The morning felt different the moment I opened my eyes.
It wasn't just another school day. It was the day. Weeks of preparation, late-night calls with our group, afternoons in Ha-neul's house where silence had started turning into something softer—all of it led to today.
And for some reason, my chest wouldn't stop tightening.
I left home early, walking slower than usual, my notes clutched in my bag like they might run away if I loosened my grip. My reflection in the convenience store window on the way showed my face pale, my eyes still half-sunken with lack of sleep. I tried to practice my lines under my breath as I walked, but every sentence came out stiff, like I was chewing on rocks.
By the time I reached school, the sun had climbed high enough to cast golden bars of light through the classroom windows. Inside, the air buzzed with a different kind of energy—tension, excitement, chatter.
Some groups were cramming last-minute, flipping frantically through note cards. Others laughed and joked like this was just another day. I envied them. My stomach felt like it had turned into a washing machine.
I sank into my seat, trying to breathe evenly. But then my eyes drifted, almost on instinct, to him.
Ha-neul.
He was already there, sitting at his desk with his usual composed posture. The sunlight from the window fell across his hair, bringing out faint golden strands in the silky brown. His blue eyes were fixed on his notes, calm, steady, like they were reading an entirely different language than the rest of us.
He didn't look nervous. He didn't look excited either. Just… unshaken.
That was Ha-neul.
To most, he probably looked aloof, too quiet to bother with the chaos around him. But I'd spent enough time with him now to see the difference. He wasn't cold. He was guarded. Like someone who'd built walls not because he wanted distance, but because he didn't know how to let people in.
And yet, last week, in his house, those walls had cracked.
I couldn't stop replaying it in my head: the way our hands brushed when we reached for the same pen, the silence that wasn't awkward anymore, his voice when he finally let himself talk more than usual, softer but warmer when it was just us.
I thought about it too much. Way too much. And seeing him sitting there now, so steady and untouchable, made my throat dry.
"Minjae."
I jolted when Na-yeon's voice hissed near my ear. She leaned over my desk, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Why do you look like you're about to vomit? You're pale as paper."
"I'm fine," I muttered quickly, forcing a weak smile. "Just nerves. Normal nerves."
"Normal?" She scoffed, brushing a strand of hair back dramatically. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Before I could defend myself, Ji-hyun spoke from the other side. His voice was quieter, steadier, the way it always was. "You'll be fine. We practiced enough. You won't mess up."
He adjusted his papers carefully, neat and precise as always. Then, almost as if trying to help, he tilted his head toward Ha-neul. "Besides, look at him. He seems calm. That'll balance you out."
As if on cue, Ha-neul's gaze lifted from his notes. For a heartbeat, our eyes locked.
He didn't smile. He rarely did. But he gave me a small nod—so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed. To me, though, it was like the world slowed down. The buzz of the classroom dulled.
That quiet nod was enough.
Somehow, it was enough.
---
One group after another went up to present. The teacher, Ms. Park, sat at her desk like a hawk, watching with those sharp eyes that could cut through steel. Every time applause rose, my stomach sank further.
When our group's name was finally called, I thought my legs might refuse me. But they moved anyway, heavy as stone. Na-yeon strode forward with her usual confidence, Ji-hyun followed with calm precision, and Ha-neul… well, he just walked like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. No rush. No hesitation.
We stood in front of the class, the chatter dying down into silence. My palms were sweaty against my cue cards. My heart was racing too fast, too loud.
Na-yeon started us off, her voice strong and smooth. She had this natural way of speaking, like the classroom was her stage. She gestured lightly, smiled at the right places, even managed to earn a couple of laughs. The more she spoke, the more confident she seemed, like she was feeding off the attention.
Ji-hyun followed next. His tone was calmer, measured, but his points were sharp. He had this way of making even complicated concepts sound simple. And even though he wasn't flashy, his steadiness had a weight of its own.
Then it was Ha-neul's turn.
I half-expected him to deliver his part quickly, clipped, no-nonsense, like he usually did when forced to speak. But the moment he opened his mouth, the classroom shifted.
