The library lights flickered softly as we packed up, the warm glow cutting through the amber of the setting sun outside.
Na-yeon yawned, stretching her arms until her back cracked. "I swear, if I look at another formula, I'm going to cry."
Ji-hyun shut his notebook neatly. "Then it'll be the first useful thing you've done today."
Na-yeon threw him a balled-up paper. "You're heartless."
"Efficient," he corrected.
Eun-ji laughed quietly from behind her hand, while Soo-min, sitting beside her, leaned in with a grin that could only mean trouble. "Don't hide that laugh. I worked hard to earn it."
Eun-ji's cheeks flared pink. "You were just distracting me!"
"That's one way to make studying fun," Soo-min said, smirking.
Na-yeon groaned. "Okay, lovebirds, pack it up. We're leaving before I lose brain cells."
Their voices trailed into the background as I zipped my bag, movements slow, deliberate. My eyes flicked up — across the table — to him.
Ha-neul had already stacked his books neatly, his pen capped and aligned along the edge of his notebook. He moved with quiet precision, every action calm and controlled, like the world couldn't touch him.
Even after hours together, he still hadn't said much beyond brief corrections. But somehow, I'd memorized every tone, every tiny inflection in those short words.
When he finally looked up, our eyes met across the fading light.
"Ready?" he asked, voice low.
I nodded quickly, my throat tight. "Yeah."
We all filed out together — the clatter of chairs, the muted hum of the library doors closing behind us — until the cool evening air wrapped around us. The sky had dimmed into that soft indigo that comes just before night, with streaks of orange still clinging to the horizon.
Na-yeon and Ji-hyun headed toward the bus stop, arguing about whether she should take a mock test later. Soo-min offered Eun-ji a ride, and the two drifted ahead, their voices melting into laughter.
That left just me and Ha-neul, walking side by side down the quiet street lined with ginkgo trees, their yellow leaves fluttering in the breeze.
Neither of us spoke at first.
Our steps fell into rhythm — his slow and measured, mine a little too quick, like I was trying to match him and failing.
The city noises faded into a distant hum. A car passed, a dog barked somewhere behind a fence, and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot filled the silence between us.
I wanted to say something — anything — but the words tangled inside me.
After everything that happened on Friday, after all the silence that followed, even a simple "how was your day?" felt too loaded.
Ha-neul broke the quiet first.
"You weren't focused earlier."
I blinked, glancing sideways. "Huh?"
"At the library," he said, eyes forward. "You kept staring at your notebook like it owed you an apology."
Heat crawled up my neck. "I was… thinking."
"About?" His tone wasn't teasing — just curious, steady.
I swallowed. "Nothing important."
He glanced at me then — just for a second — and in the dim light, his eyes looked softer, less sharp than usual. "You're a bad liar."
I froze. "…What?"
"Your ears turn red when you lie."
And then he faced forward again, like he hadn't just dropped that bomb on me.
My heart nearly tripped over itself. "You—you noticed that?"
He didn't answer. But I caught it — the faint twitch of his lips, a ghost of amusement that disappeared as quickly as it came.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to steady my pulse. The air between us felt lighter now, but that only made the weight in my chest worse.
We reached the corner where the road split — one path toward the main station, the other down the quieter neighborhood street where we both lived. The streetlamps flickered on, one by one, casting halos of pale gold over the sidewalk.
"You going this way?" I asked.
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Then… let's walk together."
He didn't object. Just started walking again, and I followed.
---
We passed the convenience store where we usually stopped for snacks. The bright lights buzzed against the night. For a moment, I thought about pretending I needed something — an excuse to stretch this walk out just a little longer.
But before I could, Ha-neul slowed.
He turned slightly toward the window display, eyes flicking to the rows of canned coffee and instant ramen. "Want anything?"
My stomach twisted. "You asking or offering?"
"Neither," he said simply, pushing open the door.
The chime above the entrance jingled softly. I followed him inside.
The fluorescent light was harsh after the dim street, washing everything pale. We grabbed drinks — he took a black coffee, I picked something sweet just to be contrary — and ended up by the counter, the hum of the refrigerator behind us.
When we stepped back outside, the cold air hit my face again. I cracked open my can, the hiss breaking the silence.
Ha-neul stood beside me, his fingers wrapped around his drink, eyes on the faint steam rising from the sewer vents down the street.
The glow from the store sign painted his features in soft amber. For once, he didn't look distant. Just… quiet. Human.
"Hey," I said, before I could stop myself. "About Friday."
His head turned slightly. Just enough to show I had his attention.
I hesitated, fingers tightening around the can. "You said we should forget it."
"I did," he said evenly.
"Do you want to?"
He looked at me then, fully this time — and the calm in his expression wasn't cold, it was controlled. Careful. "Does it matter what I want?"
"Yes," I said, before I could think better of it. The word came out raw, too loud in the quiet street. "It— It does."
A beat passed.
Then, softly: "Why?"
Because I haven't stopped thinking about it.
Because I can't look at you without remembering it.
Because that moment ruined me.
But I couldn't say any of that.
So I just stared at the ground, my voice small. "I don't know."
Ha-neul didn't answer. His silence stretched, but it didn't feel empty — it was full of something unspoken, something neither of us had the courage to name.
He took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes drifting toward the faint shimmer of the streetlight on the asphalt. "You shouldn't overthink it."
I laughed weakly, the sound breaking. "That's easy for you to say."
"It's not." His tone softened, barely above a whisper.
I froze, looking up — but he was already turning away, slipping the can into a nearby bin.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
The world around us blurred — a car passing, a dog barking, a leaf spiraling down — and all I could focus on was the small distance between us, and how impossible it felt to close it.
Finally, he spoke again. "You're walking slower."
"Huh?"
"You usually walk ahead."
"Oh." I blinked, then smiled faintly. "Guess I didn't want to leave you behind."
He shot me a sidelong glance, unreadable. "…Idiot."
But the word didn't sting. It sounded… different. Softer. Almost fond.
I laughed under my breath. "You really have a way with compliments."
He didn't reply, but I caught it again — that almost-smile, fleeting and real.
---
By the time we reached the quiet part of our neighborhood, the streetlamps had grown sparse. The air smelled faintly of rain, and the cicadas had gone still.
We stopped at the usual fork — his street branching left, mine continuing straight ahead.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
"Guess this is it," I said, forcing my voice steady.
"Yeah." His hands were in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, but his gaze stayed fixed on me. "Get home safe."
"You too."
I waited for him to turn first, but he didn't. The silence stretched, thick and fragile.
Then, barely audible, he said, "Minjae."
The sound of my name from his mouth froze me in place.
I looked up. "Yeah?"
He hesitated — just a heartbeat — then said, "Don't stay up too late."
It was nothing. A small, ordinary line. But the warmth in his tone wrapped around me like a thread I didn't want to let go of.
Before I could answer, he turned and walked down his street, his figure fading under the lamplight until he disappeared around the corner.
I stood there, heart pounding, the faint chill of night creeping in.
"Don't stay up too late," I repeated softly, the words catching on a smile I couldn't stop.
---
That night, lying in bed, the ceiling blurred above me.
The echoes of the day replayed — the library's quiet, his steady voice, the brush of his fingers when he handed me the eraser, the way my name sounded when he said it.
And then his eyes — calm, distant, and yet… not.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the steady thud beneath it.
He told me not to overthink.
But how could I not, when every heartbeat sounded like his name?