looking at the choices you think you’re allowed to make. Have you ever truly lived?”

The river moved the same way it always had, indifferent to everything else, comforting the silence that sentence created. Eventually, Keonho stood, brushing the dust from his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “If we stay any longer, he’ll start thinking again.”

“I never stopped,” Juhoon replied, smiling briefly. Keonho splashed a little water on him.

“Exactly my point.”

James stood too, stretching slightly with a groan. He removed his shoes before dipping his feet into the water.

“You should head back,” he said to Juhoon. “You’ll worry about it otherwise, and your dad will be pissed. Maybe on the weekend we can all hang out.”

He wasn’t wrong; it didn’t take long for him to pick up his bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Keonho said. “Try not to become a government official overnight.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“I know. That’s why it’s funny.” James just smiled, splashing more water on the youngest of the three.

On the walk back, silence returned. His thoughts didn’t scatter as they usually did—they narrowed on words. Responsibility, future, expectation—the words lined up too easily now, slotting into place as if they had always been waiting for him to notice them.

By the time he reached his street, the sky had darkened enough for the first lights to flicker on behind windows, another three words: Home. Routine. Structure. It should have eased him like usual. Instead, when he passed the low wall, he slowed.

Across the street, the gate stood half-open. A faint light spilled from inside, catching on movement. He didn’t mean to look, still, even though he could only see her out of the corner of his eye, he did it anyway.

She stood in the yard, her back turned this time, sleeves rolled just enough as she adjusted something near the entrance. It was either a box, maybe, or a stack of books. Her movements were casual and unhurried. He saw how she paused, her hands resting lightly against the edge as if she had forgotten what she was doing—or maybe she was just thinking. He couldn’t tell, and he shouldn’t have been watching long enough to wonder.

Juhoon shifted his grip on his bag, looking away when he sensed her gaze and kept walking. That was what made sense, and that was what he did—but not before his gaze flickered back once more, resting on her without reason, just taking a look at how the last rays of sunshine made her shine.

Then he turned fully, stepping through his own gate without hesitation this time.

Inside, everything felt the same. A difference was that his mother was next to his grandmother, drinking what he supposed was tea, the usual faint rustle of paper confirming his father’s presence, and the familiar expectation fell back into place as if it had never left. His brother was nowhere to be found, his work consuming him until nightfall.

While seated at his desk with his books spread neatly in front of him, a couple of hours later, he found himself pausing more than usual. The material wasn’t difficult. He understood it completely, although his mind had different plans; his focus slipped only for a second at a time. It was either a movement outside, the sentence James had said, or the figure standing in fading light before.

Juhoon closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. This wasn’t like him. It couldn’t become a habit.

He picked up his pen again to force himself back into rhythm. The words came easier after that. Still, somewhere between one line and the next, his thoughts drifted again, not toward responsibility and the uncertain future, but to the simple realization that someone could exist so close, just across the street, and remain completely outside of his world. One look at his window showed that her bedroom window was fully open to let the night in.

She stood there, brushing her hair in absent strokes, the radio hummed “Ranch Lady in the Straw Hat” by Park Jae Ran, and she followed it without thinking, combining a small sway of her shoulders with a turn of her wrist, creating a rhythm that belonged to her. It wasn’t a performance meant for anyone, and maybe that was what held him there—the pure way she seemed to exist entirely for herself in that moment.

He hadn’t meant to notice her, simply doing a passing glance that was supposed to be dissolved as quickly as it came. However, a force prevented him from looking away as easily as he should have. He caught himself observing the details without understanding why: how the light reflected off her hair, the vacant look in her eyes, the slight movement of her lips, as if she were half-remembering the words. It was nothing, really. Less than nothing.

Nevertheless, it tugged some strings somewhere inside him, softly and without invitation.

When she slipped into a small, unthinking sway, losing the rhythm for a second before catching it again, the corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it. The smile was brief, almost accidental, and soon he looked down, not long after, a little too quickly. Noticing her at all had already felt like more than it should have been.

Still, when his eyes returned to the page, it was too late. His focus slipped once and for all, catching on the same line without moving forward. There was a faint and unfamiliar feeling sitting somewhere in his chest—nothing strong enough to name, just distracting him from what was important. He ignored it, or tried to, though it made it hard to forget entirely.

At first, nothing seemed different. The mornings came as they always had, taking the same walk to school, past the same voices gathering at the gates, into the same rhythm of footsteps brushing against pavement. You slipped into your place in the day, greeting your friends with an easy familiarity, taking your seat, smoothing your hands over your notebook as you had done a hundred times before, and, of course, talking with them before the classes started.

Everything remained exactly as it had been, and yet, deep inside, you had gone still as the seconds passed. You didn’t look for him in that instinctive, unthinking way you used to, when your attention would drift without permission, and your eyes would search for him before you even knew you were hoping. Now your gaze stayed where you placed it, anchored to the small ordinary things that asked nothing of you. 

The unusual part was that you didn’t decide to stop; there was no moment of refusal, no conscious turning away. It was only later that you realized the pull was gone.

And in its absence, there was a quietness that managed to balance the softness you hadn’t expected to come with it. It was so easy that it felt almost undeserved, as though love at seventeen should have left a sharper grief behind that tarry and ached to demand to be noticed. But it didn’t. It slipped away from you gently, and you let it go without ever once turning your head.

“Are you feeling alright?” Wonhee asked one morning, leaning in slightly as she studied your face.

You glanced up, pen still in hand, with a soft smile on your face. “I am.”

“You’ve been strange.”

“... I’m always strange?”

“I know, but it’s... strange,” she said, unconvinced.

Yunah, who had been flipping through her book, looked between you both before speaking. “She’s studying.”

Wonhee frowned. “She always studies, more than usual though.”

“Not like this,” Yunah repeated, echoing her earlier tone with a subtle difference. She nodded toward your desk. “She hasn’t looked up once.”

You hadn’t realized that. “There are tests this week, and the one I messed up last time can be improved with this new one.”

“There’s always a test, but you will do great this time,” Wonhee muttered under her breath, the last part gentle.

You didn’t argue, just giving her another small smile because this time it felt like enough of an answer.

“Also, we have something for you.” Then Yunah reached into her bag and placed a white envelope on top of your book. Your name neatly written on it and their names just beneath, you could recognize the envelope anywhere.

“It’s nothing big,” she said. “Just take it.”

Wonhee nudged it a little closer to you at the sight of you staring at it in disbelief. “Don’t leave it there.”

Your throat tightened before you could respond.

“And—” Wonhee hesitated, then took your hand, her grip warm and clumsy. “Next time you go… to the ginkgo tree—”

Yunah picked up gently, “—would it be alright if we came with you?”

You nodded before you could trust your voice. The room blurred, and you quickly looked down, pretending to adjust the envelope in your hands.

“Hey,” Wonhee said low enough for only you two to hear, not letting your hand go, “don’t cry here.”

You let out a small breath before leaning forward, wrapping your arms around them both. “Thank you.”

As you heard your classmates rushing to their desks, the moment had to be broken apart, quickly putting your envelope away in one of your books to clean up the tears that escaped from your eyes, right before the teacher arrived a few seconds later.

Months ago, there had always been an awareness that sat beneath your thoughts, mostly the sense of where he was in the room, of whether he had arrived yet, of whether he would speak. Now that it was gone, the absence had shape and made you return to your focused self.

And that also goes to how the hours passed, barely noticing when the bell rang. Wonhee saw you placing your things without thinking about it. 

“Wait—already?” Wonhee called after you, her voice trailing as she wrestled her bag into place. “You’re leaving first?”

“I’m not leaving first.”

“You are right now.”

You adjusted the strap on your shoulder and glanced at her. “I want to go to the library today.”

“Are you actually studying there?”

“Yes.”

Wonhee let out a long, exaggerated groan. “You’re becoming unbearable.”

Yunah laughed, and you did too, the sound slipping out easily. “It’s only for a few weeks. Come with me next time—I’ll explain Civics to you.”

Wonhee physically recoiled at that, clutching her chest like she’d been personally attacked. “Fine. I’m taking that offer, but I won’t enjoy it.”

“I’ll go too,” Yunah added once she caught her breath. “Just in case she tries to escape.”

“I’ll see you girls, tomorrow! ”

You stepped away before Wonhee could argue again, slipping out of the conversation and to the same after-class scenery: clusters of students, familiar paths worn into the space, and several conversations. Nothing had changed, except that the way you moved through it had.

Crossing without slowing down, your gaze stayed forward, not sparing a glance at the corridor where he sometimes stood or the field as you just walked.

The absence didn’t pull at you or demand notice. It stayed to exist without asking anything of you and closing on its own. You hadn’t decided to come here more often. It wasn’t a plan you’d made or a habit you’d set out to build. To your luck, the library had begun to feel less of an obligation.

You had always come when you needed to finish an assignment or just to be outside your house, knowing how passionate your dad got while painting the walls with music. The librarian would even say hello to you since you used to arrive when there wasn’t a clear reason, like today, only wanting to read a new book that your father thought you might like in English, so you can improve.

It would have been easier to follow your friends out through the gates to enjoy the rest of the afternoon, but after all the studying you had done, you wanted to be alone.

The library received you with the soft turn of pages, the occasional scrape of a chair, the low presence of other people existing alongside you without interruption. You took your usual seat by the window after picking up the two grammar books for the next test. At some point, the rest of the day slipped past without you noticing, too focused on reading your book.

“…Is this seat taken?”

The voice pulls you from the quiet gravity of your book, a soft interruption that feels almost out of place in the stillness. You look up, blinking once, twice—more out of surprise than confusion. It takes a second to place him, not because you don’t recognize him, but because you hadn’t expected to see him here, out of all places.

Zhao Yufan, one of Juhoon’s closest friends.

A flicker of guilt passes through you. You’ve seen him before—of course you have—but he had only caught your attention a handful of times, usually when he was making a fool of himself alongside his taller friend for the sake of someone else’s laughter.

Still, you can’t deny it. He’s handsome.

You envied the balance of his features—soft, but not unremarkable. Defined, but not in a way that feels intentional. As if he wasn’t shaped to impress, he happened to be. Your gaze lingers on his eyes briefly. They’re the first thing that holds you there—calm, slightly downturned at the corners, giving him a thoughtful look. There’s no sharpness to them, no edge meant to intimidate. Not when he’s looking at you with such gentle eyes, it’s almost impossible to read.

His skin is smooth, even, marked here and there with faint scars. His expression rests in that space between neutral and curious. And his lips, softly shaped and with balanced thickness, sit in a relaxed line that makes you wonder for a moment what they’d look like if he smiled without holding back, which probably might change everything.

His hair falls in uneven strands across his forehead, slightly tousled, which doesn’t look intentional. It suits him effortlessly, softening whatever distance his expression might have created, and makes him feel closer somehow.

“Um… no,” you say, realizing a second too late that he’s asked you something. Your eyes flick to the empty chair across from you, and you gesture toward it. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

He moves quietly, pulling the chair out with minimal sound, setting his books down with the same careful ease. You brace yourself for the awkwardness that usually follows in this type of situation, but it never quite arrives. He doesn’t look at you again right away,  just opens his book, settling into his work like your presence doesn’t complicate anything.

You return to your own pages, this time from the grammar book for your English class. Eventually, you both reach for the same reference book, causing your fingers to brush.

“Oh—sorry,” you said immediately, pulling your hand back.

“It’s okay,” he replied, just as quickly. None of you moved after that, then he shifted the book slightly toward you. “You can take it.”

“You were reaching for it too.”

“I can wait.”

“…Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Totally”

You hesitated before taking it, your fingers brushing the edge of the cover instead of his this time.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Before you can think too hard about it, you glance up again. “How about we read it together?”

He doesn’t react at first, but when you see his eyes lift from the page, meeting yours with surprise, his gaze shifts briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you.

“…Together?” he repeats, like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You nod, suddenly more aware of how this might sound than you were a moment ago. “It’s—uh, kind of annoying to wait for it. We’re probably looking for the same thing anyway.”

A small pause follows before he leans back slightly in his chair, considering it.

