#softsunghoon

Look, in my defense, I wasn’t trying to uncover any dark, mysterious, emotionally tortured secrets today.

I was just skipping math.

Again.

And I don’t even hate math, okay? I just hate it when numbers start pretending they’re letters and suddenly I’m expected to know what “cos(θ)” is. The unit circle is hard to look at, and suddenly even harder to understand. No thanks. Not when I could be doing something far more important. Like napping. Or dramatically sighing by a window somewhere.

So there I was, speed-walking behind the gym like a very cute fugitive, when I heard the sound.

Scrrrchhh. Swish. Tap. Swish.

My brain said: squirrel. My heart said: ghost. My very dramatic imagination said: figure skater haunted by the ghost of the Olympics.

And because I have absolutely no impulse control, I tiptoed toward the abandoned rink—the one Coach Min swore was “out of order” but really just looks like a Pinterest board had a mental breakdown in there.

And then... I saw him.

Black hoodie. Skates. Alone. Moving like he wasn’t even touching the ice. Like the laws of gravity took one look at him and said, “We’ll allow it.”

I think my jaw might’ve dropped. Which was rude, honestly. I don’t usually let boys make me gasp unless they’re fictional or handing me free food.

But he didn’t see me. He was busy doing a spin so smooth I almost clapped. I stopped myself. Barely.

Anyway, my fingers reached for my phone like they had a mind of their own. Not to record—I'm not that creepy (yet). I just needed to remember this moment. Mysterious ice boy. Secret skater. Vibe of a tragic K-drama lead with a soundtrack playing somewhere in the snow.

Before I could even unlock my screen, he skated right up to the edge of the rink and—

Paused.

Like paused, paused.

I froze too. Not because I’m shy (I’m literally allergic to silence), but because this felt sacred. Like if I moved too fast, he might vanish into a cloud of mist and unresolved trauma.

He wasn’t looking at me. Not really. He was facing the boards, one gloved hand resting on the edge, the other reaching up to pull his hood down.

And that’s when I saw his face.

I know beauty is subjective, but this boy? This boy looked like the human version of a plot twist. Sharp jawline, calm eyes, and the kind of expression that says, “Yes, I’ve seen pain. And yes, I drink iced lattes in the winter.”

It was rude. Honestly. People shouldn't be allowed to look like that on school property. Especially not while doing fancy little turns in complete silence like a poem in motion.

He still hadn’t seen me. So naturally, I panicked.

And by panicked, I mean: I cleared my throat dramatically, like a Victorian ghost trying to get attention during a séance.

“Nice pirouette,” I said, stepping into the doorway like I definitely hadn’t been standing there for five full minutes narrating his life in my head. “Or is it called a triple lutz? Or... toe loop? Skatey swirl? I don’t know. I failed P.E.”

He turned.

His eyes met mine.

For a second, I expected him to glare, or shout, or skate away in cold, broody silence.

Instead, he blinked slowly and said, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Which was fair. But also rich, considering he clearly wasn’t supposed to be here either.

“Says the mystery boy on secret ice,” I replied, folding my arms and leaning against the doorway with my best I’m-totally-chill-and-not-spiraling smile. “I could report you, you know.”

He didn’t laugh.

Of course he didn’t laugh.

Instead, he just stared at me with that terrifying combination of calm and judgment that only people with perfect posture and trauma can pull off.

“I mean, obviously,” I added quickly, throwing in some frantic jazz hands because I’d lost control of the situation somewhere between “I could report you” and “this hot guy is scary, oh man.” “I’m not gonna snitch. I’m barely passing algebra. Do I look like someone who follows rules?”

Still nothing.

Okay, cool. He was either a robot or one of those beautiful loner types who only speaks in plot-relevant sentences. Tragic.

“You’re… skating?” I offered, because apparently my brain had given up on intelligent conversation and was now just narrating the obvious.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question?”

“No,” I said. “Yes. No. I—okay, yes, I was just wondering if this is like… your thing? Skating alone in secret rinks behind abandoned gym doors while looking like a moody Vogue ad?”

He finally exhaled. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a laugh. Somewhere in the middle. And then, just as I was about to pass away from sheer embarrassment—

He smirked.

A tiny one. Barely there. But it was real.

“Do you always talk this much?” he asked.

