It's strange how the smallest things can carve themselves into your memory.
"Good work."
Two words. That's all he had given me.
Yet by the time I got home yesterday, they were echoing so loudly in my head that Na-yeon had to wave her hand in front of my face three times before I realized she was talking to me.
I had nodded at all the right places in her story about a new café, laughed when she expected me to laugh, but truthfully? I hadn't heard a word of it.
All I could hear was him.
Ha-neul.
I didn't even know why it mattered. He wasn't the first person to compliment me, not even the kindest. But maybe it was because it was him, the boy who barely spoke to anyone, the one who seemed untouchable, hidden behind layers of silence. For him to notice me at all felt like something important.
Something dangerous.
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling long after the lights went out. The words replayed like a scratched record—soft, low, steady. "Good work." I pressed my palm over my chest, as if that could calm the restless beat beneath. But it didn't. Sleep felt far away, tugged out of reach by the sound of his voice lingering inside me.
---
The next morning, I walked faster than usual. My shoes scuffed against the pavement, the morning air crisp with the faint smell of bread from the corner bakery. My bag felt heavier than ever, but my steps were light, almost impatient. I told myself it was because I wanted some peace before class started, but even I didn't believe that.
The closer I got to school, the harder my thoughts circled back to the same thing: what if he wasn't there yet? What if I said "good morning" and he ignored me? What if I made it awkward? My throat tightened just imagining it.
Still, when I opened the classroom door, my eyes went straight to his seat.
Of course he was there already.
The room was half-lit, sunlight spilling lazily across the desks, dust drifting in the beams. And there he sat, posture straight, eyes lowered to his book. Like a painting you could step into—quiet, beautiful, distant.
I swallowed and forced the words out before I could lose my nerve.
"Good morning."
He looked up briefly, eyes brushing against mine like a touch of wind. Then he nodded once, silent again.
That should have been the end of it. Just a nod, nothing special. But the way my chest tightened told me otherwise.
---
"Kang-Minjae "
By the time lunch came, the teacher dropped another surprise on us: cleaning duty rotations. My name was read first. I almost groaned, but then the teacher added, "Ha-neul as well."
The broom in my hands suddenly didn't feel like such a punishment.
The classroom emptied after the final bell. The hallways filled with chatter, laughter, footsteps running toward freedom, until only the two of us remained. The door shut behind the last student, and silence settled like a blanket.
He moved to the windows with a cloth, methodical, precise. I swept the floor, the bristles dragging along the dusty corners. Every sound seemed louder with no one else there—the squeak of the cloth against glass, the scrape of the broom, my own too-loud heartbeat.
I kept sneaking glances at him. The way the sunlight caught in his hair, making it look softer than I'd imagined. The stillness of his profile, unreadable but steady. My hands tightened on the broom handle just to give myself something to hold.
Before I could stop myself, I asked, "Do you… always stay after class?"
For a while, he didn't answer. He moved to the next window, wiping it down with the same calm rhythm. I thought he might ignore me again, but then, without looking back, he said quietly:
"…It's quiet."
The same answer as before. But this time, I understood it a little better.
I hesitated, the broom bristles scratching in place. "Doesn't it ever get lonely?"
He stopped. His hand hovered against the glass, and for a moment, I wondered if I'd gone too far. His shoulders rose and fell in a small breath before he replied:
"Not really."
Not really.
Two words again, but they felt heavier this time. Like he wasn't just talking about after class, but something bigger. Something I couldn't name.
I wanted to press, to ask what he really meant, to open that locked door a little wider. But the stillness between us felt fragile—like a soap bubble that would pop if I poked too hard. So instead, I started sweeping again, letting the sound of bristles fill the silence.
Halfway through, I managed to bump the desk leg, the broom jerking out of my hand and clattering to the floor. The sound made me flinch. Ha-neul glanced over, just briefly, his expression unreadable—but for the faintest second, I swore his lips curved, almost like the ghost of a smile. Then he turned back to the window as if nothing happened.
Heat rushed to my face, but strangely, it didn't feel embarrassing. If anything, it felt like I'd been given a glimpse of something rare.
When we finished, I leaned the broom against the wall. Ha-neul was already packing his things, neat and efficient. I thought he'd leave first, like always, but when I glanced up—he was standing by the door.
Is he Waiting?
For me?
My steps quickened without meaning to. Together, we left the classroom, our footsteps echoing down the empty hallway. The air smelled faintly of chalk and disinfectant, the fading sunlight spilling orange on the floor tiles.
Neither of us spoke. But the silence wasn't suffocating like I'd imagined. It was… calm. Like being inside a secret no one else could touch.
At the school gates, we reached the point where the road split—him to the left, me to the right. He paused, looking down the path, then glanced at me. Only for a second. Then he turned and walked away, his back straight, his figure slowly shrinking into the distance.
I didn't say goodbye. Neither did he. But something invisible lingered in the air, like a thread connecting us even as we walked in opposite directions.
A thread I couldn't ignore anymore, no matter how much I tried.
"See you soon"