“…Okay,” he says.

You made a small space next to you for him to put his chair, and the book was placed between you two for him to see. Your shoulders don’t touch, but you’re aware of how close they could. The silence came back between you two as you both looked down at the same page, silently figuring out where to start.

“Were you in this section?” you ask, pointing lightly to a paragraph near the middle.

“Yeah,” he replies, leaning in just slightly. “That part explains it better than the earlier one.”

You hum in acknowledgment, eyes tracing the lines as you read. It’s easier this time, and now and then, one of you points something out like a sentence, a detail, or a correction.

The rest of the time slips with a few exchanges, shared glances at the same lines, the occasional murmur of agreement. Later, you stop keeping track of whose hand moves first, whose voice breaks the silence. It blends easily and unforcedly, and turns out, Yufan was good at English, so he helped you with the pronunciation from time to time.

Deep down, you felt a little disappointed at how quickly time had flown by, even though you’d been able to relax with Yufan for at least ten minutes earlier. You closed your notebook with a small exhale, gathering your things.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, closing his own book. “Me too.”

You weren’t sure why you waited, but you did just long enough for him to stand. Outside, the air had cooled slightly, announcing how the night was getting closer.

“You stay late often?” he asked after a bit of walking side by side.

“Recently. I do that when it’s exam season.”

“Mm.”

“You?”

“Not usually,” he admitted. “But I had more to finish today.”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on your bag. “You’re good at focusing.”

You blinked. “What?”

“In there,” he gestured lightly toward the school behind you. “You didn’t look up once.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t realized. “…I guess.”

“It’s impressive.”

“It’s just studying.”

“Still. I can’t even sit still for a couple of minutes—I just pulled it off to match your energy.”

There’s a playful tone in his voice that catches you off guard. You let out a small laugh before you can stop it, and the way his expression shifts—quietly pleased—makes it feel like he’d been waiting for that.

“That’s very kind of you, Yufan.”

“James.”

“Mh?”

“Call me James. It’s easier.”

“But I like your name.”

That, apparently, surprises him enough for him to lift one of his eyebrow lifts. “Liar.”

“I’m serious,” you insist, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I think it’s pretty… but if you want me to call you James, that’s okay. I can make that sacrifice.”

He laughs this time, it felt even warmer than the evening air, softer than the fading light. You slow your steps without meaning to.

“I go this way,” you say, gesturing ahead.

“Same,”

“I didn’t know you lived nearby.”

“Not too far.”

The quiet that follows isn’t awkward, but it soon fills with your conversations. “…Keonho talks a lot,”

A small laugh escapes you before you can hold it back, remembering how you and Yunah placed a bet once on who speaks the most, him or Wonhee. “He does.”

“He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know!”

“He just fills space with the most random things. So does Martin.”

“That makes sense,” you say, glancing down for a moment. “They get along so well.”

He looks at you then, briefly but directly. “You don’t.”

You frown, a little puzzled. “I don’t talk much.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You turn your head toward him, confusion softening your expression. He doesn’t explain right away, letting the moment sit there. “You don’t need to.”

The way he says it makes your chest feel different, but before you can figure out why, he nods toward a smaller street branching off ahead. “This is me.”

You stop. “Oh.”

“Let’s keep going,” he says, completely ignoring your face, showing pure confusion.

“James, we’re in your street.”

“I don’t want to let you go alone; let me take you home safe.”

It’s said simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches out, hand hovering before gently nudging yours forward, urging you to keep walking. The contact is light, fleeting—but it made your face warm instantly and forced you to look away, walking forward before he has the chance to notice.

Or maybe he does.

The street stretches ahead as your footsteps walk side by side, the conversations growing as both of you arrive at your house.

“Hold on, you are Juhoon’s neighbor?”

“Yes, for a couple of years now, actually.” 

“I didn’t know that,” he says, glancing between your house and his, fitting pieces together a little too late. “That makes sense.”

You smile faintly. “Does it?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, hands slipping into his pockets. “You’re around more than I thought. I just didn’t notice properly.”

“Well,” you murmur with your eyes on him, “you’re noticing now.”

“Glad I am.”

You stood in front of the cool metal of your gate with your key in hand. “I had a good time,” he says then, almost like it surprises him to admit it out loud.

Again, you were caught off guard, but this time, it’s easier to smile. “Me too.” Your door finally opened. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, James.” 

You take a step back, already half-turning toward your door.

“…Yufan sounds nice, too.” Once the words lingered in the air, you looked back at him just to see the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Yufan,” you corrected, his smile growing a little in size.

“I’ll be happy to see you tomorrow,” he says. “Y/N.”

You nod once before slipping inside, closing the gate behind you. But even as you walk toward your door, you give one last glance back once more. He’s still there, waiting for you to enter safely and to wave his hand softly before he finally turns and heads home.

Who would have thought that Yufan was that sweet?

─── BLR DIDN'T WANT ME TO POST THIS BC OF THE 1K BLOCK LIMIT </3! Hence, I'm posting the first part out so you all can stop waiting (and yes, we are missing more scenes). The second part will come out hours later today or on Thursday, but it WILL. Tysm for waiting, it feels so good to be back on cortisblr yall 🚬🩷

It slipped into his routine so quietly that by the time he became aware of it, it already felt familiar. It wasn’t new or sudden—just something that had always been there, waiting to be noticed.

Or maybe not there at all.

It began as hesitation. A brief pause when he entered the classroom, when he set his bag down and sat, when his attention lingered without knowing exactly where to reside. It was subtle enough that he ignored it at first, brushing it off as nothing more than fatigue or the weight of exams pressing in from all sides.

That explanation made sense. Everything else in his life pointed toward it.

The classroom had grown quieter in recent weeks, more disciplined in a way that felt almost tangible. Teachers spoke with sharper urgency, their expectations heavier with each passing day. Even the students carried themselves differently, as if they were all trying to take up less space, conserving energy for something just ahead of them.

Juhoon adjusted without difficulty. He always did.

His notes remained clean, his handwriting steady, his focus unwavering. If anything, he felt sharper than before—more certain, more controlled, more aware of where his time should go.

And yet, that pause stayed to the point it started to bother him the fact that he couldn’t shake it off.

It followed him through the day in ways he couldn’t quite name. In the mornings, just before the bell rang. In the brief moments between lessons, when noise filled the room and disappeared just as quickly. In the afternoons, when the light shifted, everything felt slower than it should.

At first, he told himself it was nothing. He was so naive because, in fact, it wasn’t anything.

It wasn’t heavy, overwhelming, or distracting. It didn’t demand his attention the way school stress or exhaustion would on a normal day. It felt hollow.

Like something had been there before, something small and constant, and now it wasn’t—and he couldn’t remember when it had disappeared. The thought stayed with him longer than it should have, becoming harder and harder to ignore; even his friends started to notice easily.

“You’re distracted.”

Juhoon didn’t look up when Martin spoke. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I said I’m not,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

Seonghyeon slapped Martin before he leaned back in his chair, watching him with a kind of casual persistence that made it difficult to dismiss. “Then why do you keep looking over there?”

Juhoon paused, “No, I don’t.”

“Oh, c’mon, you just did.”

“I was thinking.”

“About the architecture of that side of the room?”

Juhoon closed his notebook with a little more force than necessary. “Focus on your own work.”

Keonho raised his hands, half-amused. “Alright.”

From behind them, James let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. Juhoon ignored it like he had been doing for the past three months. But the question lingered longer than the conversation itself.

Why had he looked?

He hadn’t meant to. That was what unsettled him most—it hadn’t been a decision. His attention had shifted on its own, drawn somewhere without intention, without reason.

He recognized the shape of the feeling before he understood it, which disturbed him more than anything else. It wasn’t familiarity in the way people described it as something warm or immediate or certain. It sadly felt quieter than that, more distant, like recalling a word he had memorized long ago without ever needing to use it.

Love.

The word came to him as a definition since it was something he learned rather than lived. He had heard it often enough, seen the way it moved through conversations with his friends, and how people softened around it or sharpened because of it like a switch. It was always described as something undeniable that arrived with clarity, with weight, and a kind of presence that made everything else flip around it.

He had never experienced anything like that.

What he knew of it came in fragments, gathered without intention. The careless confessions traded between classmates, the subtle changes in tone when Keonho spoke about his girlfriend so tenderly in such an imperceptible way, causing his attention to linger just a little longer than necessary on the horizon while recalling memories. He understood it the way he understood most things: by observing and assigning meaning where there seemed to be a pattern.

But understanding something in theory had never meant he felt it.

And yet, this—whatever this was—felt familiar in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Not because he recognized the emotion itself, but because he recognized its outline as if it had existed somewhere at the edge of his awareness for longer than he had realized.

It wasn’t massive; if anything, it had been easy to ignore by overlooking it, because it had never interrupted him, it just simply existed, steady and unchanging, blending so seamlessly into the background of his days that he had never thought to separate it from everything else, and also because of how busy he was.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t noticed it. Because it had never forced him to, and it had never required anything from him in return.

He tried, then, to trace it back—to find where it had begun, to locate the moment it might have shifted into something more—but the effort felt useless almost immediately. There was no single point of origin, no clear beginning he could isolate. It had been built from moments that were most likely too insignificant to stand on their own, from a presence so constant that it had stopped registering as something distinct.

And now, looking back on it, he realized how little he had actually seen.

The recognition sorted out slowly, yet it felt heavy enough to remain. Whatever this feeling was, whatever it resembled, he knew one thing with a certainty that left him more troubled than he expected—he hasn’t felt it the way he was supposed to when it was there in a moment that it might have mattered.

The thought stayed in his ribs, pressing so gently just beneath the surface that he didn’t have a real desire to confront. It would have been easy to follow it further by questioning it, so it could sit with it long enough for it to become clear enough to enlighten him and give him an answer.

Instead, he did the usual. Ignore it by not giving it any shape, no conclusion, no space to grow into something that might demand more from him than he was willing to give in the future. And just like that, it became nothing again—or at least, something he could pretend was nothing.

As the realization dawned fully, it stopped looking like a question and more like an absence.

She was still there—still in the same seat and moving through the classroom with the same quiet composure with a small dose of extroversion—but something about her presence no longer reached him the way it used to. Or maybe it never had, and he was only noticing it now.

Before, he had never needed to look for her. She had been the quiet hum in the backdrop of his life, a constant, gentle presence that never demanded to be noticed. He hadn’t given her a second thought—so why, now, did her absence scream so loudly in the empty spaces she used to fill?

It started with small things that he almost missed.

Mornings where that brief pause stretched a little longer than it used to, his attention drifting before he could catch it, settling without intention on her seat.

She was always there. That hadn’t changed. But she wasn’t looking up anymore.

Not during lessons, the quiet spaces between them on the bus, not even when the classroom went silent. Her attention stayed on her work, steady and self-contained, making her feel further away than she actually was, even from only a few rows apart.

He found himself yearning for those shy glances to their moments that passed between them without words. Perhaps, there had been nothing in those moments. Maybe they had always meant something, and he just hadn’t thought to look closely enough to notice.

He only noticed now—when they were gone. And still, he told himself it was nothing. Until then again, he started figuring out other things too in passing, just like how you catch something when it begins to repeat.

James, for example.

At first, it was just his voice cutting into conversations more often than usual, his tone lighter in a way that didn’t quite match the rest of them.

“—she said it like it was obvious,” he’d remark once, absentmindedly, as if the detail didn’t matter. Or, “You should’ve seen her face when—” before trailing off, shaking his head like it wasn’t worth explaining.

Juhoon hadn’t thought much of it then. James talked like that sometimes—half-finished thoughts, things that didn’t quite land anywhere, until they kept happening.

Small mentions, threaded into conversations where they didn’t quite belong. Nothing direct, nothing obvious. Just enough to suggest that somewhere, outside of what Juhoon could see, something had already begun to take shape.

He didn’t ask about it since he wasn’t sure why.

One time, he noticed his friend writing down notes early in the morning by accident.

They had been told to exchange notebooks for review, and when hers ended up in his hands, he hadn’t meant to look beyond what was necessary.