“Only when I’m nervous,” I replied automatically. “Or bored. Or awake.”

Another pause. He looked down, did a little pivot on his skates, and then—like it was the most casual thing in the world—he said, “Don’t tell anyone.”

And then he pushed off, gliding backwards again like he was being pulled by the music of my crushed soul.

“Wait, that’s it?” I called. “You’re just gonna emotionally mic drop and skate away?”

But he was already mid-turn, hoodie flaring slightly with the movement, back to being all broody and cinematic.

“I don’t even know your name!” I shouted, taking one dramatic step onto the bleachers like I was in a telenovela.

He didn’t stop.

But just before he reached the far end of the rink, I heard him say—soft, but definitely on purpose—

“Exactly.”

By lunchtime, I’d nearly convinced myself I imagined the whole thing. Maybe he was a mirage. A highly attractive hallucination born from skipping math and not drinking enough water (hydrate or dydrate everyone!) Stranger things had happened—like that one time I sleepwalked into the kitchen and started giving my toaster a pre-volleyball game pep talk. (I don't even play volleyball?!)

But then I found myself aggressively stirring my carrot and lentil soup, staring into it like it might give me answers.

“You’re just soup,” I muttered to the bowl. “You can’t help me.”

“Talking to your food again?” Yizhuo’s voice was smooth and amused, like it always was. She slid into the seat next to me looking like the human version of a sparkly Instagram filter. Effortlessly perfect. Not even fair.

“I’m reflecting,” I said, very maturely. “Deep introspection. Respect the process.”

Except I wasn’t reflecting.

I was daydreaming. Hard.

I leaned over my soup dramatically, letting the steam hit my face like it was some kind of cleansing ritual.

And then— His face appeared.

In the soup.

I screamed. Like, externally. Out loud. In the middle of the cafeteria. Not full-volume scream, okay, I’m not a menace. But definitely a loud, startled yelp that made at least four people at the next table look over, mid-chicken-nugget bite.

“Are you okay?” Yizhuo asked through laughter, already tapping my arm because she knew. She knew. She always knew when my brain decided to malfunction mid-lunch.

I blinked down at my bowl. No face. No mysterious boy. Just soup. Mildly orange. Steaming. Innocent. Mocking me.

“Yup!” I said brightly, like I hadn’t just imagined a boy materializing in root vegetables. “Totally fine. Just—hot soup. Caught me off guard. Happens.”

Minjeong, across the table, gave me the squint.

“Soup attacked you?”

“Violently,” I nodded. “Unprovoked.”

Jimin shook her head and offered me a napkin like I’d done this before (I had). Aeri snorted into her carton of chocolate milk.

“You sure you’re okay?” Yizhuo asked again, still smiling like she already knew the real answer. Which was rude, because I didn’t even tell her about mystery skater boy.

“Yes,” I said, stirring my soup again with suspicious eyes. “I’m just… existential today.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“I mean, same,” Aeri said. “But, like, mine’s about failing physics. Not… hallucinating soup men.”

“Soup men,” I repeated, flatly. “Thanks for that.”

Minjeong raised a brow. “Are you having one of your main character episodes again?”

“I don’t have main character episodes,” I scoffed. “I am the main character.”

“Yeah, of a high school rom-com where you fall in love with a cafeteria worker and dramatically sing about it,” Jimin chimed in.

“Honestly,” I said, dipping a piece of bread into my soup, “I’d watch that.”

They all laughed, and I smiled too, trying very hard not to visibly stare into the middle distance like a Jane Austen heroine haunted by an anonymous boy in skates.

I would not be weird about this. I would definitely not Google “how to casually run into someone at an abandoned ice rink without seeming like a stalker.”

I would just eat my soup. Be normal. Be chill. Be—

“Wait,” I said suddenly, voice sharp.

Everyone paused.

“Do we know,” I continued carefully, “if anyone at this school… like… ice skates?”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Like… professionally,” I added. “Or secretly. Or—I don’t know—dramatically?”

“Why would we know that?” Aeri asked, squinting at me like I’d just asked if any of them moonlight as circus acrobats.

“I just think it’s a cool sport,” I said quickly. “The jumps! The glitter! I’m a fan of artistic twirls!”

Yizhuo narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound like you're trying to sell us Olympic propaganda?”

