studio iseulbi

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 something 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 something 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 quieter, 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 something 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 something more distant, 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, quiet 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 quiet 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, the quiet exchange of 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 quiet 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 quieter 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 quiet 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 quiet 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 quietly 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 something 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 quiet 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 something else. 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 quiet 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, something 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?”

“Quiet. So quiet 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 something that 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. Sometimes she's quiet, but I love that! Quiet people 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 there was something in it that 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 quiet. 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 quietly 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 something 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 something complete; 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 like something 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 said quietly, 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.

Something in Juhoon’s chest 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 something 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 quiet 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 something within 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 said quietly. “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 quiet in the easiest way, like something 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 something quietly 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 quietly 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 quiet. 

“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 quiet 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 something 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 something 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 quiet 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 quietly. “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 something 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, quieter with each step. 

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 quiet 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 as something 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 quiet 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 something 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 something small 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 quiet 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—and said something 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 quiet 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, quietly 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, the quiet 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 quietly still. 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 something unfamiliar 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 something heavier 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 quietly 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 quietly, 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 only caught your eye once or twice when he did something funny with his taller friend just to make everyone else crack a smile. 

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 quiet 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 something playful in his tone 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.”

Something about 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.

“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 🚬🩷

🎶: @coergene @ziixIssss @spininmytornado @hyuneskkami @miisoluvsdeer @snowzxki @en-dream @lunaryoongie @peerlesspine @rankeukeu @bagelbowl @09zpzkeonnss @ivyzhangg @mfcherry @coconhovr @writtenandproducedbyradiohead

authors note: really short smau cause i wanna hop back on tomodachi life bye loodom

the ones who feel like there’s no genuine reason for their sadness, the ones who feel the melancholy creeping up on them, the ones who can’t seem to get anything done. james is for the ones whose emotions come and go with the seasons, the ones who feel hopeless, the ones who wish they could experience the highs of life and escape the lows. the ones who feel the familiar ache in their heart, the ones who hurt in silence, the ones who wish the could just be okay for once. — he sits next to you, and links his pinky with yours. james doesn’t need to ask, he already knows. and so the two of you sit in comfortable silence. he offers you his shoulder, and you place your head gently on it. james’ presence reminds you that everything will be okay. maybe not now, maybe not for a while. but you won’t give up hope, because even if you do, james will be there to help you back up on your feet.

kim juhoon is for the ones who have a hard time letting others in

the ones who are scared to accept even a ghost of compassion, because they’ve been hurt too many times to ever trust again. the ones who yearn for something they feel they can never have, because they can’t go through that, not again. juhoon is for those who want to take it all back, go back to when they were young and naïve and didn’t have to fucking deal with this horrid feeling of paranoia around people they should be able to trust, to love…but they can’t. and it fucking sucks. — “i’m sorry,” you say. for not being able to trust you, for being scared to love you, for all the things i wish i could tell you. for being broken, for not being what you deserve. “don’t be sorry.” juhoon leaves a gentle kiss on your head, and you think you might shatter right then and there. there are no warning signs blaring in your head around him, just comfort. you think you feel your heart start to cry.

martin edwards is for the ones who got attached too easily

martin is for the ones who are clingy, the ones who hold on tight because they’re too afraid to lose someone else. the ones who are scared of losing someone that’s right in front of them, the ones who wish they could stop people from leaving. the ones who let people into their heart too easily, the ones who never seem to learn, the ones who get hurt over and over again, because they can’t help but give away their heart in hopes of being loved in return. — “mars?” you hear a hum of response. “am i too clingy?” you tense, waiting for his response, waiting for the familiar sting of rejection. “why would you think that?” martin turns from his work to look at you, frowning. you purse your lips and shrug. he gets up to sit next to you, and offers you a hug silently. you accept, and feel him kiss your forehead. “i don’t think that,” he whispers. “i don’t think that at all.” you smile sadly, and hug him tighter.

eom seonghyeon is for the ones who love quietly

for those who give all of their love, only to receive little to none in return. and yes, it hurts like hell once you realize that when all is said and done, everyone is more important to everyone and nobody cares quite as much about you as they do the next person. seonghyeon is for the ones who are so fucking lonely even when they’re surrounded by people they love the most. the ones who hurt inside, but don’t show it; the ones who can’t bring themselves to speak up, the ones who wish they were someone else’s everything. seonghyeon is for the floater friends, the ones who aren’t alone but lonely anyway. — your phone buzzes, and you open your eyes in disbelief. the caller id is a number that’s vaguely familiar but at the same time you’re sure you’ve never seen before. your gut instinct tells you to decline, but loneliness gets the best of you and you answer anyway. “hello?” “hey, it’s seonghyeon!” you frown in confusion. “how did you get my number?” “we had a group project together that one time, remember?” the conversation takes a turn from there, and you find yourself smiling by the end of it. it feels good, to talk to someone who sees you. a single tear falls onto your lap, followed by another. but this time they’re happy. “you okay?” seonghyeon asks, clearly worried. “yeah, i’m good,” you say, surprised that you actually mean it this time.

ahn keonho is for the ones who push themselves over their limit

keonho is for the overachievers, the ones who give their blood and sweat and tears. the ones who were labeled as gifted and feel like frauds. the ones who burn out quickly, the ones who push themselves to their limits, the ones who are so fucking goddamn tired but they can’t fucking stop. the ones who pass out only to wake up a few hours later, the ones who fall asleep at their desks, the ones who feel the exhaustion in their eyes and their heads their mind and know that no amount of caffeine can fix it. — “you need to take a break.” you wave a hand haphazardly in his direction, ignoring him. “yah, quit ignoring me, you know i’m right.” you let out a groan of frustration, and spin around to meet an equally frustrated keonho. “keonho, i need to get this done, you know that.” “and i also know that you’re exhausted. you won’t get anything done if you’re running out of steam.” you sigh, and after a moment of contemplation, walk over to join him on the couch. “don’t fucking say it.” “i wasn’t going to!”