#mymoon

Day one turns into every day without either of you naming it.

You begin to notice the way Eric lingers after class, leaning against his desk and pretending to check his phone while his friends call out to him from the doorway.

"Come on," his friend, Sunwoo, says. "We are going to the arcade."

"Later," Eric replies easily before glancing back at you. "I'll catch up."

He doesn't.

He waits instead. He waits for you to close your notebook, sliding it carefully into your bag, and he only stands when you are ready to go. He falls into step behind you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

The next day, he sits beside you without asking at lunch. Your tray is modest, while his is fuller. He pushes half of it toward you.

"Can you take some of it? Sunwoo accidentally added more for me," he says with an explanation.

You hesitate. "I'm not really hungry."

He smiles, not teasing or insistent. "You'll like this."

So you do.

No one comments. No one laughs behind their hands. The table feels anchored with him there as if his presence makes you visible enough to be left alone. You find yourself talking more than you intend to.

About class. About how you like the quiet corners of the library. About your cat. He listens between bites, nodding and asking small questions that tell you he remembers.

As the sun leans low and the halls are empty after school, he stops near the gates and turns to you.

"Hey," he says while rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you want to eat somewhere? My mom's restaurant is nearby."

Your first instinct is to refuse. Your second is to find a reason why you shouldn't. You fail at both.

"I feel bad for bothering her," you say.

"You won't," he replies quickly. "She likes company."

You ended up following him.

The restaurant is small and tucked between a convenience store and a tailor's shop. Warm light spills through the paper windows. The air is thick with the scent of simmering broth and fried kimchi pancake. It feels like stepping into a different world.

Eric greets the woman behind the counter. He calls her "Mom," and something in your chest tightens at the sound. Something that you will never experience in your life.

"You can sit comfortably anywhere," he says. "I'll be right back."

You choose a corner table by the window. Later, he brings food without asking what you want and places it in front of you like a quiet offering.

"Why so many?"

He just smiles and gestures for you to eat. "As I said, you'll like it."

You do.

The warmth spread slowly. It fills the spaces you didn't know were hollow. The chair doesn't feel borrowed. The table doesn't feel temporary. No one rushes you. No one expects anything from you.

"I always wonder why you don't talk much in class," Eric says casually while resting his chin on his hand.

You shrug. "There's nothing to say."

"Why? I don't think that's true." He tilts his head. "I always have a story to tell people."

"We are different, Eric."

A pause. His eyes soften. You stare at him before sighing, then at the food. That's when the words slip out of you.

"Everyone is so... loud. Then there is me, standing right there at the edge of the circle. I can feel myself becoming transparent. It's not because I don't want to talk, but because I just stopped trying to find a gap in the conversation that I realized there isn't one meant for me..."

Eric listens without saying anything.

You look at him before continuing, "...I could walk out the door in the middle of a sentence, and the air wouldn't even shift."

You continue to talk about how easy it is to disappear, how sometimes you wish someone would notice before you vanish completely. Then, you stop mid-sentence, startled by yourself.

"Sorry," you say quickly. "I don't know why I'm saying all of this."

Eric doesn't laugh. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't tell you to stop.

"That's okay," he says. "We are humans with a heart. Of course your feelings are valid. You can say whatever you want to me and I would still listen."

To me. The word settles into you like a promise he doesn't realize he's making.

The sky has darkened by the time you leave. The streetlights dim softly. He walks you home again with his hands in his pockets.

Day passes, then weeks. You start to open up with small things that feel harmless to share.

You tell him about the test you almost failed just because your hands wouldn't stop shaking, about the book you borrowed from the library even though you weren't sure you would like it yet, and about the way you almost chose the same seat in class because it feels safer to look at the view outside of the window.

Eric listens to all of it—without the impatience that people often hide behind politeness and without glances at his phone or interruptions dressed as jokes.

"That sounds stressful," he says when you finish a story about a new library's system.

You blink. "It was."

He nods as if confirming something important. "Makes sense that you don't know how to use it since they don't provide clear instructions."

You are taken aback by the words. It's not because they are deep, but rather because he doesn't try to fix you. He doesn't shrink your feelings into something manageable. He simply allows them to exist.

So you keep talking.

The two of them sit on the very edge of the concrete bleachers. The distant roar of the midday crowd sounded like a different world.

"Lunch is the hardest part," you say softly.

"Why?" Eric wonders.

What's so hard about it? You just have to eat, don't you?

He waits for you to continue. He doesn't look away.

"The silence is heavy. It feels like a physical weight on my chest, especially when the room is full of people laughing. I always spend the whole morning on the way to school rehearsing what I might say if someone finally looked at me. I've got the whole script ready to go in my head."

You let out a dry, shaky breath. "But then the bell rings, and I haven't said a single word. I just silently walk to the class, and the script stays locked inside."

You brace yourself. You expect him to tell you that you are being dramatic or to offer a list of "tips" on how to be more outgoing, just like him.

Instead, Eric looks out at the field full of students. A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I do that too, sometimes," he says.

The weight on your chest doesn't disappear, but it feels like someone else is helping you carry it.

"You think you're a ghost," he adds gently, "but I see you. You're not invisible to me."

That's when you realize you are no longer invisible—at least to one person. He has seen you.