But something slipped loose between the pages as he opened it—a small fold of paper that he remembered easily, tucked carefully enough that it might have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t turned too quickly.

He stilled for a moment before unfolding it.

You look ethereal today. Would you like to see each other in the library?

He folded it back the same way he had found it and slid it into place without thinking, closing the notebook a second too quickly, as if the motion itself might erase what he had seen.

It shouldn’t have meant anything; it didn’t. And yet, later that afternoon, he noticed the tangerine, the same tangerine he helped James pick out a couple of days ago.

It sat at the corner of her desk, its bright color out of place against the muted tones of everything else. She turned it absently in her fingers while listening, the movement so familiar, so easy, that it suggested it wasn’t the first time.

He didn’t see James give it to her, but it didn’t take much time to put two and two together. As it became undeniable, it was already too late to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

It happened after school, in the courtyard, where everything softened, making it easier to move through. Juhoon stood near the steps, only half-listening to Keonho beside him.

“…I’m telling you, if you don’t at least try, you’ll regret it—”

“I’m not interested,” Juhoon cut in.

“You never being interested is the stupidest thing you could have ever told me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when it comes to anything that isn’t studying.”

Juhoon exhaled quietly, already losing patience.

“…Where’s James?” Keonho asked, glancing around. Juhoon followed his gaze without thinking.

And then he saw her, a few steps away from where she usually stood, her body angled just slightly toward someone else—James.

There was nothing remarkable about it at first glance. They weren’t standing close enough to draw attention or doing anything that would invite it. From a distance, it looked like any other casual conversation that blended into the rest of the courtyard without effort.

It should have been easy to look away, but he found himself watching anyway. James said something he couldn’t hear, and she responded with a laugh—softly enough to draw his attention before he could stop it. 

Such a pretty laugh didn’t ask to be noticed. If anything, it was the opposite. It wasn’t careful or held back, not softened at the edges the way he had come to expect from her. It just came out so gently and unrestrained, like she was used to James words.

No matter how much noise surrounded them or how their friends were laughing due to the conversations that were happening, the sound lingered longer than it should have to softly land somewhere in his chest before he could make sense of it. 

He tried to place it, to tie it to something familiar—a memory, a moment, anything that might explain why it felt so distant—a time when she had laughed like that with him, openly, without hesitation. But nothing came, and that absence, more than anything else, made something tighten in his chest.

As he watched, James reached up without thinking, brushing a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear. The gesture was absentminded and done with such ease that it suggested it wasn’t the first time, even more when he saw how his thumb caressed her cheek.

She didn’t pull away, only kept talking, her face blooming into a soft red that felt like it belonged there, as if the moment had already made space for him.

Martin’s voice cut through his thoughts after noticing how he was out of it. “She’s laughing.”

Juhoon didn’t respond, but Keonho kept going, unnoticing.

“I mean, she laughs—just not like that. Only with her friends, maybe. I’ve seen it.” He paused, glancing back toward them. “But with James… that’s new, isn’t it?”

Juhoon’s gaze stayed where it was, even as something in his chest tightened.

“…I wouldn’t know,” he said, though the answer felt wrong the moment it left him.

Because, once again, he did know.

He wouldn’t have known how to explain it, but he recognized her in detail that he had never meant to remember. Fleeting, unguarded moments—the pause before she spoke, like she was choosing something carefully, the quiet pull of her attention when it lingered, subtle but present, long enough to matter if he had been looking.

It almost fit, if he looked at it from a distance—but not in any place where he was part of it.

Across the courtyard, she shifted slightly, her attention still fixed on James. In the back of his mind, he expected her to look up—to glance his way like before, because deeply, he wanted to see there was still a chance, but she didn’t.

He couldn’t pinpoint when the thought became to feel more, only knowing it was enough for him to feel the distance where there hadn’t been any before. He looked away first, with the feeling not moving with him all the way until he reached home.

It was there as he sat at his desk, reviewing his notes, while talking to his brother, and as the house folded into its usual silence. It waited in the pauses between thoughts, returning whenever his focus slipped just enough to let it in.

She had always been there. That thought came easily now, without resistance. So easily that something in his chest tightened again. 

She had been part of his days for so long that he had stopped recognizing her as something separate—something that could change, or leave, or become unfamiliar without warning.

His fingers pressed lightly against the edge of his desk.

When had that happened?

When had she stopped looking?

When had he started noticing?

There were no answers, only that same quiet emptiness that was so steady that it somehow made it worse.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling as if that might be enough to quiet the thought. In the end, he told himself it didn’t matter. He had exams, expectations, a future that required his attention in ways this didn’t. Whatever it was, it remained uncertain—easy enough to set aside if he chose to. So he did. 

He opened his eyes, reached for his pen, and lowered it to the page, letting the familiar motion steady him, letting it pull him back into his predictable

It stayed regardless, slipping in between each line, and was impossible to push aside fully. She had been woven so seamlessly into his days that he had never thought to separate her from them, never questioned what it meant to have her there at all. And now, with that quiet shift he hadn’t noticed until it was already complete, he was left with the faint, disorienting sense that something had moved out of place without asking him first. 

He felt it in the pauses, in the seconds where his pen slowed just slightly before continuing, as if part of his attention had already drifted elsewhere.

He didn’t follow it.

He let the moment pass, let the lines fill, let the familiarity of it all rest back over him as if nothing had changed.

And in doing so, he left it exactly where it was—unnamed, and already slipping further out of reach.

Finally, the festival’s big day arrived. After weeks of pressure and academic strain, all the tension melted away as students joyfully surrounded everything the event had to offer.

Lantern light spilled across the festival in uneven waves, catching on faces and fabric, turning everything into warm shades of amber and faded red. Their paper edges trembled with each passing breeze, scattering light that refused to settle—corners bright, others dim, expressions caught between shadow and glow. It felt less like a school event and more like something the students had quietly claimed for themselves.

Music played somewhere near the center, pulling a lively crowd toward it. Laughter rose and fell in waves, blending with the hum of conversation and the soft scuff of shoes against worn ground.

You stood near the edge, where the light thinned. A paper cup rested loosely in your hand, long since lukewarm, your attention drifting more than settling to the dress you were wearing. You weren’t hiding—you could see everything clearly from here. To your father’s surprise, it was the first time he didn’t have to convince you to have fun, deciding to go because it felt right.

“Are you planning on staying there all night?”

“I might,” you said, glancing at a happy Wonhee.

She narrowed her eyes at you, unimpressed. “You say that like it’s a normal thing to do.”

“It is. Tonight.”

“That’s the problem,” She hooked her arm through yours. “Come on. At least pretend you’re part of society for one night.”

“I am part of society.”

“You’re observing it. That’s not the same thing.”

Yunah appeared on your other side with three tteokbokki cups. “Leave her alone,” she said, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice. “She’ll come when she wants to.”

“I won’t,” you said lightly.

Wonhee groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“But I’m here!”

“That’s because you’re loyal,” she replied immediately. “Not because you’re easy to deal with when it’s about going to a party.”

They pulled you a few steps closer to the light before getting distracted—Wonhee by someone calling her name, Yunah by the forming crowd.

“Don’t disappear,” Wonhee said over her shoulder.

“I won’t, I’m waiting.” 

“For James?” 

“Please, Wonhee… It’s Yufan.” You nudged them forward, your face warming before continuing walking in front of them. The music shifted, slower now. A group attempted to dance in the center—more awkward than graceful—earning laughter and scattered applause. 

It was easy to watch, and way easier than participating, to say the least.

“There’s your boy.” Wonhee smiled at your words, spotting Keonho. Yunah followed her, leaving you as James approached.

“Do you always stand just far enough away to leave?”

His voice reached you easily, slipping through the music and conversation as though it had been meant only for you.

You turned. Lantern light traced along his features, softer out here than at school. 

For obvious reasons, he looked different out here, but you could still make out the details; his jacket hung slightly loose on his frame, a light-colored one with wide pockets that made him look more relaxed than he ever did at school. Underneath, a plaid shirt sat neatly tucked into dark trousers, the pattern just visible when the light caught it right. His sleeves were pushed back a little. Even the way he stood—hands in his pockets, shoulders easy—but with a smile on his face, like this version of him only existed outside the routines you were used to.

“I could ask you the same.”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“You found me.”

“I was hoping I would,” he replied, still smiling. Soon, he glanced toward the center of the festival, where the lanterns gathered thickest, and the music softened. “Walk with me?”

You hesitated, only for a moment. “Alright.”

He fell into step beside you like he has been doing for the past months. For a few moments, that was all it was—walking, blending into the rhythm of the crowd. Then, without making a show of it, his hand found yours.

It wasn’t sudden or hesitant. That gentle, natural movement of how his fingers curled around yours, providing warmth in a way you hadn’t expected, and taking in the slight coolness of one of his rings.

You didn’t pull away. 

“You look different tonight,” he said after.

“Different how?”

He considered it for a second. “You’re not waiting for anything anymore, are you?”

A quiet laugh left you. “Was I that obvious?”

“Only if someone was paying attention.”

“And now?” 

You looked ahead. “Now I think I’ve had enough of standing in the same place. Need to keep moving forward.”

He nodded before getting closer—his voice near your ear. “I didn’t think it was possible to look even prettier when you already are.”

You let out a small laugh. “You say things like that to everyone?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, though the warmth had already reached your face.

“Not really,” he said, just as easily. “Only when I mean them.”

That didn’t help, a faint smile slipping through anyway. “That’s not helping.”

“Am I?” He gave a small, knowing smile.  “I thought I was helping.”

At last, you looked up and met James’s gaze; he was already looking at you. Something about it made you feel shy enough to break the moment by looking away. His thumb traced over your hand, a clear sign of how pleased he was with your reaction.

You kept walking, your hand still in his, the warmth of it constant. A sudden and quiet feeling made you turn your head.

Juhoon stood a few steps away. The light didn’t fall on him the same way it did on James. It brushed past his shoulder, caught faintly along his cheek, leaving the rest of him in softer shadow. With his fingers fidgeting with a plushy in his hand, he was looking at you.

Really looking—finally stopped glancing past you and decided, all at once, to see you clearly.

Your breath caught when he stepped closer. Once. Then again.

“Can I—” he stopped, the words slipping away before he could finish them.

You had never seen Juhoon so unsure and without something to say.

James noticed him then, his gaze shifting from you to Juhoon. His hand remained in yours steady, as though he wasn’t willing to pretend the moment didn’t matter.

Juhoon saw it. Of course he did.

His eyes dropped briefly, the feeling of your fingers intertwined, before lifting again to meet yours. There it was again. That shift, specifically in his expression, caught your eye.

“Oh,” That single word said enough.

“I’ll give you a moment,” James said quietly, already stepping back.

“You don’t have to—” 

“It’s okay.” He pressed a brief kiss to your hand. “I will be with the rest by the games. We will see you all there.”

And then he was gone, moving back toward the courtyard, leaving you and Juhoon standing in the space he had just occupied. The silence was loud enough for both of you to start walking outside the curious eyes. 

“You’re here,” he said.

“I am.”

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Why did you?”

You hesitated before answering honestly. “It felt like I should.”

“Also…” he worded, “I see you are getting along with James.”

“When?”

“Earlier,”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t know you would…”

“Would what?” 

“Move on like that.”

The honesty in it made you look at him properly, not the way you had been in passing for months, but trying to understand what sat beneath the surface. 

“I didn’t,” you said. “Not all at once.”

He swallowed, nodding slowly. “Still… it feels like I missed it.”

“You did,” 

The truth landed without force, but they didn’t need to cut to leave an impact. Juhoon’s gaze dropped for a moment, his fingers tightening slightly around the plush in his hand before loosening again.

“I kept thinking…” he started, then paused, running a hand through his hair. “I thought there was more time.”

“There was,” you said. “Once.”

He looked up quickly without expecting you to meet him there. “Then when did it—”

“I don’t know,” you interrupted gently. 

A breeze stirred the lanterns above. Their light shifted again, brushing over his face more fully this time, and for a second, you could see every flicker of realization in his eyes just a moment too late.

