The morning light was too bright.
It cut through my curtains in thin gold lines, brushing against the floor, the desk, the half-open notebook I'd left out last night. My alarm had gone off twice already, but I was still lying there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers.
"Don't stay up too late."
His voice replayed in my head for what must have been the hundredth time. Quiet. Even. But softer than usual. Softer than he ever let himself sound.
I'd told myself not to read into it. I'd told myself to stop doing that exact thing — overthinking every word, every look, every second that passed between us.
But my chest hadn't listened.
I rolled onto my side, dragging the blanket over my head, groaning into the pillow. It was ridiculous. One line — just one — and my brain had turned it into poetry.
By the time I finally sat up, the clock was threatening lateness. I threw on my uniform, shoved my books into my bag, and headed out, still half dazed.
The sky was clear today, a perfect autumn blue. The air smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts from the vendor near the bus stop. Leaves crunched underfoot, the wind cool enough to sting a little.
Everything looked normal.
Everything was normal.
Except me.
---
By the time I reached school, most of the students were already inside. The hallway buzzed faintly — lockers clanging, shoes squeaking against the floor, voices bouncing off the walls.
And then I saw him.
Ha-neul was by the window near our classroom door, fixing the strap of his bag. The light hit him from behind, turning the edges of his hair golden. For a second, the rest of the hallway just... disappeared.
My feet kept moving even when my brain told me to stop staring.
He noticed me as I approached. His eyes — that calm, ocean-colored stillness — flicked up. For the briefest second, something shifted there, like recognition softened by surprise. Then, as always, his face settled back into quiet composure.
"Morning," I said, trying to sound normal.
"Morning," he replied.
We walked into class together.
The air inside felt different — lighter somehow, but charged, like static after lightning. Everyone else was already in their own worlds.
Na-yeon was fussing with her hair in her compact mirror, muttering about exams. Ji-hyun was deep in his notebook, writing with mechanical precision.
Soo-min was, of course, leaning over Eun-ji's desk.
"You look tired," Soo-min teased. "Did you stay up thinking about me again?"
Eun-ji's face went red immediately. "You wish!"
Soo-min laughed softly. "I'll take that as a maybe."
"Can you two not flirt before class starts?" Na-yeon groaned. "Some of us are trying to survive in peace."
Their bickering drew half the class's attention — as usual — giving me just enough space to breathe. I slid into my seat by the window, and Ha-neul followed, settling beside me.
His movements were quiet, deliberate, but not as mechanical as they'd been before. There was a subtle ease now, the faintest softness at the edges — like something invisible between us had finally loosened.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He glanced at me, eyebrow lifting slightly. "Why?"
I shrugged. "Just asking."
A pause. Then — so softly I almost missed it — "Yeah. You?"
My lips parted, but for a second, I forgot how to answer.
He'd asked back. He almost never did.
"Fine," I managed, though my voice came out a little rough. "Didn't sleep much, though."
He hummed quietly, eyes dropping back to his open book. But I saw it — the faint curve of his mouth, not quite a smile, but not indifference either.
The lesson started, and the teacher's voice filled the room, steady and practiced. But my focus was useless. I'd open my notebook, take down a few words, and then my mind would drift again — back to his voice, his expression, his hand when it brushed mine yesterday.
Outside the window, sunlight flickered over the leaves, and everything looked so calm it felt unfair.
---
By lunch, the tension in my chest hadn't eased.
We all ate together under the tree near the courtyard benches — a spot we'd claimed ages ago. Na-yeon unpacked her lunchbox like she was hosting a cooking show, Ji-hyun handed out extra chopsticks, and Soo-min was already stealing bites from Eun-ji's tray.
"You're incorrigible," Eun-ji scolded softly.
"Big word," Soo-min said, impressed. "Say that again."
Eun-ji laughed despite herself, swatting at her hand. "Stop it."
Their dynamic had become background music — the kind you couldn't help but smile at even when you'd heard it a thousand times.
I was sitting across from Ha-neul, trying not to let my eyes linger too long. He ate quietly, the wind ruffling his hair, a strand falling near his temple. He pushed it back absently, and for some reason, that small movement felt more distracting than it had any right to be.
Na-yeon noticed me zoning out. "Earth to Minjae," she said, waving her spoon. "You've been spaced out since yesterday. What's up?"
"Nothing," I said too quickly.
Soo-min leaned forward, her grin wicked. "Ah, so it's nothing, huh? That usually means something."
"Shut up," I said, laughing awkwardly.
She tilted her head. "You sure it's not about a certain someone sitting across from you?"
My chopsticks froze. "Wh— what?"
The table went still for a beat. Then Na-yeon groaned. "Soo-min, can you not start drama for five minutes?"
Eun-ji giggled softly, trying to hide it behind her hand. "You're terrible."
Soo-min winked. "I live for entertainment."
Ha-neul didn't react at all. He didn't look up, didn't comment, just kept eating like nothing had been said. But I saw the faint twitch at the corner of his jaw — almost imperceptible, but there.
My pulse quickened.
When lunch ended and we packed up, he was the first to stand. "I'll head to class," he said simply, slipping his bag over his shoulder.
I followed a few steps behind.
As we reached the hallway, he slowed. "You should stop letting them tease you."
"It's fine," I said quickly. "They're just joking."
"They don't know what they're talking about."
The words were quiet — calm, but sharper than usual.
I blinked. "Why does it bother you?"
He hesitated, just for a second. "It doesn't."
Then he walked ahead, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding for reasons I couldn't explain.
---
The rest of the day blurred again — lectures, scribbled notes, the dull rhythm of routine. But underneath it all, a strange kind of awareness hummed.
Every time his sleeve brushed mine, every time his gaze flicked my way, I felt it.
The space between us wasn't wide anymore — it was thin, almost fragile, like one more breath could close it completely.
When the final bell rang, I half expected him to pack up and leave without a word, like he usually did. But he didn't.
He turned toward me instead. "Walk home?"
I froze. "Huh?"
His expression didn't change. "We're going the same way."
My mouth went dry. "Y-yeah. Sure."
We walked out together, the hallway glowing gold from the late afternoon light. Outside, the air was crisp again — cleaner, fresher after a day that had felt too long.
This time, the silence between us wasn't heavy. It was almost... comfortable. Like neither of us needed to fill it anymore.
"Hey," I said after a while, my voice softer. "You didn't answer me earlier."
He glanced sideways. "About what?"
"About why it bothered you."
Ha-neul's steps slowed. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer at all. Then, quietly — "Maybe because they're not wrong."
My breath caught. "What?"
He stopped walking. The wind rustled the trees above, scattering a few golden leaves between us.
His gaze met mine, steady but unreadable. "Forget it," he said after a pause.
Before I could reply, he started walking again — a little faster this time. I followed, my mind spinning, my heart somewhere between disbelief and hope.
He didn't look back, but the faintest pink dusted his ears.
And that — that tiny, human detail — set my whole chest on fire.
---
That night, I couldn't focus on homework. My pencil kept stopping mid-sentence, my thoughts looping back to those words.
Maybe because they're not wrong.
He hadn't looked at me when he said it. He'd looked away — but that almost made it worse. Because Ha-neul never said things he didn't mean.
I leaned back in my chair, staring out the window. The city lights blurred in the distance, glowing softly against the sky.
I didn't know what this was — what we were — or where it was heading. But for the first time, I didn't want to run from it.
I just wanted to see where it went.