“Do you have a crush on someone?” Minjeong asked, because she always went straight for the jugular.

“No,” I lied, face entirely too warm. “I just believe in… skating rights.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “You’re so weird,” Jimin muttered fondly, stealing my bread.

But nobody answered my question.

Because apparently, no one at this school skates.

Which either meant: A) He wasn’t from here. B) He was a ghost. C) He was a figment of my imagination sent to teach me the value of patience and edge control. Or D) …He was hiding something.

And I? I was very good at finding things people were trying to hide.

Okay yeah, I rescind that statement.

It started innocently enough. I got home, opened my laptop, and totally meant to finish my bio homework. Like, I even clicked on the Google Doc and everything. But then my cursor wandered. And my brain whispered:

"What if he’s famous?"

And honestly? My brain makes a lot of terrible suggestions. Like bangs. Or hot yoga. But this one? This one had potential.

So naturally, I opened Naver.

Search: “high school figure skater black hoodie Seoul boy” Zero results. Rude.

Next attempt: “teenage male ice skater Seoul private school mysterious”

Still nothing, except an article about some 9-year-old prodigy who once skated blindfolded and a BuzzFeed-style quiz titled “Which K-pop Skater Boy Is Your Soulmate?”

Tempting. But not helpful.

I tried every combo I could think of:

“broody boy ice rink Korea”

“skating competition quiet student Seoul”

“hot guy looks like he hates everyone but skates like a dream”

“black hoodie jawline Seoul ice ghost??”

At one point I just typed “boy” and glared at the screen like I expected the algorithm to hand him to me on a silver platter.

It didn’t.

But then… salvation.

I remembered something: Instagram location tags. God’s gift to nosy people everywhere.

I tapped the one for Mapo Ice Arena, the old rink tucked behind our school that everyone pretended was off-limits because the ceiling was leaky and the lights hummed like they were possessed.

After ten minutes of scrolling through selfies, smudgy ice pics, and one cursed video of someone doing a belly flop in skates (still not sure if it was a joke or a cry for help), I found it.

A blurry vertical clip posted by some hockey account called @rinkratskr.

Caption: “Who even is this kid?? That spin was insane?? #skatinglegend #openrinknight”

And there he was. My hoodie boy. Same gait. Same calm control. Same "I don’t know I’m being filmed but I still look like a cinematic dream" aura.

I paused. Zoomed in.

And there—tagged at the bottom—was the username: @/sunghoon.pk

Click.

Public account. Minimalist. Very him.

Seven posts. No bio. Profile pic: a backlit skyline, probably the Han River. He posted like someone who wanted to be found just enough. Like a trail of breadcrumbs but make it moody and artsy.

Mostly photos of scenery. A cracked skate blade. A black-and-white coffee cup. A picture of someone’s cat with no context. And one post that stopped me cold:

A shot of the rink. Empty. Blue-tinged. He was in the corner of the frame, barely visible.

Caption: “It’s quieter now.”

I exhaled slowly.

Because of course. Of course he posted like that. He was a poetic enigma wrapped in a triple axel. And I’d made awkward soup eye contact with him.

I leaned back in bed, stared at the ceiling, and muttered to no one:

The ceiling said nothing. Judgy.

The time? 1:06 a.m.

My chemistry reading? Still unopened. My brain? Hijacked by a boy who spins like silence and smirks like it’s a secret.

I closed my laptop with the kind of dramatic flair normally reserved for season finales and rolled over, shoving my face into my pillow.

“Get a grip,” I whispered into the cotton. “He’s just a guy. A random guy. A guy who ice-skates like he’s in a perfume commercial, sure, but still—just. A. Guy.”

My pillow offered no comfort.

It took me approximately forty minutes, three unnecessary scenarios of us bumping into each other at a convenience store, and one fake argument in my head that ended in a confession (??) before I finally fell asleep.

Only to wake up the next morning with a crick in my neck, exactly one minute before my alarm went off.

Which is a special kind of betrayal.

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I woke up to the sound of my alarm and the sinking realization that I’d hit snooze three times without remembering.

Fantastic start.

The sky outside was that too-blue winter kind of bright, and the cold coming in from the window crack felt unnecessarily personal. I dragged myself out of bed like I was being summoned to war, tripped over my backpack, and muttered something in the general direction of gravity.