“I started noticing things,” you continued. “When you stopped walking me home. When you left my notes unanswered.” A faint smile was plastered on your face without quite reaching your eyes. “When it felt like I was the only one remembering.”

“I read them,” he said quickly, almost defensively. “Just… later.”

“I know,” you answered. “You always did things later.”

A knot formed in your throat, the moment made the music from the center of the festival mute in your brain, the small silence stretching across the space between conversations and footsteps. 

“I didn’t think it mattered when I answered,” he admitted, his voice low. “I thought… you’d still be there.”

“I was. For a long time.” 

Juhoon stepped closer then, more certain this time. “And now?” 

“...I’m tired,” you said. “Not of you. Just… I’m tired of waiting for something that never quite became real.”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue, an action he did when he wanted to say something that could change the direction of the moment, but nothing came out right away. Who would have thought, Juhoon—who always had something to say, even if it came too late—stood there without words.

“I didn’t realize,” he said finally, and it sounded like a confession more than an excuse.

“I know,” And that was the truth of it. He hadn’t realized. Not when it mattered, or when you had been right there, offering him every quiet chance to see you and have time alone.

Now he did.

Now, when the warmth of someone else’s still holds your hand.

Juhoon’s gaze flickered down briefly, as if the absence of your hand in his was something he could still feel, even without ever having held it like that before.

“I don’t want to be late anymore,” 

“You’re not,” you said softly.

Hope flickered in his eyes, quick and fragile.

“You’re just not early either.”

It faded just as quickly.

The festival continued around you both—lanterns swaying, music drifting, voices rising and falling as if nothing had shifted at all. But it did in an irretrievably quiet way that neither of you could undo.

“We should go back,” you said after a while, your voice gentler now, easing both of you out of something too heavy to carry any longer. “They’re probably looking for us.”

Juhoon nodded, though it took him a second. “Yeah,” he murmured. “They probably are.”

You started walking first this time without waiting to see if he would follow. Your heart told you he did.

Wonhee spotted you first in the midst of a celebration after winning whatever she was holding in her hands, her expression shifting immediately into something curious and a little too knowing. “Finally,” she called, hands on her hips. “I thought you both disappeared for good.”

Yunah was the only one who caught her words, glancing between you and Juhoon. Keonho and Martin were too busy arguing with someone over a game prize, completely unaware, while laughter broke out around them.

And just beyond them, James stood near the stalls after sensing the girls’ change, his posture relaxed but his attention unmistakably on you. When your eyes met, he smiled, and your chest steadied at that.

You stepped forward, naturally closing the distance between you and your friends, letting their voices and energy fold around you again. Juhoon lingered half a step behind before joining, his gaze flickering once more toward you before settling somewhere quieter in the space he hadn’t filled in time.

The festival began to quiet as the lanterns dimmed one by one, their glow softening while the music dissolved into fragments carried by the night air. Students lingered in small clusters, stretching the final moments into laughter and loose conversation—some already drifting away with prizes in their hands, food half-finished, or fingers intertwined with someone else’s. 

Hours earlier, you had done everything the festival had to offer, and now all of you rested near the edge of the courtyard again, the energy that had once pulled at you now easing and lightly draped over your shoulders. 

Wonhee was still talking, her fingers laced with her boyfriend’s, as animated as ever while recounting something that had happened near the food stalls. Yunah and Martin listened with quiet smiles, occasionally adding something that sent the others into laughter. Keonho finally held his prize, though it looked more like he had argued his way into keeping it than actually winning—Seonghyeon clearly having given in just to silence him. 

Juhoon stood among them too, playing along and talking. Once or twice, you felt his gaze linger—but when you turned, he had already looked away.

“Are you heading home?” Yunah asked, her attention shifting to you when you checked Seonghyeon’s wristwatch.

You nodded. “I should. It’s getting late.”

“Walk together?” Wonhee suggested, glancing around the group.

“I can take her.”

James’s voice slipped easily into the conversation without disturbing its rhythm. He stood beside you now, one hand holding the bag of plushies. Wonhee raised her brows, exchanging a knowing look with her boyfriend before smiling. “Well, that answers that.”

Juhoon’s expression softened as he looked between you and James. “...I would have joined, but I’m staying at Martin’s. Please take her safely, James.”

“You know I will,” he replied, a small smile following. “Have a good night, everyone.”

The goodbyes were brief. You didn’t look back as you stepped away with James. The night air had cooled, spreading the faint scent of damp earth, and the rhythm of your footsteps—paired with the occasional rustle of leaves—eased something in you, much like his presence beside you. 

“You were quiet earlier,” James said after some time.

“So were you.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he replied, glancing at you. “It didn’t feel like my place.”

You considered that, your gaze drifting ahead where the path curved, lined with shadows and faint traces of light from distant homes. “You didn’t have to leave.”

“I know.” A small pause. “But I wanted to.”

“Thank you,” you murmured.

“You’re welcome.”

The path shifted beneath your feet, gravel giving way to smoother ground that opened toward the lake. You hadn’t realized where he was leading you until the water came into view, reflecting the faint glow of the sky above. 

You slowed. “Yufan…”

“I know it’s late,” he said, turning toward you fully. “But I thought… it might be quieter here.”

The lake stretched out before you, undisturbed except for the occasional ripple, its surface catching what little light remained and holding it there. The air felt cooler here, brushing against your skin, lifting a few strands of your hair. You stepped closer to the edge, stopping just short of where the ground softened. 

“It’s nice,” you said quietly.

He moved beside you. “I found this place a long time ago, and I come here sometimes alone or with the boys,” he admitted. “To unwind.”

You nodded. The view itself made you stand there in silence. Then, without warning, he nudged your shoulder lightly.

You blinked, glancing at him. “What was that for?”

“You looked too serious,” he said, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“I wasn’t—”

He nudged you again, more deliberately this time. “James—” you started, but the laugh slipped out before you could stop it, familiar and unguarded in a way that only happened with him. 

“There it is,” he murmured. 

You shook your head as you stepped back slightly, but he followed, matching your movement.

“Careful,” you warned, though the smile hadn’t left your face. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Am I?”

You reached out then, pushing him lightly in return hard enough to make your point. He stumbled back a step, more surprised than affected. 

“Hey—” 

You laughed, brighter now, lighter than it had been all evening. “That’s what you get.”

“Oh, that’s unfair,” he said, stepping forward again, his expression playfully determined. “You started it.”

“I didn’t—”

Your words cut off as he reached for your wrist to pull you slightly off balance. You tried to step back, but your foot slipped against the softened edge of the ground.

The suddenness of the cold water wrapping around you stole the breath from your lungs as you fell in with a splash that broke the stillness completely. Everything was disoriented—sound muffled, the world reduced to movement and shock—until you surfaced again, gasping, your hands pushing against the water as you found your footing.

“Yufan!” you managed, half laughing, half incredulous, running your hands through your hair as the strands fell loose and heavy between your fingers. Panic flickered when they didn’t find the binyeo that had been holding everything in place. 

“My—wait, my—”

“It’s okay,” his voice came quickly, cutting through the rising edge of your worry. “I have it.”

You turned.

James stood at the edge of the lake, closer than you remembered, the distant lantern light barely reaching him—but enough to catch the binyeo held carefully between his fingers.

Relief rushed through you.

He slipped off his jacket, movements unhurried now, neatly folding it to keep it from touching the damp ground before placing the binyeo gently on top, his fingers lingering for the briefest moment to make sure it was safe there.

Even without knowing the full story, he treated it like something that mattered simply because it was yours.

Then he looked back at you, that familiar glint returning to his gaze.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, a faint smile forming. “Canon ball!”

The water broke again as he jumped in, his shout dissolving into laughter as he surfaced nearby. He tried to suppress the laugh that followed, but it slipped out anyway, echoing lightly across the lake. The earlier panic was already fading to make you laugh again.

“You scared the shit out of me, Yufan.” You splashed water toward him. 

“I didn’t mean to push you in—” he started, then shook his head. “Okay, maybe I did.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You pushed me first!”

“That was different!”

“How?” 

You tried to argue, but the laughter won instead, spilling out as you splashed him again before turning to swim away. The cold didn’t bite as sharply anymore, replaced by something warmer settling in your chest.

He caught you quickly, arms wrapping around you. “Got you!”

“Damn it, Yufan.” The rest of your protest dissolved as he pulled you under with him.

When you surfaced again, breathless, the distance between you had shifted.

He looked at you differently now.

“You’re freezing,” he said.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though your breath still came uneven.

He moved closer anyway, the water shifting softly between you until there was barely any space left. “You don’t look fine.”

“And you do?” you countered, your gaze flickering briefly to the way his hair fell over his eyes.

He smiled faintly at that. “Maybe not.”

The air between you shifted then. Your awareness sharpened all at once—the closeness, the quiet, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. Your heartbeat, still uneven from the cold, began to quicken for an entirely different reason.

His hand lifted, hesitating only briefly before brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face—slow enough to give you time to step back.

You didn’t.

Moonlight caught along his cheek and the bridge of his nose, softening him in a way daylight never quite did, smoothing the edges of his features until he looked almost unreal. Water clung to him in scattered droplets, shifting across his face whenever he moved, turning every small detail into something worth noticing. 

It dawned on you—with a calm clarity that took root deep within your being, and beyond anything you had ever felt before—that you had long since stopped observing him, or at least that’s what your heart was telling you.

With Juhoon, everything felt like you needed to figure him out, going as far as to learn about him like you were connecting puzzle pieces through glances, moments you weren’t sure you were allowed to see, or the ones that made you feel like you were chasing something so out of reach that might disappear if you looked too closely or asked too much of it.

But James had never felt distant, just like your dad had said.

At some point, without either of you noticing when, the quiet conversations or notes he left on the pages of your notebook took on a deeper meaning, had changed; they chose each other time and again, becoming familiar figures in a way that didn’t diminish his charm, only making him clearer in your vision.

It took you a few months to realize how his voice softened when he said your name, conveying a warmth that seemed spontaneous but was never careless. Likewise, you came to notice how he listened to you: he didn’t just wait for his turn to speak, but truly gave you his full attention, taking in every word you said as if it were important enough to remember.

You knew that his laughter came easily, but never at the wrong moment; and you knew that his presence was never overwhelming, just firm enough to let you know that you could lean on him without a second thought. Looking back, that was what made it different.

Because loving him didn’t feel like waiting to be chosen, and it finally felt like you’re already being held in that choice.

Your gaze lingered on him now, closer than it had ever been, taking him in without the hesitation that once followed you so naturally. Damp strands of hair had fallen loose across his forehead, softening the composure he wore so effortlessly at school without taking anything away from it. If anything, it made him seem more real: less like someone you admired from a distance and more like someone you had slowly, unknowingly let into every quiet part of your life. Someone who had been making you smile at the smallest things for months now, leaving those subtle flutters in your chest you had stopped pretending not to notice. 

His sharp doe eyes found yours again, and your chest tightened at the certainty resting within it. There was nothing to decipher, only the steady understanding you felt over you as his thumbs traced along your cheeks, his hands carefully cradling your face with such an affection that the rest of the world seemed to fall away around you both. He held your gaze as if the decision had long since been made, and all that remained was for you to feel it too.

The touch lingered enough to pull another uneven breath from you. Despite the cold water surrounding you, warmth spread through your chest, slow and grounding, while your fingers curled instinctively against him in return.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for you. 

Your eyes dropped for a moment to the shape of his lips, to the faint silver glow the moonlight left against them, before lifting back to meet his gaze. There was a question there, though not one he needed to ask aloud. 

He was giving you the space to choose.

And maybe that was why your heart wasn’t racing the way you once imagined it would. After all the longing, all the confusion, this didn’t feel sudden at all. It felt like something your heart had been walking toward for a long time now.

You leaned in first.

This time, without hesitation.

The kiss met you softly, careful at first, as though he still wanted to make sure you truly wanted this too. It wasn’t dramatic the way stories always promised, nor dizzying enough to steal the world from beneath your feet. Instead, it unfolded slowly against your lips—warm, unfamiliar, achingly tender in a way that made your chest tighten more than overwhelm you. 