Without knowing, he has chosen to plant something that grows quietly, stubbornly, in the spaces no one else dares to touch.

After school, the rhythmic sound of the footsteps on the pavement seems to give you a beat to follow. The air is cooling down on the way home.

"When I was little, I couldn't just put a book away. I had to make sure the spines were perfectly flush and touching each other. No gaps in between."

You look at him sideways, but he keeps his eyes on the horizon. His hands shove deep into his pockets.

"I was worried the book on the end would feel isolated if I left a space. I always had to whisper that they were part of a set before I turned out the light so they wouldn't feel lonely in the dark," you laugh lightly.

"It sounds so stupid now that I think back."

He kicks a loose pebble and watches it skitter down the sidewalk. "It's not stupid. It's like you were trying to fix the world on a smaller scale because the big one felt too hard to handle."

You nod. A small surge of courage hitting your chest. "I think I've been living entirely inside my own head for years. I thought I had sound... well, crazy if I said these things out loud."

"You don't," he says simply. He doesn't turn to look at you; instead, he shifts his path slightly closer to you. "You just sound like someone who has been carrying a lot of heavy thoughts with nowhere to put them down."

You let out a breath that you have been holding since the first grade. "I think I'm tired of carrying them."

"Then don't," he replies. They stop walking. "You can leave them here on the sidewalk, and I'll walk with you for the rest of the way without them."

Eric begins to notice patterns after a while. They are small at first. A laugh that cuts off when you enter the class, a seat pulled away just as you near it, names spoken under breath before followed by glances that pretend they weren't meant for you.

He remembers the things you have told him. The way you always soften the truth when you speak. He thought maybe you were just being careful.

Now he starts to realize you were being generous.

It happens on a day that's already too long for you. A group work for three people is announced, and the room breaks apart into noise and movement. Eric stands and waits for you without thinking.

That's when he hears something.

"Do we really have to work with her?"

A not so loud voice lingers around his eardrums before another laugh follows.

"She won't say anything anyway. And she can do everything. Our work will be easy."

You stay seated as you always do. Your hands are folded too tightly in your lap until your knuckles turn pale. Your eyes are fixed on the desk as if disappearing is a skill you have practiced.

Eric feels something shift in his chest.

"Hey," he says, sharper than his usual personality. The room quiets just a little then. "What are you laughing at? I heard nothing funny in your words."

Heads turn. Someone scoffs.

"Chill bro," the boy replies. "It's just a joke."

"who said?" Eric asks. His voice doesn't rise, but it doesn't soften either. "You have been doing this for weeks. And honestly it's such a lame joke."

Sunwoo standing beside him, looking confused.

Eric gestures toward you. "You don't see it? You realize she could hear every single word you said, don't you? So, why would you talk like she's not even here?"

There's an uncomfortable pause. The one people would fill with laughter when they don't want to think.

"She never said anything," someone mutters.

Eric shakes his head. "And that doesn't mean it's okay."

Sunwoo exhales slowly while rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he says, hesitant but sincere. "That's... kind of messed up."

The silence spreads. No one argues. No one apologizes either. They just look down, suddenly interested in their phones, their homework, and the floor. Class resumes, but the environment never feels the same anymore. You feel guilty wrapping around you.

And Eric doesn't wait when the bell rings. He grabs your wrist gently and firmly, leaving Sunwoo stunned at his place.

"Come with me."

You don't resist. You barely feel your feet moving as he pulls you up the stairs, past empty hallways and all the way to the rooftop. The door slams shut behind you. The sound echoing louder than it should.

Eric turns away from you, pacing. His hands curl into fists.

"Why didn't you tell me it was that bad?" he snaps, more in the air than at you. "They don't get to talk about you like that. They don't know you."

You stand there silently. Your chest tightens. The tears drop before you can stop them. Quiet. Uncontrolled. They fall without a sound, like they have been waiting for permission.

Eric stops pacing.

He turns.

And freezes.

"Oh," he says softly. All the anger drained from his face. "Hey, I─"

He steps closer, unsure like someone is approaching something fragile for the first time.

"I didn't mean to yell," he says. "I just... that wasn't okay."

You shake your head while pressing your sleeve to your mouth. "It's fine," you whisper though your body betrays you completely.

"No," he says immediately.

He crouches slightly so he's closer to your eye level, but not too close to make you uncomfortable.

"Listen to me," he says. "You didn't do anything wrong. They probably act like that because they are jealous you are smarter than them. You hear that?"

You nod even though the words barely reach you.

"They're loud because they are empty somewhere else," he continues. "And cruel because it's easier than being kind. That doesn't mean they're right."

His voice is steady now.

"You don't deserve that. You never did."

You cry harder. Your shoulders are shaking and your breath uneven. He stays, and never touches or rushes you.

"I've got you," he says quietly. "You are not alone."

The words arrive at the exact moment you are closest to falling apart. Eric doesn't know that timing is everything.

He doesn't know those words will replay themselves years later, even after the rooftop is empty and he has moved on. He doesn't see the way something settles inside you. Heavy. Permanent.

And the seed grows to deeper roots that day, nourished by the one voice that showed up when everything else went silent.

✎ᝰ. to be continued.