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection for a long time.

My hair was passable. A little pillow-flattened, but it gave off that “I woke up like this but didn’t mean to” vibe. But my eyeliner?

A crime scene.

Attempt one: crooked wing. Attempt two: thicker crooked wing. Attempt three: somehow got eyeliner in my eyebrow. Attempt four: panic.

I finally gave up, grabbed my mascara like it was a magic wand, and aggressively swiped it on until my lashes could pass for intentional.

I called it “smoky desperation.” It was fine.

I was five minutes late to class. Not dramatic enough to make an entrance, but enough that everyone looked up when I walked in. My teacher paused mid-sentence, gave me a long look, then kept going.

I sank into my seat and took out my notebook like I had any intention of using it.

I didn’t.

Chemistry was—no offense to science—slowly sucking the will to live out of me. Something about molecular bonding or ion pairs or maybe it was how the fluorescent lights made everything look like a bad hospital dream. I don’t know.

I just knew that at 23 minutes in, my brain started playing static.

So I raised my hand.

“Bathroom,” I said.

My teacher didn’t even look up. Just waved me out like I was a regular escapee.

I took my bag. Casual.

Walked down the hallway. Normal.

Turned the corner and passed the bathroom.

Kept walking.

Turned again.

The moment I stepped into the rink, the cold slipped over me like a second skin. It was sharp, almost biting, but not unwelcome. My shoes echoed softly against the concrete as I crossed the threshold, keeping to the side, hoping not to disturb anything—or anyone. But it didn’t matter. He saw me almost immediately.

He was mid-stride, arms loose, gliding through a curve with perfect balance, when his eyes flicked toward the entrance. He slowed, not abruptly, but gradually, coasting until he reached the edge of the rink where I stood. There was no surprise on his face, no confusion, like he’d expected me somehow. The silence stretched for a second before he came closer, the dull scrape of his blades the only sound in the room.

“You’re back,” he said, calm as ever, voice low and even.

I blinked at him, caught off guard by how unbothered he looked. “Yeah,” I replied, a little breathless, trying to will my heart rate back to normal. “You… skate like you’re not touching the ground. You deserved to be photographed, it's truly amazing.”

His gaze didn’t shift. If anything, he studied me more closely. “Then you should photograph me.”

I froze, blinked. “What?”

He shrugged slightly. “I heard you do photography.”

That made my stomach dip. I looked down, almost instinctively, at the strap of my camera—my beat-up FujiFilm that never left my side, hanging from my shoulder like it belonged there more than I did. I hadn’t even realized I’d brought it today. I always did, without thinking.

“How—how did you know?”

He tilted his head like the question didn’t make much sense. “It’s hard not to notice when you carry it everywhere. I saw it last time. And I’ve seen you around school.”

That last part sat heavier than the rest. I wasn’t sure if it was the way he said it—casual but deliberate—or the fact that I hadn’t noticed him noticing me. I was usually the observer, the one watching moments unfold from behind the lens. To be seen like that, so plainly, knocked something loose in my chest.

“Oh,” I said, like a genius. “Right.”

There was a pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He was still watching me, but not in a way that asked anything. It felt like he was just waiting to see what I’d do next.

I adjusted the strap of my camera, suddenly hyper-aware of its weight against my side. “If you’re offering,” I said carefully, “I’d love to.”

His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but something near it. “Good. Because I think better when I’m moving.”

And just like that, he turned, pushed off, and skated back onto the ice, his figure slicing through the cold air like it welcomed him back.

I sat down slowly on the cold bleachers, fingers instinctively wrapping around my camera like they always did when I didn’t know what to say. It was my FujiFilm X100V—silver with black leather grip, a little scuffed at the corners from too many school trips and spontaneous weekend walks, but I liked it better that way. The metal body felt familiar in my hands, like something that had always belonged to me, even before I knew how to use it properly.

I flipped the switch, felt the soft click vibrate under my thumb. The lens extended with its smooth little hum, and I thumbed off the lens cap, tucking it into my coat pocket like I’d done a hundred times before. But this time felt different. My hands weren’t clumsy, but they were careful, like I was afraid of making the wrong move.

I lifted the viewfinder to my eye and let the world shift.