Your first kiss didn’t feel like losing something.

Your heart seemed to find a new rhythm, your thoughts quieted beneath the feeling of him holding you closer, his hand settling more firmly against you as though grounding himself in the moment just as much as you were. Your fingers slid from his shoulders to his hands, holding onto him with a tenderness that felt almost instinctive now. 

When you finally pulled away, it wasn’t abrupt. The distance between you barely existed at all, your breaths mingling in short, uneven exhales against the cool night air while your forehead nearly brushed his.

He went still for a second, his gaze searching yours as water rippled softly around you both. Then his hand found your waist, tentative at first, fingers pressing against the damp fabric before he drew you toward him again, closing the small space you had created as though neither of you wanted it there to begin with.

“Wait,” he murmured, quieter this time. “Just…”

The words faded before they could fully form. But he kissed you again anyway.

His hand steadied at your waist as the water shifted around you, pulling you closer until there was barely room left between your bodies. The cold had long since faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of his body close to you as he held you like he wasn’t afraid of wanting more of this—of you.

And still, even then, there was care in it.

You could feel it in the way he never pulled too hard, never rushed ahead of you, only leaned closer when your fingers slipped into his damp hair, only deepened the kiss when you answered him with the same quiet longing.

Your hands tightened against his shoulders, anchoring yourself there as the rest of the world narrowed into something small enough to fit between shared breaths and trembling fingertips. For the first time in a long while, your heart no longer felt like it was searching for something it couldn’t name.

It had found it.

When he finally pulled back, the ache of it surprised you. His forehead rested lightly against yours, his breathing still uneven, though softer now. His thumb brushed absentmindedly along your side, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were there.

“You’re…” he started, his voice more vulnerable than before. He let out a shaky breath and gave a small, nervous laugh. “God, I really love you.”

His eyes searched yours immediately after, suddenly uncertain.

“Is it too soon to say that?”

The honesty with which he delivered those words embraces you like a hug, and you smile softly, still close enough to feel it reflected in how he looked at you. The look of love.

You shook your head with a fond smile. “No, Yufan... not when I’ve been feeling the same way.”

JUHOON’s POV

The clock struck two in the morning by the time his thoughts finally began to torture him.

After hours of turning restlessly beneath tangled sheets, chasing the same fears in circles, he arrived at a conclusion that should have come months ago: He would confess at the dinner his grandmother had arranged.

A narrow beam from the desk lamp spilled across stacked books and loose papers, leaving the rest of the room swallowed in dim familiarity. Usually, the space steadied him. Tonight, it only reminded him of everything he failed to say.

The festival replayed endlessly in his mind, appearing in fragments throughout the day, whether he wanted it to or not. Most memories circled back to you.

To the brightness in your face.

To the ease in your laughter.

To the way you stood beside someone who seemed capable of giving you the certainty he never could.

He remembered you near the edge of the crowd, laughing so hard during one of the games that you nearly lost your balance. The memory should have comforted him; instead, it hollowed him out. Because, in all honesty, what upset him most wasn’t rejection. You had never truly rejected him. But you had not reached for him either.

Some foolish part of him had always believed that if he took even a single step toward you, you would meet him halfway. That there was something unspoken binding the two of you together despite years of silence. Now he wasn’t certain that space still existed.

One thing, however, remained painfully clear: He had been a coward.

Juhoon dragged the pillow over his face, muffling the frustrated curse that escaped him. The pressure did little to stop his thoughts. If anything, the stillness in the room seemed sharper afterward. Eventually, he let the pillow fall beside him and stared at the ceiling overhead, tracing the faint cracks spreading through the plaster like thin river branches.

He used to memorize formulas while looking at those same cracks: Formulas, dates, vocabulary. The pieces of a future that had always seemed predetermined.

And perhaps he was still deciding his future now. Only this time, no correct answers were waiting at the back of a textbook.

The truth was more complicated than fear alone. He understood that now.

A person could inherit silence without realizing it. In his house, affection had always been measured carefully, offered in portions small enough not to distract from responsibility. Praise was tied to achievement, and love was treated less like comfort than something that had to be earned through discipline, obedience, and restraint. 

Feelings were treated like obstacles. Dangerous ones. And his father never needed to repeat the lesson more than once.

So Juhoon grew exactly as he had been taught to grow: Methodical and careful. Always reaching toward expectations that resembled light without ever offering warmth.

He studied what was placed in front of him, avoided unnecessary risks, and stayed within boundaries drawn long before he understood their shape. Even friendship had once frightened him. Letting people close felt unstable, as though everything familiar might suddenly shift beneath his feet.

Then you arrived and ignored every distance he tried to maintain.

You smiled too easily at him.

Spoke to him without calculation.

Placed small things into his life as naturally as breathing—notes hidden inside textbooks, fruit wrapped neatly for him and his grandmother, quiet acts of care that expected nothing in return. And he hasn’t known what to do with any of it.

So he reduced it to kindness.

Kindness was manageable. Calling it that allowed him to stay safe from the terrifying possibility that your attention meant more because admitting the truth would also mean admitting how deeply he wanted it.

He saw the signs clearly now—how you remembered details he mentioned only once, how you always left space beside you as though expecting him to fill it, how your hand lingered against his for one impossible second too long. And still, he stayed motionless. Wanting something had always frightened him, as though desire itself might pull him away from the future already chosen for him long before he understood he could want anything different.

No one had ever taught him how to accept love freely given—not without earning it first. So he mistook your devotion for simple kindness and repaid it with distance, hiding behind the same stubborn restraint he had spent years confusing with discipline.

Sometimes he thought it might have been easier if you had grown impatient sooner, if there had been even a little cruelty in your heart. Then perhaps you would have left before he became accustomed to you, before your presence settled so naturally into the shape of his days, into his grandmother’s routines, into the silence of the house itself.

And now, losing you no longer felt sudden. It felt inevitable, like a slow mistake he had been building with his own hands for years.

What weighed on him most was the realization that somewhere along the way, he had begun waiting for permission—permission to want you, to choose something outside the narrow future planned for him since childhood. But no one had ever given it. So he kept waiting until waiting itself became an answer.

When he finally understood that the choice had always belonged to him, you had already begun letting go.

The dinner felt painfully close now despite being hours away. Earlier that evening, his grandmother had mentioned it so casually—I invited the neighbors. Behave yourself around your friend. She had not even reacted when he nearly choked on his salad.

Juhoon exhaled quietly and dragged a tired hand across his face as though he could wipe the memory away with the motion. His gaze drifted toward the open window, where the outline of your house rested beneath the dark sky. Even now, part of him still longed to say everything aloud. To empty the feelings he had spent years forcing down. And maybe—if he were fortunate—you would look at him again with that soft brightness he had once been too afraid to appreciate.

Morning arrived too quickly. Pale sunlight slipped through the windows in thin, indifferent streaks while exhaustion clung stubbornly to his body. He had not truly slept, only drifted in and out of shallow unconsciousness. He sat up slowly and pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes until brief flashes of light bloomed behind them.

Voices and movement drifted faintly from downstairs, and when he finally entered the kitchen, his suspicions were confirmed. His father and brother were already gone, likely out running errands before work, while his mother was almost certainly at church.

Without them, the house carried a different atmosphere. Far from quieter—his grandmother had never been a quiet woman a single day in her life—but lighter somehow, as though the tension woven into the walls loosened slightly in their absence. The radio murmured near the counter, occasionally dissolving into static, while the scent of breakfast lingered warmly through the kitchen.

Normally, it would have comforted him.

Today, it only sharpened the restlessness beneath his skin.

“You’re awake,” his grandmother said without turning around. “Go wash your face. You look awful.”

“I barely slept.”

“That much is obvious.” He ran a hand through his hair before obeying, splashing cold water over his face until the sting forced some awareness back into him.

It helped for exactly one minute. The moment he returned to the kitchen, his thoughts drifted back to you again—relentless and exhausting in a way studying had never been. The table had already been prepared, and he sat across from his grandmother, picking up his chopsticks despite having little appetite. 

“You’re coming with me to the market,” she said. “We still need ingredients for dinner tonight.”

“Alright.”

He forced himself to eat a few bites before asking, as casually as possible, “Who’s coming?”

“Our neighbors.” His grip tightened around the chopsticks before he could stop himself.

His grandmother noticed immediately. “You mean to ask whether that boy is coming too?”

Juhoon looked up at once. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

He looked away first.

“No,” she continued calmly. “He isn’t coming.”

Relief loosened his chest so suddenly that it embarrassed him.

“You shouldn’t look so reassured,” she added. The feeling vanished just as quickly.

His brow furrowed slightly. “Why not?”

“Because whether he’s there or not changes very little.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re assuming too much.”

“I’m not assuming anything,” she replied. “She’s told me enough already.”

His eyes lifted again. “She talks to you about that?”

His grandmother snorted softly. “Do you think I’m blind? She talks to me far more than she talks to you these days.”

He already knew the distance between you had widened. Still, hearing it aloud hurt more than expected. His grandmother continued ladling soup into bowls. “She used to ask about you constantly,” she said after a while. “She still does sometimes, but not like before.”

“She talks about everyone she’s friends with like that,” he muttered eventually, weakly. “She’s naturally kind.”

His grandmother laughed under her breath.

“You really are hopeless.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“She waited for you outside the gate nearly every evening during middle school. Do you think she would do that for every boy?”

Heat crept up the back of his neck immediately, the memories surfacing before he could stop them. 

You sitting on the low stone wall near the alley, swinging one foot absentmindedly while pretending to reread notes. Looking up every time footsteps approached. Smiling too quickly whenever it was him. The evenings after cram school, when the streets were already dark, your shoes dusty from pacing the narrow alley between your houses while pretending to look at the sky or the stray cats near the wall. Sometimes you carried fruit wrapped carefully in cloth for his grandmother. Others, books pressed tightly against your chest. And every single time, instead of asking what he truly wanted to know, he said:

Did you need something?

As though you were inconveniencing him and your waiting meant nothing, when in reality he had always looked away first because he liked you too much—enough for the feeling to frighten him. 

“She was obvious,” his grandmother said, finally sitting across from him. “At least to anyone old enough to recognize that kind of look.”

Juhoon pressed his thumb against the edge of his chopsticks.

“I didn’t know what to do.”

His grandmother studied him quietly before sighing.

“That,” she murmured, “is partly my fault.”

His eyes lifted immediately. She rarely spoke that way.

Leaning back slightly in her chair, she let her gaze drift somewhere beyond the kitchen walls. “When your father was young, his father taught him survival before anything else,” she said softly. “That was how parents lived back then. Especially after the colonization.”

Juhoon remained silent.

“There was little room for softness. We worried about food, money, appearances, and stability. About keeping our children alive long enough to become respectable adults. Feelings were treated like dangerous things.”

The words landed heavily between them.

“I thought strictness would protect him,” she continued. “And perhaps it did in some ways. Your father became disciplined. Reliable. Practical.” A tired sadness crossed her face. “But fear rooted itself in him too deeply.”

Juhoon knew exactly what she meant. His father feared failure the way other people feared sickness, as though one mistake had the power to unravel an entire life. The belief existed everywhere inside their home: in the heavy quiet during dinner, in endless conversations about grades, and in every discussion about the future spoken as though no other path had ever been possible. 

“And then he raised you boys, the same way,” she said. “Without realizing what else he was passing down. The war and the revolution only hardened it further.”

Juhoon swallowed quietly. His grandmother regarded him with an expression far gentler than before.

“But you think too much before allowing yourself to feel anything,” she said.

He looked away instinctively because she was right. For years, he had examined every possible consequence of loving you before ever allowing himself to admit that he did. Nothing about it had ever felt simple. Loving you felt permanent, as if he was stepping away from the only path he had ever known without any certainty of where it might lead. 

“I thought staying away was better,” he admitted at last.

His grandmother’s expression softened with sadness. “And did it help either of you?”

No. Not even slightly.

Distance had protected no one.

It had only made the loneliness worse.

As they entered the market later that morning, the streets were crowded and loud with activity. Women bargained loudly over vegetables while bicycles rattled across uneven pavement with baskets tied behind them using frayed rope. The cold air smelled faintly of fish, roasted chestnuts, and damp earth left behind by last night’s rain.

