#haneul

It had felt real.

Now?

Now you’re dripping in thick, cobalt-blue paint, the kind used to coat fences and silence hearts. Phones are out. Flashes blind you. Laughter rises and crashes over you like a wave, relentless and merciless. The stage beneath your feet might as well be a cliff.

You want to scream. You want to vanish. You want to wake up.

But you don’t move.

Not even when Belle steps back and says, “Did you really think someone like me would fall for someone like you?”

The crowd howls with laughter.

You blink once.

Twice.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and suddenly the room spins. Everything goes too loud, then too quiet. Your breath shortens. The blue is in your eyes. In your nose. In your soul.

You are drowning in it.

Until—

SLAP.

The crack of it is thunder.

It slices through the laughter like a lightning bolt.

A gasp erupts from the crowd.

And there she is.

Haneul.

Black hoodie. Combat boots. Short, messy hair. Eyes blazing.

You’ve seen her around school—on the field, in detention, walking through hallways like she owned them. You’ve heard rumors about her temper, about her fighting, about how she once punched a senior in the jaw for making a girl cry.

But this—this isn’t violence.

This is justice.

Her hand is still raised. Belle’s cheek is red.

"You’re disgusting," Haneul says, her voice trembling not from fear, but rage. “You think you’re powerful because people laugh with you? You think that makes you special?”

The room is stunned. Silent.

No one dares to move.

Then she turns to you.

Her voice softens. “Come on.”

You stare at her. Blink again. Your knees shake.

She doesn’t wait for permission. She grabs your hand.

And in front of everyone—everyone who laughed, everyone who filmed—she pulls you away from the stage. The crowd parts like waves, silent now, shamed into their own shadows.

You leave blue footprints on the floor.

The night air hits you like a slap of its own.

Cold. Cruel. Honest.

You don’t know where she’s leading you. You don’t care. All you know is that Haneul’s hand is still gripping yours, warm and solid, like a lifeline.

You don’t speak until you’re far—so far—from the house, from the stage, from the betrayal.

She finally slows down in a quiet park two blocks away. Lets go of your hand.

You feel the absence like a wound.

"…Why?" your voice comes out hoarse. “Why did you do that?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her breath comes in clouds. Her fists clench, then release.

“Because I couldn’t watch it happen.”

You say nothing. The weight of the moment presses into your spine like bricks.

“I saw it in your eyes,” she says, voice softer now. “The second the paint hit you… you were gone. I know that look.”

You look down at your ruined clothes.

At your soaked shoes. At the trembling in your hands.

“I wanted to scream,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t even breathe.”

“I know,” she says.

And somehow, those two words make your knees buckle.

You sit down hard on the park bench.

She doesn’t leave. She sits beside you.

Not too close.

Just enough.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

You don’t count them. You just listen.

The night. The wind. Your heartbeat. Hers.

"I really liked her," you say finally. "I thought… I thought she saw me."

“She saw you,” Haneul says. “She just didn’t deserve you.”

You look at her. She’s staring at the ground, jaw clenched again.

“You don’t even know me,” you mutter.

Her eyes flick toward yours. And hold.

“I do now.”

There’s something in her gaze you can’t describe. Not pity. Not sympathy.

Something heavier. Realer.

Something like… respect.

She stands up. Brushes invisible dust from her hoodie.

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“…I don’t want to go home.”

“Then don’t.”

You blink.

She looks over her shoulder, a small grin tugging at her lips.

“I’ve got ramen. And a guitar. You coming or what?”

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then you stand.

And for the first time that night, you take a step toward something that doesn’t feel like pain.

The warmth of Haneul’s apartment hits you the moment she swings the door open.

It smells like instant ramen, laundry detergent, and something faintly floral—like old perfume soaked into the walls. Her place isn’t big. It’s barely more than a box with a kitchen attached. But it’s clean. Lived-in. There’s a pair of mismatched slippers by the door, a guitar resting against the wall, and post-it notes scattered across a pinboard filled with hand-drawn stars.

She tosses you a towel before you step in.