He was moving again—arms loose, posture relaxed, that same quiet confidence in every motion. The camera softened everything around him, framed him in the square like a subject I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting to find. Through the viewfinder, the rink lost its rusted edges, the cracks in the boards blurred away, and all that was left was him gliding through the middle like he was made for it.

I tapped the shutter. Once. Twice.

The sound was quiet, almost shy, like it didn’t want to disturb him. I adjusted the aperture—f/2.0, to catch the soft winter light filtering through the high windows—and widened the shot. He dipped into a turn, one foot crossing over the other, hoodie fluttering slightly with the motion. His jaw was set, brows just a little furrowed in concentration. I captured that too.

Every few seconds, I’d lower the camera just enough to see him with my own eyes. I don’t know why. Maybe to make sure it was still real. Maybe to remind myself that I was here—not behind a screen, not watching a video online, but here, in the cold, watching him carve his thoughts into the ice like it was paper.

The camera strap shifted against my neck as I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees for balance. My thumb hovered near the focus ring, adjusting just slightly as he moved closer, faster, a flash of motion that almost slipped out of frame. I caught it. I caught him. Not just the spin, but the moment right before—the gathering of energy, the breath he took as he prepared to push off. I liked that part the most.

I bit my lip and smiled a little to myself, heart warm despite the cold settling into my fingertips. The world always felt quieter when I had my camera up, like there was only the subject, the space between us, and whatever I chose to keep.

And him?

He didn’t perform. He didn’t look into the lens or try to impress me. He just kept skating like he forgot I was there—or maybe like he didn’t mind that I was.

I kept shooting, frame after frame, until I stopped worrying about whether they were perfect and just started chasing the feeling. The light. The way his hair moved under the edge of his hood. The way his skates sounded against the ice, steady and sure. The way I didn’t want to miss any of it.

Eventually, he slowed again, gliding into a soft stop near the edge of the rink. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked up at me, his chest rising and falling as his breath formed clouds in the air.

“Do I need to pose?” he asked, voice calm, teasing just barely.

I lowered the camera, smiled. “No. I like it better like this.”

He nodded, almost to himself, and turned away. He skated again, and I raised the viewfinder once more—this time, not just to watch him, but to remember what it felt like to see something beautiful in motion and be lucky enough to catch it.

He came back slower this time, his skates whispering across the ice until they drew him back to the edge of the rink where I was sitting. I had just lowered my camera, the screen still lit with the last photo I’d taken—him caught mid-turn, arms slightly out, eyes focused on some invisible line ahead of him. The moment looked like a dream. Not something staged, not something posed. Just real. Honest.

I watched as he glided to a stop, eyes on me, expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything right away, and I wasn’t sure if I should. The silence settled between us, not quite heavy, but full of everything unsaid. So, naturally, I filled it with words I didn’t think all the way through.

"We need to post these," I blurted, lifting my camera like it explained anything. "Seriously, you don’t even know how good you look out there. You’re like—skating poetry. It’s illegal to be this photogenic and not let the world know."

The change in him was immediate, like a light switching off somewhere behind his eyes. He didn’t smile. If anything, he looked away for a second, and the quiet stretched thinner. There was a subtle shift in his expression, a darkness—not quite sadness, but something older, heavier. His jaw tensed slightly, and he looked back up at me with a gaze that pinned me in place.

I hesitated, my hand tightening on the grip of the camera. "Or not," I added quickly, softer now. "It was just an idea. No pressure."

He looked down at the ice before meeting my eyes again. "Don’t post them," he said, his voice even but firmer than before.

I nodded, feeling like I’d overstepped some invisible line I hadn’t known was there. "Yeah, of course. Just for… me, then. I mean—not me, me. Like, us. Just for us. I guess."

He studied me for a moment longer before replying, voice quieter this time. "They’re for our eyes only."

Something about the way he said it lodged itself deep in my chest. The words weren’t romantic, not exactly. But they held weight. Like a promise. Like he had handed me something fragile and trusted me to hold it. My stomach flipped, and I hated how fast the words took root in my mind.

For our eyes only.

There was something about it—something unspoken and just barely intimate. A shared secret I hadn’t realized we were creating. My heart fluttered before I could stop it, and I had to look down at my camera to stop myself from staring at him like a total idiot.