Juhoon carried the heavier bags while his grandmother moved steadily from stall to stall. The noise of the market mostly filled the silence between them before they took a small break to eat a little snack.

In the middle of her chewing, she suddenly said, “You’re unbelievably dumb for someone so smart.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” She inspected a basket of vegetables before continuing. “You spend all day noticing mistakes inside books, but when it comes to people, you understand absolutely nothing.”

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth almost lifted.

“You noticed that girl liked you years ago,” his grandmother continued. “The problem isn’t that you failed to see it. The problem is that you convinced yourself pretending not to notice would spare both of you.”

He stared ahead in silence because she understood him too well. Back then, he had convinced himself that if he ignored the brightness in your face whenever you looked at him, ignored the notes tucked between borrowed pages, ignored how naturally you slipped into the rhythm of his life, then eventually your feelings would fade on their own. He had mistaken distance for kindness and restraint for maturity, never realizing that all he was truly doing was leaving you alone inside emotions he refused to acknowledge.

“I didn’t want to ruin things,” he said after a long silence.

His grandmother looked up sharply.

“Between you and your father?” she asked.

Then more softly:

“Or between you and her?”

His grandmother’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, patient enough to make him uneasy. Around them, the market carried on without pause—vendors shouting prices across crowded stalls, the scrape of wooden carts against pavement, children weaving between adults with sticky hands wrapped around roasted chestnuts. Somewhere nearby, a radio crackled faintly through static before dissolving beneath the noise again.

Juhoon lowered his eyes to the paper cup warming his hands.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. He truly didn’t know.

Because somewhere along the way, the fear of losing you had tangled itself so tightly with the fear of having you that he could no longer separate the two.

His grandmother gave a low hum, unconvinced.

“You do know,” she said. “You just dislike the answer.”

A woman brushed past their bench carrying bundles of green onions against her chest, their sharp scent lingering briefly in the cold air. Juhoon watched the movement absently before speaking again.

“My father already thinks I’m distracted enough.”

“And? You are graduating soon,” she asked plainly.

He frowned faintly. “If my grades drop now—”

“Then your grades drop.”

The response startled him enough to glance at her properly. His grandmother snorted softly at his expression before tearing off a piece of hotteok. Steam curled between her fingers.

“You think one girl will ruin your entire future?” she asked. “You boys speak about exams as though they decide whether the sun rises tomorrow.”

“It’s not only that.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s fear. A fear that James didn’t have.”

He looked away toward the narrow street stretching beyond the market stalls, crowded with people moving shoulder to shoulder beneath tangled telephone wires. A delivery bicycle rattled past, splashing through leftover rainwater near the curb.

“You’ve spent so long trying to become the version of yourself everyone expects, that you’ve forgotten you’re allowed to want things too.”

Something tightened painfully in his chest.

Because he had wanted.

God, he had wanted.

He remembered every moment now with unbearable clarity, as though regret had sharpened each memory after the fact.

Your handwriting folded into the corners of his notebooks with cute quotes. The yellow ginkgo leaf you once pressed between the pages of his literature book because you said it reminded you of autumn sunlight, and drew a heart on it. The afternoons you waited near the alley after cram school, pretending to feed stray cats while glancing up every few seconds at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Even your silence had always reached for him. And he had answered it with hesitation every single time.

His grandmother studied him for another moment before sighing softly. “That girl loved you very sincerely,” she murmured.

Loved. Past tense. The realization struck harder than he expected. A strange hollowness opened beneath his ribs, sudden and cold. “She still cares about you,” his grandmother added after a pause. “But it’s changing now.”

He swallowed.

“She’s trying to move on,” she continued gently. “And honestly? I can’t blame her anymore.”

He stared at the steam rising from his untouched snack until it blurred faintly. Some selfish part of him had believed you would remain exactly where he left you—waiting patiently at the edge of his life until he finally gathered enough courage to step closer. As though your feelings existed only for his convenience, the shame of it burned quietly beneath his skin.

His grandmother nudged his shoulder lightly. “You should’ve spoken sooner.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you did.”

“What if I say it now,” he asked after a while, “and only make things harder for her?”

His grandmother looked at him for so long that he almost regretted speaking. “No.”

Juhoon blinked once, certain he had misheard her. “No?”

Her gaze lowered briefly to the paper cup warming between her hands before lifting toward him again. There was affection in her expression still—deep enough to ache—but it didn’t soften what she meant to say.

“No,” she repeated quietly. “Not now. Or ever. She waited for you a very long time,” his grandmother continued. “Long enough that I began feeling sorry for her every time she walked back home pretending she wasn’t disappointed.”

His grandmother brushed a crumb from her sleeve absently.

“That boy…” she began after a moment. “James, was it?”

Juhoon’s jaw tightened faintly at the name of his best friend. “He looks at her properly,” she said. “Like someone afraid of hurting her. And she looks beautiful and peaceful around him… Do you understand how rare that is?”

He stayed silent. He had seen the softness in your expression lately whenever James stood beside you. The ease in your laughter. The absence of that old waiting sadness he had grown so used to overlooking. A painful bitterness towards himself rose unexpectedly in his throat.

“I love you very much,” she said quietly. “You know that.”

His throat tightened.

“But loving you doesn’t mean I’ll encourage you to pull her back toward someone who only learned how to speak once she began walking away.”

Juhoon lowered his gaze immediately, fingers curling tighter around the edge of the bench. If you had remained exactly where you always were—waiting patiently, loving him quietly—would he have confessed at all?

Or would he have continued standing safely at a distance, convincing himself there would always be more time?

He hated the answer forming silently inside him.

“You do love her, I can see that now.” A pause followed before she added, almost regretfully, “Just know that sometimes love arrives too late to ask anything from the other person.”

The walk home felt longer beneath the weight of that realization as the evening washed over the neighborhood, thin smoke curled from chimneys into the darkening sky, and warm light glowed behind frosted windows all along the narrow street.

His grandmother, with the help of his mother, moved briskly through the kitchen while muttering complaints under their breath. Pots rattled, and the sharp scent of garlic and sesame oil clung to the air. Juhoon helped mostly in silence, distracted by the steady awareness of your house visible beyond the kitchen window whenever he looked up.

His father and Soobin were looking through the window when the knock finally came. Three soft taps. 

“I’ll get it,” his grandmother almost pushed her own son while she called, wiping her hands on the towel slung over her shoulder.

Juhoon kept stacking bowls beside the table, though his fingers had already gone stiff around the porcelain. He heard the front door slide open.

He heard the front door slide open.

Cold evening air drifted briefly through the house along with the sound of your father greeting his grandmother politely, his voice deep and familiar after so many years spent hearing it through thin neighborhood walls and open windows during summer evenings.

Then yours followed softly enough that he almost thought he imagined it. His hands stopped moving entirely. For one terrible second, he considered remaining exactly where he was in the kitchen, hidden behind the doorway and the steam rising from the stove, delaying the moment a little longer. But footsteps crossed the entrance floor slowly, and instinct lifted his eyes.

The breath left him so suddenly that it bordered on pain.

It wasn’t beauty alone that shook him, though you were beautiful to the point that it struck him with frightening ease, slipping past thought and lodging deep beneath his ribs before he could protect himself from it. The dress was simple—cream-colored, modest, the fabric brushing against your legs as you stepped into the house—but perhaps that was exactly why he could not look away, especially when there was no performance in the curve of your smile, no effort to become remarkable for the evening.

You simply looked like yourself, and that had always undone him most.

The hallway light rested gently across your face, catching against the loose strands of hair the cold evening wind had pulled free near your cheeks. The rest had been pinned back, revealing more of you than he was used to seeing all at once—the line of your neck, the softness beneath your eyes, the faint flush still lingering from the weather outside. Then he noticed what was missing.

The binyeo.

Its absence startled him with embarrassing immediacy. He had grown so accustomed to seeing it tucked into your hair that noticing it gone felt instinctive. He remembered the dark lacquer worn smooth with age, the carved floral pattern near the top that his fingers had once traced absentmindedly when you handed it to him after it snapped loose during middle school. Now your hair rested freely against your shoulders, unfamiliar without it.

You looked healed.

He saw it immediately in the subtle changes grief and patience leave behind after enough time passes. The kindness in you remained untouched, as did the gentleness he had once mistaken for permanence, but the openness had changed. You no longer carried yourself with the same unconscious willingness to wait for people to meet you halfway.

As though disappointment had quietly taught your heart how to protect itself while he was too busy fearing his own feelings to notice it happening. 

And standing there beneath the soft light of the hallway, watching you remove your shoes beside the entrance like you had done countless times throughout the years, Juhoon understood with unbearable clarity that he had loved you long before he ever learned how to admit it to himself.

He wondered suddenly how many moments like that he had already missed.

How many evenings had someone else managed to make you smile while he sat alone, convincing himself that restraint was maturity?

He remembered absurd things all at once.

You, at twelve years old, crouched beside the alley feeding stray cats scraps of sweet potato despite complaining that they never trusted you.

You sitting beneath the ginkgo tree with yellow leaves tangled in your hair while reading, when he sometimes took the route the first time he saw you grieving.

You waiting near the school gate long after sunset, stamping warmth back into your feet against the winter cold.

And suddenly the years between then and now collapsed so painfully inside his chest that he almost hated himself for surviving them without understanding what they meant that he now did.

Now every memory rearranged itself into unbearably obvious throwbacks. Love had been there the entire time, painfully patient enough to wait for him while he stood motionless beside it. Mistaking your devotion for permanence has undone him, but what actually made him feel a sharp pain in his heart was his gaze dropping to a silver bracelet resting loosely against your wrist.

That wasn’t yours.

James wore that bracelet constantly. Juhoon had seen him absentmindedly turn it around his wrist during class lectures, tapping the chain against desks as he thought. Once during lunch, he even watched you laugh as James slipped it off for you to inspect before taking it back. Except now it rested against your skin instead.

And you—careful, thoughtful you—would never accept something lightly, knowing how easily kindness could be misunderstood.

His grandmother greeted you warmly at the door, already ushering both you and your father inside before the cold followed further into the house. You bowed politely toward his parents next, then toward his grandmother again, your voice gentle as always while apologizing for arriving later than intended. Your eyes found him.

You no longer looked at him the same way.

There was still affection there. Familiarity, too, thanks to the years of shared memories, couldn’t disappear so easily.

“You clean up nicely,” Soobin teased from the kitchen entrance.

You rolled your eyes lightly. He forgot that you even got closer to Soobin. Probably even closer than you two. “Your grandmother threatened to overdress everyone, so I had no choice. She helped me fix this dress, actually.”

“That’s because none of you know how to present yourselves properly,” his grandmother complained. “Young people now dress like they’re trying to lose a fight with fabric.”

Even his father let out a quiet snort at that.

Laughter loosened the room for a brief moment, spreading naturally through the house while coats were hung near the entrance and dishes continued arriving at the table one after another. Yet Juhoon remained near the stack of bowls in silence, strangely detached from it all, watching the bracelet catch against the light whenever your hand moved.

Dinner began to move slowly after that. Dishes crowded every inch of the table, steam curling upward between scattered conversation and the scrape of chopsticks against porcelain bowls. His grandmother carried most discussions effortlessly, while his mother occasionally interrupted to correct details she exaggerated for dramatic effect.

Across from him, you listened more than you spoke.

That was new too.

You used to fill every silence around him without hesitation. Stories about school, complaints about teachers, thoughts arriving faster than your mouth could organize them. He had once considered it exhausting, and now the absence of it felt unbearable.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” his mother observed suddenly.

Every pair of eyes shifted toward him.

“I’m tired,” he answered.

“That boy is always tired,” his father muttered. “If studying exhausted people this much, half the country would collapse.”

“You say that like you didn’t force him into books before he learned multiplication,” his grandmother shot back immediately. His father ignored her with the ease of long practice.

A brief silence took over the table afterward before your voice broke through it gently. 