“Bathroom’s to the right. Try not to drip blue all over the floor.”

You mutter a soft “Thanks,” then shuffle in, careful to leave your paint-soaked shoes by the entrance.

You stare at your reflection under the harsh bathroom light.

Your shirt clings to your skin, crusted with dried paint. Your hair’s a mess. Your eyes are bloodshot from holding back everything you couldn’t scream.

You feel hollow.

Like the humiliation drained something out of you—and left you with nothing but silence.

When you return, Haneul’s already got two bowls of ramen on the table, steam curling into the ceiling. She doesn’t say much. Just gestures for you to sit.

You obey.

The warmth of the broth hits your throat like an apology you didn’t know you needed.

"You eat like you haven’t touched food in a week," she says between bites.

You glance at her. “I haven’t really had an appetite.”

“Understandable,” she murmurs, swirling her noodles.

There’s another silence.

But not the kind that itches.

This one is… calm.

“You know,” you begin after a while, eyes fixed on your bowl. “You never struck me as the type to care.”

Haneul lifts an eyebrow. “Because I don’t smile and hand out cookies like Belle?”

You hesitate. “Because you always seemed… angry.”

She snorts. “That’s fair.”

Then she leans back, chair creaking, and sighs.

“You wanna know something?” she asks.

You look at her.

She’s not looking at you.

Instead, her eyes are somewhere else—somewhere far.

“I used to be just like you.”

That surprises you.

“Me?”

She nods slowly.

“Yeah. Dumb, kind, always thinking that if I smiled wide enough, people would stay.”

Her fingers fidget with the edge of her sleeve.

“In middle school, I was the class clown. The energetic one. Bubbly. Optimistic. I used to bring extra snacks for everyone, wrote handwritten notes to cheer people up during finals. I wanted people to feel like they mattered.”

Her voice cracks just a little.

“I guess I wanted to feel like I mattered too.”

You feel your heart twist.

She exhales sharply through her nose. “I had this friend—Jiwoo. My best friend. She had depression, but never told anyone. I was the only one she talked to. I thought if I just stayed bright enough, I could keep her from falling.”

She swallows.

“One day, she stopped replying to my texts. The next day, they announced it on the intercom.”

You stop breathing.

Haneul’s fingers tighten around her cup.

“And you know what people said?” she continues. “That I should’ve known. That it was my fault for not telling a teacher. That I should’ve done more.”

Her voice hardens now.

“They blamed me for not saving her. They turned her death into my punishment.”

Silence.

The kind that wraps around your throat and chokes.

“So I stopped trying,” she finishes. “Stopped smiling. Stopped being soft. If people wanted me to be cold, fine. At least now, no one expects anything from me.”

She finally looks at you.

And for the first time, you see her—not just the sharp exterior or the fire in her glare—but the ache beneath it all. The wreckage she’s been standing on for years.

“I guess that’s why I couldn’t watch what happened to you tonight,” she says quietly. “Because I’ve been there. I’ve been you.”

You don’t know when your eyes started stinging again.

But they do.

And Haneul—this tough, untouchable girl who once set walls on fire just to survive—she doesn’t judge you for it.

Instead, she reaches out. Her hand brushes yours. Not firm like earlier. This time, it’s gentle.

Soft.

Real.

Later that night, the rain begins to fall.

You sit beside her on the floor, backs against the wall, legs stretched out in front of you. She strums her guitar softly, not playing anything in particular—just sounds, notes, like heartbeat echoes in a room finally safe enough to feel.

You glance at her.

She hums under her breath. Off-key. Carefree.

And you wonder how anyone could’ve thought she was just angry.

She catches you looking.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly.

She smirks. “Liar.”

You shrug. “Just… thinking.”

She strums a few more chords.

Then, softly—“What about?”

You exhale.

“About how I thought today would be the best day of my life.”

“And instead?”

You look at her again.

Your voice is small.

“It broke me.”

She sets her guitar down.

Crawls a little closer.

“I hate that it happened,” she says. “But I’m glad I was there.”

You nod.