His voice was smooth, firm but not harsh, carrying through the room without effort. He didn't rush. He didn't stumble. He explained our project's core ideas with clarity, weaving them together seamlessly, almost like telling a story.
The confidence in his tone stunned me. He didn't just sound prepared. He sounded… natural. Like he belonged up there.
Even Ms. Park, notorious for her unimpressed face, leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing not in criticism but in interest.
And then Ha-neul's gaze brushed mine.
For a split second, his words didn't matter. His eyes—those piercing blue eyes—were steady, holding me in place. It wasn't a smile, but something softer, something private, like he was speaking directly to me.
By the time my turn came, my legs were trembling. My voice wavered on the first line. But Ha-neul was right there, just beside me. And when I stumbled over a phrase, panicking that my brain was short-circuiting, I heard the faintest whisper—low, only for me.
"You've got this."
Just three words.
But they anchored me.
And somehow, I did. I made it through.
When we finished, the applause wasn't just polite. It was real. Full. Even Ms. Park gave us a curt nod, which, from her, was practically the equivalent of a gold medal.
Back at our seats, Na-yeon let out a dramatic sigh, fanning herself with her notes. "Well, that's done. If we don't get top marks for this, I'm writing a protest letter."
Ji-hyun chuckled quietly. "You always say that."
"Because I'm always right!" she shot back, crossing her arms.
I sank into my chair, my body buzzing with the aftermath of adrenaline. My eyes drifted—again—to Ha-neul. He was flipping casually through his notes, like none of it had meant anything. But there it was: the faintest curve at his lips. Not a full smile. Something smaller. Private.
And it was enough to make my cheeks burn.
---
During the break, classmates wandered over, offering small congratulations or just casual chat. That's when Na-yeon waved energetically at the doorway.
"Minjae, Ji-hyun—come meet my friends!" she chirped. "This is Soo-min, and that's Eun-ji."
Two girls stepped closer.
Soo-min had short hair tucked neatly behind one ear, her posture confident, almost mischievous. There was a sharpness to her gaze, a playful glint that made it obvious she enjoyed teasing.
Eun-ji stood beside her, long hair draped over one shoulder, her features softer, gentler. She bowed politely, her voice quiet as she greeted us.
The contrast was immediate. Soo-min smirked as she leaned toward Eun-ji. "So this is the famous group that's been stealing Na-yeon away all the time."
Eun-ji flushed, ducking her head quickly. "Don't exaggerate…"
Soo-min's smirk only deepened, clearly amused by her reaction.
I didn't miss it. The way Eun-ji's blush spread across her cheeks, the way Soo-min's eyes lingered. Interesting.
We exchanged greetings, polite and brief, before the bell rang again, pulling us back into the tide of the school day.
---
The rest of the classes dragged in a blur. My body moved on autopilot, but my mind was still tangled in the memory of the presentation, of Ha-neul's whisper, of the almost-smile he thought I didn't see.
When the final bell rang, the room erupted in chatter. Na-yeon clapped her hands, her energy reigniting instantly.
"We survived!" she declared. "Which means, obviously, we're celebrating."
Ji-hyun raised a brow. "Celebrating how?"
"At a restaurant, dude." She wagged her finger at us like a commander giving orders. "All of you. Tonight. No excuses."
I hesitated, opening my mouth, but she cut me off. "And yes, that includes you, Ha-neul."
He blinked, clearly caught off guard. His blue eyes flicked to her, then to me, then back to his notes like he was weighing the effort. Finally, he shrugged.
"Fine."
That single word made Na-yeon beam, triumphant.
And just like that, it was settled. Tonight, we'd gather at a restaurant, laughter and food replacing the nerves and tension that had hung over us for weeks.
But as we packed up and filed out, my thoughts were somewhere else.
They were with the boy whose silence had become less frightening and more magnetic. Whose nods steadied me, whose whispers anchored me, whose eyes said everything his mouth refused to.
And I couldn't stop wondering—if tonight might bring me just a little closer to understanding the heart behind those guarded blue eyes.