야, 그냥 내가 네 최애라고 말해 봐

Yeosang understands that kind of thinking.

He doesn’t mean to stare. He just ends up noticing you again every time he turns a page.

The bookstore-café is where he usually goes when schedules get too heavy. It’s small, tucked between two busy streets, and it feels like one of the few places where no one expects anything from him. Today is no different. He’s there with a book he’s already read halfway through but keeps returning to anyway, more for the silence than the story.

When he goes to return his cup, he sees you again through the glass divider between the café and the bookstore.

You’re sitting at a table now, a drink untouched beside you, the same book open but not really being read. Your attention keeps drifting to the window, to the shelves, to your hands, like you’re trying to decide what to do with yourself next.

Yeosang stops walking for a second without realizing it.

Then he keeps going, because he’s not the type to approach people. Especially not strangers. Especially not someone who looks like they might prefer being left alone.

Except you look up at the same time he passes the divider.

And just like that, both of you freeze slightly, caught in the accidental awareness of each other.

He nods first. Small. Automatic.

You nod back.

Then both of you look away at the exact same time, like it was too much interaction already.

Yeosang almost smiles at that. Almost.

He sits back down, but the page of his book stays unturned for a while.

He doesn’t expect to see you again after that. It’s a bookstore in a busy area. People come and go. Moments don’t usually repeat themselves.

But you do.

The next time, you’re in the cafe line. He’s already sitting. You’re standing just slightly too close to the counter, shifting your weight from one foot to the other like you’re unsure if ordering is worth the effort.

When the barista asks what you want, you hesitate for too long.

Yeosang watches without meaning to.

He knows that hesitation. The kind where your mind is louder than your voice.

When you finally order, your voice is quiet enough that it almost gets swallowed by the machine behind the counter.

Then you step aside, glance around, and end up sitting at the table furthest from everyone else.

Not because you’re trying to be mysterious.

Because it’s easier.

He understands that too.

This time, when you look up and notice him already watching the room, you don’t look away immediately.

You hesitate.

Then give a small, careful wave.

It’s so subtle he almost misses it.

He lifts his hand in response.

Nothing more.

No pressure. No expectation.

Just acknowledgment.

After that, it becomes a pattern neither of you names.

You start showing up at similar times. Not together. Just… overlapping.

Sometimes you read.

Sometimes he reads.

Sometimes you both just sit there with drinks going cold because neither of you feels like leaving yet, but neither of you feels like doing much either.

Once, you end up at the same small table by accident when the cafe is unusually full.

You both pause at the same time.

You both sit anyway.

Neither of you says anything for a full five minutes.

Then you quietly ask, “Is this seat taken?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

That’s the whole conversation.

But after that, it feels different.

Not less awkward.

Just less uncertain.

Another day, you’re the first to speak again.

“You always read here?”

Yeosang looks up from his book, slightly startled. “Ah… sometimes.”

A pause.

You nod like that’s enough information for the entire world.

Then, softer, “Me too.”

And that’s it.

The conversation ends there, but something about it lingers.

Days turn into weeks in the same way sunlight changes angles across the café floor. Slowly. Barely noticeable until it is.

You start greeting each other. Quietly. Consistently.

A nod.

A small “hi.”

Sometimes nothing at all, but the absence of distance where distance used to be.

Yeosang begins to look for you without meaning to.

Not in an intense way.

More like a habit his mind forms without asking permission.

You, in turn, seem to do the same. Sometimes arriving just after him, sometimes leaving just before, like you’re both aware of the other’s rhythm but too careful to interfere with it.

One afternoon, it rains.

Hard.

The cafe gets louder because of it, people clustering closer inside, shaking off umbrellas, talking more than usual because the sound outside demands competition.

You sit by the window like always, watching the rain instead of your book.

Yeosang notices you keep tracing patterns on the condensation on the glass.

He finishes his page, closes his book, then hesitates longer than he should.

Then he gets up.

He doesn’t sit directly across from you. That would feel like a decision too big for the kind of relationship you have.

Instead, he sits one table over.

Close enough that it’s not nothing.

Far enough that it still feels safe.

You glance at him, surprised, but not uncomfortable.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” he replies.

The rain keeps going.

Neither of you speaks for a while after that.

Then, almost like it slips out before either of you can stop it, you ask, “Do you ever feel like it’s easier to just… not talk?”

Yeosang thinks about it for a moment longer than expected.

“Yes,” he says honestly.

You nod, like that answer fits something inside you.

“Me too.”

Silence again, but not the empty kind.

The kind that understands.

After a while, he adds, “But… it’s less heavy here.”

You look at him then. Properly.

Not startled. Not overwhelmed.

Just present.

“Yeah,” you say. “It is.”

And neither of you defines what “here” means, because you both already know.

Weeks later, it happens the way these things always do for people like you.

Not suddenly.

Not loudly.

Just… becoming unavoidable.

You’re sitting together more often than not.

Sharing table space that slowly starts to feel like shared time.

Exchanging small pieces of yourself through pauses instead of words.

Then one day, you arrive and he’s already there, but instead of sitting separately like usual, he leaves a book on the seat beside him.

A silent invitation.

You hesitate.

Then sit.

The air feels different, but not uncomfortable.

Just new.

“You saved this?” you ask quietly.

He nods. “You usually sit here.”

That’s all.

But it means more than it should.

Later, when the café starts to empty, you both stay longer than necessary.

Outside, the sky is fading into evening.

Inside, the world feels paused.

You speak first again, voice softer than usual.

“Do you think… people like us are just bad at this kind of thing?”

Yeosang looks at you, genuinely considering it.

“No,” he says. “I think we just take longer to feel safe.”

You blink at that.

Then, slowly, you nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “That makes sense.”

A pause.

Then, even softer: “I think I feel safe here.”

Yeosang doesn’t respond right away, because something in his chest tightens in a way he doesn’t want to interrupt.

Then he says, carefully, “Me too.”

And it isn’t dramatic when it happens.

There’s no sudden shift in everything.

Just a quiet recognition that the space between you has changed shape.

Not gone.

Just… no longer uncertain.

Outside, the rain has stopped.

Inside, two introverted people stay seated a little longer than they planned, because leaving would mean stepping away from something neither of them has words for yet, but both of them understand anyway.