Then after a long pause—

“Me too.”

At some point, you both doze off—your shoulder leaning into hers, her head gently tilted toward yours. The storm rages outside, but for once, your heart is quiet.

Not healed. Not whole.

But not bleeding either.

You never thought you'd feel this kind of silence in a hallway full of people.

Not peaceful silence.

Not shy, comforting silence.

This silence is loaded.

Whispers coil around your feet like chains. Phone screens flash out of the corners of your vision. You can hear it in the way people clear their throats, in the way they shut up the moment you pass by.

Your name—once ignored—is now everywhere. But not in the way you ever wanted.

They saw the video. They saw the paint. They saw your face crumple, your body freeze.

And then they saw her—Haneul—pulling you out like some kind of storm-drenched angel with cracked knuckles and fury in her eyes.

You expected it to fade. Expected to become invisible again.

But you’ve never been more seen.

And it terrifies you.

“Chin up,” Haneul mutters beside you.

You glance at her. She walks like she owns the floor, like none of this matters. Hoodie sleeves tugged down over her hands, earphones in one ear, eyes daring anyone to speak.

She’s unshakable.

Or so it seems.

You stop by your locker.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you murmur.

She leans beside you. “Then leave.”

You blink. “What?”

She shrugs. “If you’re only here to survive, then go. But if you’re here to prove you belong? Then stand up straight.”

Your chest tightens.

“…I’m not good at that.”

“I know,” she says, quieter now. “But you will be.”

The first time you see Belle again is after third period.

She’s standing by the vending machine, alone.

No entourage. No sycophants. No carefully choreographed laugh echoing through the hallway.

You stop.

She looks up—and freezes.

Your eyes meet.

There’s panic in hers. Regret. Something real, for once.

She takes a step forward.

“Hey,” she breathes, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to speak to you anymore.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Haneul steps in—like a ghost from your shadow—placing herself right between you two. Her head tilts slightly, eyes cool.

Belle’s mouth opens. Closes.

She looks at you, past Haneul, pleading.

“I—I didn’t mean it to go that far, I just thought—”

“You just thought he wouldn’t matter,” Haneul finishes for her, calm, venomous.

Belle flinches. “I—people pressured me, I thought it would be funny, it’s just—it got out of hand.”

“You thought ruining someone would be funny?” Haneul’s voice sharpens. “Do you even hear yourself?”

You look away.

You can’t handle this. Not now. Not with her voice trembling like she’s the victim in this.

“I’m sorry,” Belle says finally. “Really.”

You glance up.

And for a second… you almost believe her.

Almost.

But then you remember the click of cameras. The laughter. The way she smiled at your pain.

So you say the only thing that’s honest.

“I wish your apology made a difference.”

And you walk past her.

By lunchtime, it’s clear something has changed.

Belle is sitting alone.

Her usual table—once the epicenter of school energy—is cold. Vacant. You hear her name whispered, but not in awe. Not in admiration.

In shame.

Some people are unfollowing her socials.

Others are sharing clips—unedited, raw—from the party.

She’s not the golden girl anymore.

And you…?

You’re something else entirely.

You sit with Haneul under the tree behind the gym. She eats spicy rice cakes with chopsticks, legs folded, hoodie up to block the sun.

You’ve never had a favorite spot in this school.

But maybe this’ll be it.

Maybe this’ll be where you begin.

She catches you staring.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, smiling for the first time in days. “You just eat like you’re at war.”

She throws a chopstick at you.

You both laugh.

Later that day, she walks you home again. Same way as always. Same silence as always. But now there’s something soft in it. Something shared.

Right before you reach your gate, she stops.

“I meant what I said, by the way.”

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“That you’ll get better at standing tall.”

You nod slowly. “…I hope so.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I could show you, if you let me.”

You blink. “Show me… how?”

She looks at you.

Right in the eyes.

“By walking with you. Every day. Until you stop thinking you have to walk alone.”

You weren’t supposed to smile today.

But here you are—barefoot, sitting on the rooftop of an abandoned art building, wind in your face, and a ridiculous black hoodie three sizes too big swallowing your frame.