“For what it’s worth, Mr. Kim,” you said, setting your chopsticks down carefully beside your bowl, “Juhoon could come second place tomorrow and still be the smartest person I know.” 

His father gave a short hum that could have meant anything. “Intelligence means very little without discipline.”

“I know,” you answered softly. “Lucky for you, he has both.”

Beside him, Soobin hid his grin behind his rice bowl while Juhoon’s grip tightened faintly around his spoon.

You didn’t look at him while speaking. Perhaps that was why it affected him even more. The praise didn’t carry any embarrassment; it sounded matter-of-fact, making him realize that every moment you had seen something gentle in him that even his own family often overlooked beneath achievement and expectation.

His grandmother clicked her tongue knowingly from across the table. “See? At least someone in this house appreciates the boy properly.”

A faint laugh moved through the room after that, softening the tension almost instantly.

But Juhoon barely heard it.

Because all he could think was that you had spent years speaking kindly about him, even while he made you feel unwanted. The awareness lingered heavily throughout dinner, sinking deeper each time someone else managed to draw your laughter more easily than he could. Even Soobin succeeded without effort, asking about school festivals and neighborhood gossip while you answered with soft amusement.

Meanwhile, Juhoon could think of nothing that didn’t sound either painfully late or unbearably selfish.

His grandmother’s words from earlier returned mercilessly.

She already grew tired waiting for you to choose her.

Do not interfere simply because you finally learned what loneliness feels like.

He hated that she was right.

After dinner, the adults drifted naturally toward tea and conversation while Soobin vanished outside the house to escape washing dishes with his friend. His mother complained loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

Juhoon stood at the sink in silence, sleeves rolled past his wrists, while warm water rushed endlessly over his hands.

Then another pair of hands entered the basin beside his.

“I’ll dry,” you said softly. He nodded once, too shy to even speak to you.

For a while, only the sound of running water filled the kitchen.

The old radio near the refrigerator hummed faintly through static, and the wind brushed gently against the windows. You reached for the plate he handed over without looking at him directly.

“Your grandmother made too much food again,” you murmured.

“She always does.”

“She said she was worried everyone looked thin.”

“That’s her solution for everything.” He heard you laugh lowly, feeling proud at it a little too much, and he smiled.

Then, a quiet afterward felt unfamiliar compared to the silences you once shared as both of you had become aware of invisible things resting between each word.

His throat tightened before he spoke again. “I heard James helped you with sewing for your Home Economics exam.”

Your hands paused briefly against the dish towel.

“He did.”

“He seems dependable.”

The moment the sentence left him, disappointment flooded through him so sharply it nearly made him nauseous. This was the opening he had imagined for months.

Not this exact conversation, perhaps, but this moment—the fragile space where honesty could finally become real if he reached for it quickly enough once fear arrived first into his life.

Fear of disrupting your peace after finally understanding how much pain he had caused simply by hesitating.

Fear that loving him had only exhausted you.

Fear that he had waited so long, the confession itself had become selfish.

You glanced toward him then, confused by the strange stiffness in his voice.

“Yes,” you answered softly. He noticed the faint red tint warming the tips of your ears, as though the thought alone embarrassed you slightly. “He is.” 

Juhoon lowered his gaze to the water running endlessly over his hands.

“That’s good,” he said at last. “You should be with someone reliable.”

He got brave enough to lock eyes with your side profile, but there you were, looking him with your beautiful eyes. “You deserve that as well, Juhoon.” 

The kitchen remained warm around you both after your words, filled with the scent of sesame oil and soap, the distant sound of his grandmother scolding Soobin somewhere beyond the doorway, and the laughs of your dad. 

You continued drying the dishes beside him afterward as though nothing important had happened. And maybe, to you, nothing had happened.

Probably, this conversation had simply become another small thing folded carefully into the growing distance between you. It felt irreversible to him because he finally understood that you had once chosen him first. Repeatedly. Patiently. For years, truly seeing what it looked like when a person stopped waiting.

The graduation ceremony arrived without spectacle. 

No sudden ache lodged itself beneath your ribs as you thought. Graduation unfolded quietly instead, through small moments that resembled continuation more than conclusion. 

The morning was cool, the pale breeze moved through the school courtyard, carrying the faint scent of chalk and damp earth left behind by last night’s rain. Students gathered in subdued clusters outside the assembly hall, uniforms neatly pressed, leather shoes polished until they reflected thin ribbons of light.

It felt inappropriate to speak, yet conversations drifted softly through the air in low voices. On the other hand, Wonhee stood beside you near the stone steps, adjusting her sleeves with mounting irritation.

“I don’t understand why they make us stand for so long,” she complained, adjusting her sleeves for the third time. “We’ve already done everything. This part is just… decoration.”

“It’s tradition,” Yunah said calmly.

“Well, it’s very unnecessary.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might not,” Wonhee insisted. Then she looked at you. “Say something supportive.”

“You’ll survive,” you said, high-fiving Yunah.

She narrowed her eyes. “That wasn’t supportive.”

“Oh, stop. We love you.” Yunah hid a small smile. Wonhee sighed dramatically but didn’t argue further.

You let their voices settle around you, completely present in the moment and not thinking about what comes next. Naturally, you start looking for your father. 

The second he noticed you looking, his entire face brightened. He lifted one hand high above his head, waving with far more enthusiasm than necessary while the other struggled to steady the camera hanging around his neck, causing you to smile.

Then another movement caught your attention.

James stood farther back beside Martin, Keonho, Seonghyeon, and Juhoon from the male students’ section, though unlike the others, he made absolutely no effort to appear dignified.

Once your eyes met his, he began waving both hands dramatically over his head as though you were separated by an ocean instead of a courtyard. His grin stretched impossibly wide, directed entirely at you while the others beside him exchanged looks somewhere between embarrassment and amusement.

A second later, Martin copied him.

Then Seonghyeon.

Even Keonho joined in after laughing too hard to resist.

The four of them looked ridiculous.

Juhoon, meanwhile, remained perfectly still among the chaos, hands tucked neatly behind his back as if he refused to acknowledge any connection to them at all. All that while biting his lower lip to control his laugh.

Which somehow made the entire thing worse.

“Damn,” Yunah murmured beside you, following your line of sight. “Your Romeos are confident today.”

You snorted softly just as Keonho suddenly lifted both arms above his head to form an exaggerated heart toward Wonhee.

Wonhee gasped in delight despite herself and immediately returned it.

“Traitor,” Yunah muttered under her breath.

James noticed your laughter then.

His expression brightened further—if that was even possible—before he threw an outrageous wink across the courtyard and pressed two fingers dramatically against his lips before sending a kiss through the air.

You stared at him in disbelief.

Martin nearly doubled over laughing beside him. Even Seonghyeon had to look away.

“Oh, he’s unbearable,” you muttered, fighting back your smile.

“Shut up, you’re smiling like a damn fool,” Yunah pointed out calmly.

“I’m smiling because he looks insane.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “Sure.”

Before you could defend yourself, a teacher near the assembly hall doors clapped sharply for attention.

Almost immediately, the courtyard shifted. Students straightened themselves as the conversations dissolved into murmurs. The easy warmth of the morning folded itself neatly back into formality.

And just like that, the ceremony began.

Everything afterward unfolded exactly as expected.

Rows of chairs filled the hall, the sound of fabric shifting and shoes against polished floors echoing softly as everyone took their places. Teachers stood at the front and composed. You followed the motions without difficulty: Stand. Sit. Bow. Listen.

You almost start feeling like a dog.

The speeches blended—words about the future, about responsibility, about growth and potential, and everything that waited beyond the walls of the school. They were sincere, but distant enough to make them feel less personal than they were meant to be.

Afterward, the courtyard filled again.

Students moved between groups, exchanging words, small smiles with tears, and hugs. There was no urgency to it, but there was a sense of time moving in one direction—of moments passing without the expectation that they would repeat.

You spoke when spoken to. Accepted congratulations that you returned sincerely.

At some point, Wonhee surprised you by pulling you into a quick, tight hug. You felt the tremble in her shoulders as she held onto you longer than she probably intended 

“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered, her voice breaking at the end in a way you had never heard before, and you could only hold her back. 

“You’ll see me again, I promise,” you replied.

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

Beside you, Yunah remained composed just like she always did, though the shine in her eyes betrayed her. She clasped her hands together tightly before speaking, trying to steady herself first. 

“Take care of yourselves,” she said softly. “And write to me properly. I mean it. I’ll do my best to catch up with you both in Seoul once I can.”

Wonhee let out a watery laugh beside you. “Listen to her already talking like an exhausted office worker.”

Yunah frowned faintly. “I’m being serious.”

“I know.”

“You take care too,” you told her.

Yunah nodded once, but her expression wavered for the briefest second before she looked away.

As you three were posing for your father so he could take proper pictures, you saw the five boys at a distance, fooling around. 

A little later, your father insisted on taking photographs before everyone scattered for good. The three of you stood together while he adjusted the camera with unnecessary concentration, muttering something about angles and posture.

Wonhee complained immediately.

Yunah corrected her posture anyway.

And somewhere between their bickering and your father’s distracted instructions, your attention drifted beyond them.

The five boys stood gathered near the stone pathway, their laughter carrying faintly through the breeze as they shoved at one another with careless familiarity. Martin was saying something dramatic enough to make Juhoon nearly stumble sideways with laughter, while Seonghyeon tried—and failed—to look uninvolved.

James leaned casually against the low wall beside them, smiling with his fingers busy snapping pictures of them.

And then, as though sensing it, Juhoon lifted his head.

You noticed him without meaning to.

Neither of you moved, mostly because you were posing. Yunah went to her family after one last group hug, until God knows when, and Wonhee went to have a moment with her boyfriend.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” 

“Sorry? Yeah. I’m good.” Your father, of course, didn’t believe you, his eyes going in the direction you were looking. Juhoon noticed and bowed.

“If you want, you can talk to him when we arrive home; he’s our neighbor, after all.”

“I can’t. I want to be with you.” That made a smile appear on your face and on his.

“Then I will hungrily wait in the car before we go to eat jjajangmyeon. Good luck.” He gave a sweet kiss on your forehead. “But be fast, I will ask someone to take a picture of us outside the school.”

When you were finally alone, you started to close the distance with him. “Hi Juhoon.”

He inclined his head gently. You returned the gesture on instinct, the formality of it strangely comforting after all these years. “Congratulations on graduating first in the class.”

He smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Thank you, I truly appreciate that. We did it.”

“We truly did.” The silence that followed was not awkward. 

“I, uhm, actually have something for you,” he said.

His voice remained steady, though his fingers hesitated briefly before reaching into his pocket.

He withdrew a small folded card—plain white paper with no decoration, entirely like him.

“For you.” You accepted it carefully, fingertips brushing for the briefest instant, passing softly between you, meaningful without undoing anything.

“Thank you,” you replied. “I have to go, but I will see you around. And if you want, wanna catch up tomorrow?”

“Sure, tangerines and lemon cookies with grandma before our chat?”

“You know it,” you played, already moving backwards after a quick and polite bow.

Safe to say, you didn’t open the card immediately—not even after dinner or the day after your date with James, who finally asked if he could be your boyfriend.

Instead, you slipped it between the pages of your journal, the one you had started a month ago with careless, half-hearted entries, as if you were trying to document a life you had not yet learned how to live. You only found the courage to take it out again the month you were leaving for Seoul.

You sat beneath the ginkgo tree near where Juhoon found your vulnerable self, where its branches stretched so wide they seemed to gather the pale afternoon light inside them.

Carefully, you smoothed your skirt beneath your knees and let yourself grow still. The countryside around you murmured in the distance, but here, beneath the tree, everything felt suspended. You had spent the morning speaking to your mother and brother, trying to untangle your feelings before leaving them behind with the country itself.

Only then did you open your journal.

The folded card rested exactly where you had left it.

You turned it over once in your hands, thumb tracing the crease running through the center.

You could read it now. You could finally let his feelings become words instead of silence.

Yet your fingers stilled against the paper. Because somewhere deep within you, you already understood.

Not the exact sentences he had written, perhaps—but the truth beneath them. Their lateness. And maybe that was what mattered most of all.

