Lunchtime was supposed to be the best part of the day—at least, that's what Na-yeon always said. For her, it was a chance to gossip, to laugh, to drag Ji-hyun and me toward whatever new café she'd found on social media. For Ji-hyun, it was a break from teachers and a chance to scroll through his phone in peace. For me, it was usually an escape from the classroom noise, a small pocket of freedom where I could disappear into my notebook.
But today, when the bell rang, I lingered.
Ha-neul hadn't moved. He sat there like the chaos of the classroom had melted around him, as though he existed on some separate wavelength. His notebook lay open, untouched. His eyes weren't really focused on it—they were fixed on that blank page like it might whisper a secret if he stared long enough.
What happened? Is not going to do lunch?
I don't know why I cared. Yesterday, he hadn't looked at me once with anything more than indifference. He hadn't smiled. He hadn't even spoken. He was silence made into a person, and yet… I felt the pull anyway, a small tug under my ribs that refused to let me look away.
"Are you… not going to lunch?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. My voice sounded too soft in the wide, emptying room, as if it didn't belong there.
He looked up slowly.
The first time his eyes locked with mine, it felt like someone had peeled away a layer of me I didn't know I was wearing. His gaze wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was measured—the way someone glances at the edge of a step before deciding whether to fall forward.
Then he looked away, and the connection broke.
I should've let it end there. I had nothing clever to say, nothing strong enough to break through that wall of silence. But curiosity has always made me clumsy, and I could feel questions bubbling—Do you always sit here? Do you like drawing? Are you okay?—questions that stayed locked inside, tumbling over themselves without ever reaching my tongue.
That was when Na-yeon appeared, bright and unstoppable as ever.
"Minjae!" she chirped, striding into the room with her usual whirlwind energy. "Come on, Ji-hyun's waiting!"
Before I could react, she hooked her arm through mine and tugged me toward the door. Ji-hyun was leaning against the vending machines in the hallway, eyes glued to his phone. At Na-yeon's exaggerated wink, he rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward, just barely.
We made our way down the stairs. Na-yeon's curiosity was like a tidal wave—it always crashed into whoever stood closest. "So? New guy," she started, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "What's his deal? Did he say anything to you?"
I hesitated. My thoughts snagged on the memory of Ha-neul's hands pressing too hard against paper, the faint tremor of his pen digging lines deep enough to scar the page. Something about that small motion had lodged itself in my chest, too sharp to ignore.
I can't tell them that but
"No," I admitted quietly.
Na-yeon groaned like the answer had betrayed her. "Ugh, you're hopeless. Ji-hyun, don't you think it's weird? He hasn't spoken a word!"
Ji-hyun didn't even glance up from his phone. "Not everyone's as loud as you," he said dryly.
Na-yeon swatted his arm, but she laughed, bright and sharp, and even Ji-hyun cracked a half-smile at her dramatics.
What? I don't understand, whatever they are always like that.
We reached our usual spot near the lockers, a corner that smelled faintly of dust and floor cleaner. Na-yeon unwrapped her kimbap, chattering about some new drama series, while Ji-hyun tossed in the occasional sarcastic comment that made her smack his shoulder in mock outrage.
I ate my sandwich mechanically, nodding when they looked at me, but my mind wasn't with them. It was back in the classroom by the window. Back with the boy who sat in silence, his notebook open to nothing, his gaze too heavy for someone who barely moved.
I wondered about him. Why someone would carry silence like that—was it shyness? Pride? Or maybe silence was safer than speaking.
My imagination filled in the rest without permission: lonely dinners, parents who left before dawn and came home after dark, an empty house where the only company was the hum of a TV. Silly thoughts, guesses built from scraps, but each one pulled him closer in my head.
After classes ended, the corridors thinned. The sunlight slanted low through the windows, softening the edges of the hallway. My footsteps slowed without me telling them to.
The classroom door was slightly ahead. Through the gap, I saw him.
Ha-neul sat at his desk, alone. The light caught his hair, turning it the color of warm chestnut. His chin rested against his palm, his gaze fixed outside as if the sky might answer a question he hadn't asked out loud.
I hovered in the doorway longer than I should have, pulse uneven. Something about the stillness inside that room felt different, like stepping into a place where time moved slower.
Then he turned his head. Our eyes met.
It wasn't the first time, but it felt heavier than before. My heart stumbled.
Words tumbled out of me before I could stop them. "You… don't talk much, do you?"
The question sounded awkward, clumsy. My voice echoed too loudly in the quiet.
He blinked, startled. For a moment, I thought he'd ignore me completely, retreat into that unreachable quiet. The silence stretched so long that my throat tightened.
Maybe. Not gonna speak.
And then, almost too soft to catch, he said, "…No."
Just one word.
But it landed like a pebble dropped into still water. Everything rippled.
I opened my mouth, desperate to fill the space with something, anything—an easier question, a safer remark. But my thoughts tangled. Before I could speak again, he rose, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
As he passed me, the air shifted, brushing against my skin—warm and cold all at once. My breath caught, too shallow.
The door clicked softly shut behind him.
I leaned back against the frame, my chest rising and falling too quickly.
I had expected silence from Ha-neul. But I hadn't expected a single word to echo this loudly inside me.
And yet, absurdly, without warning, I realized: I wanted to hear more.
If silence could be an invitation, maybe it was one I was willing to accept. Maybe the distance between us wasn't a wall at all, but a thread, pulling me closer every time our eyes met.