“You look like a marshmallow,” Haneul says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You dragged me out of school just to roast me?”

“Duh.”

You shake your head, but you can’t help it—your lips twitch. She notices. She always does.

“There's that smile," she murmurs. "Took me three days and a kidnapping.”

“More like a rescue.”

She shrugs, leaning back on her hands, eyes squinting toward the sun. “Call it what you want. But you needed this.”

She’s right.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed the world to just… pause. No whispers. No phones. No Belle. Just the wind, the open sky, and Haneul's dry sarcasm.

You glance sideways at her.

She’s staring straight ahead, but there’s something softer in the way she sits now. Less like she’s preparing for battle, more like she’s remembering how to rest.

You hug the hoodie closer.

It smells like old books and citrus shampoo.

“Hey,” you say after a while, “why’d you give me your hoodie?”

She glances at you, her usual deadpan replaced with something faint—something that might’ve been a smile if you squinted.

“Because you looked like you needed to hide.”

You go quiet.

Then you whisper, “Thank you.”

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

Meanwhile… back at school. Belle sits alone in the bathroom stall, her phone trembling in her hand.

Another unfollow. Another friend left her on read. Another anonymous DM: “Karma’s a btch, huh?”*

She locks her screen. Tries to breathe.

But her chest is tight.

She never thought it would last—the video, the backlash, the guilt. It was just a joke. Just a laugh. She didn’t mean to hurt him.

At least… that’s what she told herself.

But the silence around her now? The way people avoid her eyes in the hallway? The way even Lina, her closest friend, started making excuses to not sit beside her?

It feels like she’s disappearing.

And no one even notices.

She remembers your face that night. Frozen. Humiliated. Shattered. And now she understands what that silence feels like.

To be watched… but not seen. To be surrounded… and still so alone.

She unlocks her phone.

She types your name in the search bar.

Clicks on your profile.

No posts.

No updates.

Just a blank screen.

She bites her lip.

“…I’m sorry,” she whispers, like it means anything now.

Back to the rooftop. “Wanna do something stupid?” Haneul asks.

You blink. “What kind of stupid?”

“The kind that heals.”

She pulls a tiny box of chalk from her bag. Tosses it at you.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I know this place looks abandoned,” she grins, “but this rooftop’s magic.”

You snort. “You believe in magic now?”

“I believe in moments that matter,” she replies. “Draw something. Anything. Whatever hurts. Or whatever makes it stop hurting.”

You hesitate… but your fingers close around the chalk.

And for the first time in weeks, you draw.

Not for school. Not for validation. Not even for someone else.

You draw you.

Bent over, paint dripping, the moment the world laughed.

Then—beside it—you draw Haneul.

Hand extended.

Face unafraid.

Saving you.

When you’re done, she stands beside you and looks at it.

“…You drew me scary,” she jokes.

You smile. “You are scary.”

She laughs—and it’s real this time. Loud, unfiltered, music in its purest form.

You don’t realize you’re crying until she gently wipes the tear from your cheek with her sleeve.

“No one sees what you carry,” she says, voice low. “But I do.”

Later, when the sun dips into orange, she lies down on the rooftop with her hands behind her head.

You join her.

Your shoulder brushes hers. She doesn’t move away.

“You were right,” you whisper.

“Obviously,” she mumbles. “About what?”

“About me needing this.”

She turns her head, and for the first time—you don’t look away.

There’s no Belle in your eyes.

Just her.

“I never thought I’d be able to feel okay again,” you say softly.

She smirks. “You’re not ‘okay’ yet.”

You raise a brow. “Thanks.”

“But,” she continues, “you’re better. And that matters more.”

And it does.

Meanwhile… Belle scrolls through old photos. There’s one of you, from a class trip. You're blurry in the background, holding someone’s bag while they took selfies.

She never noticed you back then.

Not really.

And now, she can’t stop thinking about you.

The way you smiled at her when she was tired. The way you always said “Good luck” before her presentations. The way you looked at her like she was more than a poster girl.