You had loved him once. Entirely. With the reckless, unwavering devotion only youth knows how to survive. But time had continued forward while you remained waiting, and somewhere along the way, your love had changed without asking permission.

Reading the card wouldn’t return you to the girl who once stood beneath classroom windows and shared umbrellas, desperately hoping to be chosen.

Still, tears blurred your vision.

So instead, you folded the card carefully and tucked it deeper between the pages. Preserved there, like every version of yourself that no longer existed except in memory.

A breeze wandered through the branches overhead, stirring the leaves into motion. One drifted downward and landed beside your shoe, bright gold against the dust.

You watched it for a long while.

Then, at last, you closed the journal and rested your hand gently over the cover.

This was enough.

I was clear that your destiny was never about holding on to the future you once imagined, but more about learning to bless the life that arrived instead. The roads that changed. The people who came too late. The love that taught you how to leave gently.

At the same time the wind moved softly through the golden branches above you, you realized—with a quiet ache, and even quieter gratitude—that you were thankful things had not unfolded the way you once begged for them to.

February 13th, 1964 || The Night Before Graduation

JUHOON’s POV

Time altered memories in strange ways.

People spoke about the past as though distance blurred it, as though years softened every sharp edge until old feelings became harmless things. Yet Juhoon discovered the opposite was often true. Time didn’t erase what mattered. It refined it.

What disappeared were the unnecessary parts.

Confusion faded first. Pride followed after that. The noise of youth—the endless urgency of becoming someone—eventually quieted enough for him to hear what had always existed beneath it.

And what remained, after all those years, were fragments.

An umbrella tilted against the rain.

Yellow leaves caught in dark hair.

A girl was standing patiently beside him while he looked everywhere except at her.

Sometimes memory surfaced so suddenly it left him motionless for several seconds afterward, suspended between present and past before the world settled properly around him again.

It happened once on a rainy afternoon.

Papers covered his desk in neat arrangements, untouched for nearly half an hour before he noticed he had stopped working entirely. Rain slid steadily against the window beside him, silver threads gathering along the glass.

His pen hovered above the page. Then lowered.

Without warning, he found himself remembering some piece from your interaction at the bus stop.

From the narrow space beneath the umbrella, to the faint smell of rain clinging to wool sleeves, combining with your perfume. The moment you stepped closer to avoid the wind, trusting him enough to enter his silence without asking permission.

At fourteen, he had barely noticed it. Now, years later, he understood at last what you had been offering him in all those small moments he once mistook for ordinary. Trust, to be precise, and he had accepted it so carelessly.

Juhoon leaned back slowly, staring at the rain-darkened window across the room for the fifth time.

His life had become orderly over the years. So predictable he once believed adulthood should be. Everything stood exactly where it belonged—books aligned neatly against shelves, documents arranged in precise stacks, routines polished smooth through repetition.

He had spent years constructing a life that could not surprise him. Yet some absences remained impossible to organize.

His gaze drifted toward the bookshelf beside his desk before he could stop himself, remaining still before he stood.

The book came easily into his hands, and his thumb couldn’t help but trace along the folded letter tucked between the pages, a letter he wanted to give to you at dinner, finally being touched.

This time, he sat beside the window. Rain whispered against the glass while the letter rested loosely between his fingers, worn slightly at the creases from being unfolded and hidden away too many times.

Earlier that afternoon, he had spoken to his grandmother as he always did. Somewhere between her laughter and casual scolding, she had managed to say the one thing no one else ever could.

If you keep waiting for the perfect moment, she told him, you will spend your whole life speaking too late.

He listened to the rain for several minutes. Then he looked down at the letter again and realized something almost unbearable in its simplicity: he had been protecting himself so carefully that he had mistaken avoidance for peace.

He exhaled quietly, rose from his seat, and reached for his uniform hanging near the door. The letter disappeared into his pocket this time instead of back between the pages.

Even if the plan didn‘t go like he believed, at least he did what was right.

February 14th, 1974 || 27 years old

You learned something different from time. Specifically, how to carry it lightly.

There had once been a period when certain memories arrived with painful clarity: the walk home beneath autumn trees, the careful exchange of notebooks, the unbearable awareness of waiting for someone who never seemed to notice you standing there.

But years altered even sorrow.

What once ached eventually tuned down, but never erased. You no longer thought of that girl with embarrassment; you only felt affection towards the brave little girl you were, after all.

She had loved sincerely. There was nothing shameful in that.

James moved easily around the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows as steam curled faintly from the kettle. The small domestic sounds surrounding you now—the clink of porcelain, the scrape of a chair against wood, his soft humming beneath his breath when he forgot himself were calm enough to feel like a home. 

Yufan became your home.

You watched him from the sofa, the lamplight catching against the silver band around his finger as he reached for the teacups.

“Are you actually making tea, or inventing a disaster?”

James laughed without looking up. “Have some faith in me, love.”

“I did once. You burned the pot.”

“That happened one time.”

You lifted an eyebrow.

He sighed dramatically. “Twice.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He carried the cups over anyway, placing one carefully into your hands before sitting beside you. Warmth gathered against your palms immediately.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said after a moment.

You traced your thumb absently along the rim of your cup. “I was thinking about high school.”

James glanced toward you then. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

He leaned forward long enough to place his tea on the table before turning back toward you fully. His hand rose instinctively to your face, fingertips brushing lightly beneath your jaw with the kind of familiarity that only came from years of loving someone openly.

“A decade since graduation,” he murmured. “And tomorrow makes 10 years of us being a couple and 8 years of marriage.”

Eight years.

Sometimes the number still startled you—they didn’t feel long. Life with him had unfolded so naturally that time seemed to move differently inside it.

You smiled faintly. “You make it sound ancient.”

“We are ancient.”

“We’re twenty-seven.”

“That’s practically tragic.” You laughed unguarded enough to make him smile, too.

And suddenly, without warning, you remembered another laugh from another lifetime.

A school courtyard drenched in autumn light.

Dust rising beneath worn shoes.

A boy standing beside you without realizing how carefully you loved him.

The memory arrived gently now.

No ache attached itself to it anymore. No lingering grief. Only tenderness for the girl you had once been—earnest enough to wait, hopeful enough to mistake silence for possibility.

James noticed the shift in your expression immediately. He always did.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

You looked at him for a moment before answering.

“Nothing sad,” you said. “Just… strange, I think.”

“Strange how?”

“That someone can matter so much to you once,” you admitted quietly, “and still become part of a life that no longer hurts to remember.”

He remained silent after that, not out of discomfort, but patience. Giving you space the same way he always had.

Your gaze drifted toward the rain-darkened window.

“I used to think first love would stay sharp forever,” you said after a while. “Pretty much thought it was going to be unfinished.”

“And now?” You smiled faintly into your tea, leaving it right next to Yufan’s.

“Now I think some people are meant to teach you how to love,” you murmured. “And some people are meant to teach you what it feels like to be loved back.”

He gave you that look, the look of love, before he leaned over and pressed a kiss against your temple with such absent tenderness that it nearly unraveled you more than grand gestures ever could.

Home, you thought suddenly.

Not the apartment.

Not the city.

Him.

And perhaps that was the cruelest and kindest thing about growing older: realizing your first love doesn’t always become your forever, yet still being grateful they existed at all.

“I’m happy for him,” Yufan said, amusement lingering beneath his voice. “Honestly, we all thought he was going to grow old alone with six cats.”

Your laughter slipped out before you could stop it, bright enough to fill the room.

“Six?” you repeated.

“I’m being generous.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Want me to be honest? Wonhee and Yunah made bets back then about whether he’d ever get married.”

“And?”

“Yunah won.”

“That woman was terrifyingly perceptive.”

“She usually was.”

Yufan hummed thoughtfully before leaning back against the sofa, one arm settling easily around your shoulders.

“Well,” he said lightly, “I think things worked out for all of us in the end.”

There was never a final conversation between you two. Especially when they were busy with their respective married lives.

There wasn’t such a thing as a perfect reconciliation or dramatic return. Life did not unfold that way.

Instead, they carried each other quietly through the years in separate forms.

He remembered her as the first person who saw him fully before he understood himself well enough to be seen.

She remembered him as the boy she loved before learning that love could not survive on patience alone.

Neither memory was painful anymore. Only true.

Clearly, it was enough for them now. They realized some people aren’t meant to remain in our lives forever, and others will arrive only to alter the shape of our hearts before continuing on without us.

Even years later, beneath rainstorms and fading sunlight and the slow accumulation of ordinary days, a part of Juhoon still belonged to a school courtyard filled with drifting dust and yellow leaves.

A part of you did too.

And somewhere, preserved between the pages of an old book, his words remained waiting at last to be read.

November 17th, 1963

I used to believe love would feel important immediately. Like something unmistakable or large enough to interrupt your life the moment it arrived.

But when I think about you now, I realize nothing between us ever happened that way.

It happened slowly and so silently that I kept mistaking it for ordinary days.

You walking beside me after school. Waiting when I stayed late in class. Handing me things before I even realized I needed them. Chocolate. Notes. Pieces of your attention I accepted so easily that I forgot they were being given to me at all.

I think about that often now—how naturally you cared for me, and how little I understood what it meant.

Back then, I thought love was supposed to be dramatic. That you confessed all at once, and impossible to misunderstand. I didn’t know it could exist quietly inside small moments long before anyone said it aloud.

Maybe that’s why I failed you.

It wasn’t because I didn’t have feelings for you, but because I didn’t know how to recognize them while you were still standing in front of me.

You reached for me so many times, and every time, I answered too late.

I still remember the day you stayed behind after class and asked if I was alright. No one else asked me that. They asked about my grades. About rankings. About results.

But you looked at me like I was someone worth worrying about beyond those things.

I remember how carefully you listened while I kept talking about three points as though my life depended on them. And you stayed anyway.

Even now, I think that may have been the first time someone saw me when I was failing to hold myself together.

I should have understood then.

Instead, I kept believing there would always be more time. More time to say things properly. More time to become someone deserving of the way you cared for me.

I didn’t realize love could grow tired of waiting.

The truth is, you knew how to love me long before I knew how to love you back. And by the time I finally understood my own heart, you had already learned how to live without asking anything from me anymore.

I think that I deserve.

Not losing you, but realizing too late what you had been giving me all along.

Sometimes I still think about the rain at the bus stop. You stood so close beside me, and somehow I still made you feel alone.

I did that more often than I realized.

I am sorry for it now in ways I didn’t know how to be then.

There are things I understand as a young adult that I couldn’t understand at fourteen. How fear disguises itself as restraint. How silence eventually becomes a choice. How being loved sincerely is a responsibility, not assuming that it will always remain waiting for you.

If I could return to those years, I don’t think I would ask for another ending.

I would only ask to meet you more honestly while we still had the chance to be young together.

Because when I look back now, that is what hurts the most.

It’s not the fact that we failed, but that you loved me so openly while I was still trying to understand what love even was.

We were children then, and we will never be those kids again when you read this.

Walking home beneath a changing sky, believing there would always be more time.

But the truth is—you already knew how to love.

I was the one who didn’t know how to love you properly until it was already too late.

We didn’t know that was love.

Or maybe you did.

Maybe it was only me. Sorry, it was only me.

I’ve dreamed of you more times than I care to admit—of the words I swallowed, of all the moments I mistook for something that could wait. I carried those memories like unfinished sentences, turning them over until they lost their sharpness and became lost.

But there is no use living inside regret.

So instead, I hope James becomes what I could not be for you: a hand that reaches back when you reach first, a love that stays warm even after ordinary days settle around it. I hope the two of you remain the missing pieces in each other’s lives and keep that tenderness alive for as long as time allows.

Thank you for loving me sincerely once.

And despite everything, I think being loved by you was one of the best things that ever happened to me.

From the boy next door who couldn’t love you now, but hopefully, can love you later in our next life.

─── BEAT THE SYSTEM AND COULD POST MUEHEHEHE! Sorry for being so late as always, tbh, I wanted to post this once the community could be more active, but I could not help myself 🚬 ENJOY ENJOY ENJOYYY <3<3<3