I pretended to check my photos again, though I didn’t see any of them clearly. I was too aware of the stillness around us, of him still standing there, too aware of my own heartbeat thudding far too loudly in my ears.

When I finally looked back up, he was still watching me, calm and unreadable as ever.

"Yeah," I said aloud, trying to steady myself. "Just for us. Got it."

He nodded like it settled something between us. And maybe it did. Maybe that was the thing—these pictures weren’t for an audience. They were just for this moment. For him. For me.

After a pause, I blinked and realized something that made me sit up straighter. "Wait. How am I supposed to get them to you?"

He stepped a little closer to the railing, eyes steady on mine. "Give me your phone."

I opened my mouth to ask why, but before I could even finish the breath, he reached out, fingers brushing softly against mine as he took the phone from my lap. His hands were cold but sure, and there was something ridiculously confident in the way he unlocked it without asking and swiped straight into my contacts.

He typed quickly, efficiently, then passed it back like it was nothing.

There it was.

Park Sunghoon

Saved in my phone like it had always belonged there.

"Now you can send them," he said, glancing down at the camera that still hung from my neck.

I stared at the name on the screen, brain momentarily short-circuiting. "Oh. Okay. Cool," I managed, and then immediately wanted to faceplant into the bleachers.

Cool? That was the best I could do? He just casually slid into my contact list and I was out here saying cool like I was a malfunctioning robot.

He nodded once, like that settled it, and then turned back to the ice. His blades whispered across the surface as he pushed off again, not looking back. I sat there a little stunned, still gripping my phone, watching him disappear back into motion.

I watched for what felt like forever, my camera resting against my chest, heartbeat loud in my ears. I didn’t raise it to shoot again. Not yet. The moment didn’t ask to be captured. It asked to be remembered.

Eventually, he circled back toward the far end of the rink, movements slower now, more thoughtful. I watched him pause for a second, look toward the ceiling like he was thinking through something no one else could hear, and then spin again, this time looser, like he was skating to let go of something.

I stayed there, seated and quiet, camera in my lap, hands warm from where he'd brushed them. I kept staring at his name in my phone, the plain, unstyled contact card glowing against the screen like it meant more than it should.

I should’ve stood up. Should’ve gone back to class. But I didn’t. Not right away.

"Hey," I called out suddenly, not even realizing I was going to speak until the word left my mouth.

He slowed, turned in place, skating a half-circle before gliding back to the edge again.

"Why me?" I asked. "Why let me take the photos?"

He tilted his head slightly. "You didn’t ask me to pose."

That was it. That’s all he said.

And yet, I felt it. The trust in it. The quiet weight of someone who didn’t want to perform anymore.

He turned again, without waiting for a response, and disappeared back into the curve of the rink. And I sat back, phone still in hand, heart still catching up.

I didn’t know what this was. But I knew what it wasn’t.

It wasn’t just about skating. It wasn’t just about photographs. It wasn’t just a fluke.

It was something that belonged to both of us now.

Just for our eyes.

I checked the time on my phone—I'd been there nearly twenty minutes, maybe more. Class had definitely moved on without me, and if I didn’t get back soon, someone was going to notice. Probably my chemistry teacher, who kept track of bathroom breaks like a hawk with a stopwatch.

I shifted, standing up slowly, letting my bag slip back over my shoulder, camera still hanging at my side. Sunghoon had slowed again, watching me from a short distance away. I hesitated, unsure whether to say goodbye or just slip out the same way I came.

But then he spoke.

"Find me at lunch," he said simply.

I blinked, halfway to turning. "Huh?"

He didn’t elaborate, just offered a faint shrug. "You’ll find me."

My brows knit together, caught somewhere between confused and amused. "That’s totally not weird at all," I muttered under my breath, but I knew he heard me because the corner of his mouth lifted—just a fraction, barely there.

Before I could ask what that even meant, he was already skating away again, like that was all he intended to say. I stood there for another second, still slightly stunned, before finally forcing myself to move, slipping back out of the rink and into the hallway.

The warmth hit me like a wave, and I walked toward class with my thoughts racing ahead of me. I didn’t know where I’d find him at lunch. I didn’t even know what I was expecting. But I knew one thing for sure.

I would look.

And I had a feeling—some quiet, ridiculous feeling—that he would be there waiting.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the beginning of something neither of us had a name for yet.

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