She used you.

And now?

No one looks at her that way anymore.

That night, you check your phone.

A message.

Belle: “Can I call you? Just once?”

You stare at it.

You don’t reply.

You close your phone.

Then turn back toward Haneul, who’s fallen asleep next to you, lips parted slightly, hair brushing her cheek.

You smile.

And for the first time in forever…

It’s real.

You didn’t mean to smile this much lately.

It just… happens.

You laugh at dumb jokes again. You walk with your chin up. People greet you first now, and when they do, it doesn’t feel forced. It feels earned.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s because of her.

Haneul.

She still wears dark hoodies and death-stares half the school, but these days… she hums under her breath. Teases you more. Smiles when no one’s looking.

You eat lunch together—under the same tree every day. She lets you hold her sketchbook. You show her your old drawings. She even made you a playlist called “for when it hurts less” and you listened to it three nights in a row.

People started noticing.

Not in the whisper kind of way.

In the respectful kind of way.

“I never realized he was so cool.” “They really suit each other.” “She’s not scary, she’s just real.”

For once, the story isn’t about paint, humiliation, or betrayal.

It’s about healing.

But for Belle…

It’s the opposite.

She’s not the center anymore.

Her name used to buzz in group chats. Now, it barely exists.

Her own "friends" invite her just to ignore her. She laughs at jokes and no one joins in. She posts a photo—four likes. She walks into class—no saved seat. And the ones who do talk to her?

They do it to mock.

Fake kindness. Cheap jabs hidden under compliments.

“Cute dress, Belle. Did you borrow it from the charity bin?”

She flinches.

She doesn’t fight back.

Because now, she knows how it feels to be outcasted, targeted, powerless.

Like you were.

And the pain she once delivered now echoes back tenfold.

You see it all.

You see her sitting alone in the cafeteria. Food untouched. Eyes glazed. Trying to pretend she doesn’t care.

And maybe, a part of you thinks: She deserves this.

But another part… the realest part…

It just hurts to watch.

That afternoon, you walk beside Haneul, the usual trail from school to your place. She’s rambling about some weird dream she had involving a duck, a hoodie, and a haunted elevator.

You laugh harder than you mean to.

She grins.

“You’re finally laughing like you used to,” she says.

“I don’t even remember how I used to laugh.”

“Well, it was like this,” she teases, mimicking an exaggerated version of you—giggling like a cartoon.

You tackle her in retaliation.

The moment feels so light. So alive.

You don’t want it to end.

But then, out of the corner of your eye—you see Belle.

She’s standing by the lamppost, shoulders hunched, books clutched to her chest. Two girls from the cheer squad walk past her—one “accidentally” bumps her, causing her books to fall.

They don’t apologize.

They laugh.

And Belle just stares at the ground.

You freeze.

So does Haneul.

You watch as Belle kneels down, quietly picking up torn papers in silence.

And something in your chest… twists.

“I’m gonna help her,” you say suddenly.

Haneul blinks. “What?”

“She needs help.”

Haneul’s face tightens. “She humiliated you. Publicly.”

“I know.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

You hesitate.

“I’m not doing it because I forgive her. I’m doing it because… no one deserves to feel like they don’t matter.”

Silence.

Her eyes harden—not with hatred, but hurt.

“Even after what she did to you?”

“Especially after that.”

She exhales slowly. Looks away. “You’re a better person than me.”

You step forward. “No. I’m just… not angry anymore.”

You gently squeeze her hand.

“I’ll come back, okay?”

She doesn’t look at you.

But she nods.

You kneel beside Belle.

She’s frozen, not daring to look at you.

“…You dropped this,” you say quietly, holding out her sketch notes.

She blinks. Then slowly takes them.

Her voice cracks. “Why are you helping me?”

You shrug. “Because someone helped me once… when no one else did.”

She looks at you—really looks. And suddenly, the glossy pride in her eyes is gone. All that’s left is guilt.

“I’m so sorry,” she chokes out.

You say nothing.

Because you already know.

“I never thought people would turn on me like this,” she whispers. “And now I can’t stop thinking about how I made you feel. I—I think about it all the time.”

You exhale. “Good.”

She blinks.

“Because that means you’re changing.”

Her lips tremble. “It hurts.”

You nod.

“It’s supposed to.”

You don’t ask her to stand. You don’t pretend this moment erases anything.

But you offered your hand.

That’s what matters.

Later, back at the tree, Haneul sits alone—headphones in, sketchbook on her knees.

You approach.

She doesn’t say anything.

You sit beside her.

Still nothing.

“…Mad at me?” you ask.

“No.”

She sketches a quick line. “Just scared.”

You blink. “Of what?”

“Of you being too kind again. To people who don’t deserve it.”

You stare down at your hands.

“I can’t stop being who I am.”

She sighs. “I know. That’s why I lo—”

She stops.

Freezes.

You glance at her.

“…What?”

She closes her sketchbook.

“Nothing.”

But there’s a flush in her cheeks. Her jaw clenched.

And for a moment…

You wonder if she almost said it.

Ever since that afternoon, something about Haneul is different.

She still acts the same, mostly. Still shoves your shoulder in the hallway. Still rolls her eyes at your jokes.

But now?

She pulls her hoodie sleeves back just a little more—to show her bracelets. She reapplies lip balm before she sees you. There’s a soft scent on her that wasn’t there before—like wild berries or faint vanilla.

She still curses like a sailor and threatens to fight anyone who gets too close to you, but…

There’s a new gentleness in her eyes when they land on yours.

You see it.

Everyone sees it.

Today, she shows up at your place unannounced.

You’re wearing pajamas and eating dry cereal out of the box.

She frowns. “You look like a wet sock.”

“You look like someone who Googled ‘how to look like a soft girl’ and got too deep into Pinterest boards.”

She opens her mouth to argue.

Then stops.

“…Okay, yeah, that’s fair.”

You squint. “Wait. Did you?”

She turns red.

“Shut up and let me in.”

You watch her out of the corner of your eye as she toes off her shoes and sits cross-legged on your bed like it’s always been hers. She's wearing a cropped hoodie today, pale pink with a tiny stitched bunny on the sleeve.

You blink. “…Is that blush?”

She freezes.

Coughs.

“No,” she lies.

You smirk. “I like it.”

She throws a pillow at your face.

But she’s smiling.

And her eyes are sparkling in that quiet, secret way.

Meanwhile… Belle’s watching you again.

From behind bookshelves. From across classrooms. At lunch.

She’s not sure when it started.

That flutter.

That ache.

That quiet, gnawing realization that no one in her life had ever looked at her the way you did—before everything fell apart.

Not like a trophy. Not like a goddess. Just… like a girl.

And now, she’s seeing you differently too.

The way you help the teacher stack books after class.

The way you high-five a junior who looked nervous about his grades.

The way you still sit under that same tree every day—only now you laugh harder, louder.

Because of her.

Haneul.

Belle sees it. The closeness. The bond.

And she hates that it makes her chest tighten.

Not because she wants to take you back like a prize.

But because she’s realizing what she lost—

Before she ever even had it.

Back in your room, Haneul is lying on her stomach, doodling in her sketchbook.

You’re scrolling through your playlist.

“Want to hear something cheesy?”

“Only if it’s painfully cheesy.”

You nod. Play a song—an old indie ballad with soft vocals, lyrics about scars and stars, about loving someone who patched you up when the world left you bleeding.

She listens silently.

Then says, “This is your way of flirting, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

She smiles.

But it falters.

And then, softly—

“Why’d you really help her?”

You pause.

Belle.

“…Because I wanted to break the cycle. She hurt me, yeah. But I’m not her. I didn’t want to become her.”

Haneul exhales. “That’s so annoyingly noble of you.”

You chuckle. “Is that a dealbreaker?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Then…

“No,” she whispers. “It’s why I’m falling for you.”

You freeze.

She does too.

Eyes wide.

“Wait—” she blurts. “I—I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

You’re quiet.

And she looks like she wants to vanish into the floorboards.

But you take a breath.

Then say:

“…It’s okay. Because I think I’m falling too.”

Her eyes soften.

And for the first time since you met her—really met her—Haneul lets herself smile like a girl who believes she deserves to be loved.

Belle sits alone in the art room.

A pencil in her hand. A blank paper in front of her.

She doesn’t know how to draw—but she tries to sketch anyway.

A boy.

Your hoodie.

Your eyes.

The moment you picked up her books while she was breaking inside.

She stares at it for a long time.

Then writes under it: “I’m sorry I saw you too late.”

You didn’t plan on taking her out.

It just sort of happened.

One minute, you're walking past the quiet bookstore across from the riverside trail—next thing you know, you’re pulling her inside, teasing her over her weird obsession with tragic novels and horror manga.

“Do not disrespect Junji Ito in this house,” she warns, arms crossed as she browses.

You grin. “Are you threatening me in a bookstore?”

“Damn right I am.”

You laugh, and she turns pink at how easily she made you smile.

You end up walking along the riverside after that. The late sun hits her face just right. She looks softer today—her hoodie traded for a cardigan, her nails neatly painted, a tiny star charm on her necklace.

You hold her hand.

She doesn’t pull away.

In fact… she squeezes back.

The date ends at her place.

You don’t know how it got there—just that you were both laughing too loud at some stupid inside joke, and neither of you wanted to say goodbye.

So you’re on her couch now.

You, beside her.

The lights dim. A quiet playlist hums from her speaker—slow acoustic strums and sleepy harmonies.

Haneul pulls a blanket over the both of you.

Then, gently, she curls into you.

And you let her.

You’re not trembling. You’re not overthinking.

You’re home.

“I used to hate this,” she whispers.

You look down at her. “What?”

“This kind of quiet.”

You don’t say anything.

She continues.

“I used to think quiet meant danger. Like something bad was always coming.”

You feel her hand tighten around your shirt.

“But with you… it’s safe. And I don’t know when that happened. I don’t know when I stopped being scared.”

You hold her closer.

“…The night you saved me,” you say.

She nods.

“That was when I changed,” she whispers. “Not you. Me.”

She sits up just a little—eyes on yours.

“I never wanted to feel again. I told myself it was easier that way. But then I saw you—humiliated, broken, and still so kind.”

Her voice cracks.

“And suddenly I wasn’t angry anymore. I just wanted to protect something again. Someone.”

She leans in, forehead resting gently against yours.

“You changed me,” she says.

“And you saved me,” you reply.

She smiles.

And then she kisses you.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not fiery.

It’s not about hunger.

It’s about presence.

Soft lips. Gentle pressure. A kiss that says: I’m here. I’m grateful. I’m in love.

You kiss her back.

Slowly. Again. And again.

Until she pulls away—barely—and whispers, “Stay tonight.”

You nod.

You don’t speak.

You follow her to her room.

The first time your hands touch under the covers, they tremble. Not out of lust, but out of vulnerability.

She kisses your shoulder. Whispers your name.

You brush her hair back, kiss her temple.

And when your bodies meet, it’s not about noise. It’s not about proving anything.

It’s release. Of trauma. Of fear. Of loneliness.

You move like the world is silent around you—just two souls rediscovering what it means to be wanted. To be seen. To be held.

When it’s over, you don’t move.

You just stay there.

Her breath on your neck. Your arm around her waist.

And for the first time in forever…

You sleep peacefully.

Meanwhile… Belle sits on her bedroom floor, knees drawn to her chest, surrounded by crumpled paper. She’s been drawing for hours.

All of them are you.

You smiling. You holding a book. You helping her pick up papers. You walking away… and her watching.

She’s not crying.

Not anymore.

Now… she’s trying.

Trying to hold onto the only piece of beauty she has left—your face.

She finishes one last sketch.

It’s you, laughing. Not for her, but for someone else. She doesn’t know who drew it—her hand or her heart.

But when it’s done…

She smiles.

A real one.

The sun creeps in through her curtains, painting soft gold across her sheets.

She’s still asleep—Haneul—her face buried in your shoulder, one arm flung across your chest like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

You don’t move.

You barely breathe.

Because this moment?

You never thought you’d have something this safe.

This warm.

Her hair smells like strawberries and sleep. Her lips part slightly with each soft breath. You glance down, your thumb brushing lightly along her hand.

This is real.

You feel it.

Last night wasn’t a dream.

And neither is she.

She stirs.

Eyes blinking open—tired, unfocused, soft.

“…You’re still here,” she murmurs, like she’s surprised.

“I said I would be.”

Her lips curve into the smallest smile.

“…Good.”

She leans in.

Kisses your shoulder. Then your cheek.

Then pulls the blanket up and burrows into your side like a cat who knows this is home now.

You both stay like that for a while.

No words. No plans.

Just skin. Breath. Heartbeats.

Later, you walk with her to school.

This time, you hold her hand the whole way there.

This time, you don’t care who sees.

You pass your usual classmates—some stare, some smile, some whisper.

But no one dares to speak.

Because you’re not the victim anymore. And Haneul’s not just the scary girl.

You’re together.

And that’s enough.

At lunch, she sits closer than usual.

Your thighs touch. She steals fries from your plate. You let her.

When someone from the soccer team tries to sit near you, she glares so hard he apologizes and backs away without a word.

You laugh under your breath. “Territorial?”

“Possessive,” she says bluntly.

But her fingers curl around yours beneath the table.

Then, during your final class of the day—you feel it.

That strange shift in the air.

You glance up from your notebook.

And she’s there.

Belle.

At the classroom door.

She’s holding something in her hands. It looks like… a sketchbook.

Your heart stutters.

She walks in, head bowed slightly, and gives the teacher a note. Then, slowly… she turns and walks toward you.

Everyone watches.

Even Haneul, from across the room—eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Belle stops in front of your desk.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Then quietly:

“Hey. Can I talk to you… after class?”

You hesitate.

Haneul stares.

“…Sure,” you say.

Belle nods once.

Then walks away.

After the bell, you meet her just outside the back exit, near the small garden where club kids sometimes smoke and hide from teachers.

Belle stands there holding the sketchbook.

She offers it to you.

You take it slowly.

Inside… are drawings.

Of you.

Some shaky, some awkward, but some… beautiful.

One of you laughing.

One of you holding books.

One—your back turned, walking away from her, with her in the background, crying.

You look up.

“I’ve been practicing,” she says softly. “I wanted to get better at something. And I wanted to remember… you.”

You don’t know what to say.

She steps closer.

“I don’t want to erase what I did,” she says. “Because that would be cowardly. But I want to become someone new. Someone who deserves to be in your life again.”

You look into her eyes.

She means it.

You feel it in your bones.

She smiles—nervously, not flirtatiously.

“I’m not here to take you back. I know you love her. I can see it when you look at her.”

You glance away.

She continues.

“…But if there’s ever room in your heart, even just a little corner… I’d like to be someone who earns it. One day.”

You exhale slowly.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to,” Belle whispers. “Just… don’t push me away completely.”

She turns to go.

Pauses.

Then adds:

“She’s lucky, you know. Haneul.”

You look up.

Belle smiles—soft, genuine, a little sad.

“She gets the boy who saved me from becoming someone I hated.”

That night, Haneul’s quiet.

You’re lying on her bed again, a movie playing on her laptop, but she’s not paying attention.

“…You okay?” you ask.

She nods. “Yeah.”

Pause.

“…You talked to her.”

You sit up slightly.

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t ask what she said.

She doesn’t need to.

Because Haneul's smart.

She knows the look in your eyes.

The same look she used to have when you weren't looking at her yet.

She lies back.

And whispers:

“Just… don’t forget who held you when you felt like no one would.”

You look at her.

And you take her hand.

“Never,” you promise. “You’re the one who changed everything.”

And still…

You can’t help but glance out the window.

And wonder…

How do you choose between someone who made you feel again…