Thursday mornings were always quiet, but that day, the silence felt heavier.
The corridors were filled with the usual sounds — footsteps echoing off tile floors, the dull hum of conversations, lockers slamming shut. But for me, everything felt muted, distant. Like I was walking through fog.
I'd barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing him — Ha-neul — sitting across from me in the café yesterday, the way the light caught the edge of his profile, how his voice had gone softer when he said, "You think too much."
It wasn't what he said. It was how he said it — quiet, tired, like he'd been holding something in for too long.
And I couldn't stop thinking about it.
When I walked into the classroom, he was already there. Same seat, same calm expression, same distant air that made it feel like he was miles away even though he sat right beside me. His hair was a little messier than usual, like he hadn't slept much either.
For a while, I just stood there, watching him.
He looked up. Our eyes met briefly — not cold, not unreadable like before, but hesitant. Like he wasn't sure if he wanted to say something or avoid it altogether.
"Morning," I said quietly.
"…Morning."
His voice was low, almost cautious.
I sat down, trying to act normal, flipping open my notebook. My heart wasn't fooled. It thudded hard against my ribs, restless.
---
The first period dragged on, words from the teacher blurring into meaningless noise. I wrote what I could, but my focus kept breaking every few seconds. The pen felt heavy in my hand, like it didn't want to cooperate.
Every time I glanced sideways, Ha-neul was there — writing neatly, posture perfect, face composed. But beneath that calm, I noticed something new. His fingers kept tightening on his pen, the slightest tremor running through it.
He was thinking about something. Maybe the same thing I was.
When the bell finally rang, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
Ha-neul started packing his books, but slower than usual, almost reluctant. I hesitated before asking, "You… want to get lunch together?"
His hands paused mid-movement. He looked up, blue eyes flickering with surprise before softening. "Sure."
It was a small word, but it felt like a step forward.
---
We ended up on the school rooftop, sitting side by side on the low concrete ledge. The wind was cool, carrying the faint scent of leaves and dust. Below, the sounds of the courtyard drifted up — laughter, shouts, life. Up here, it felt like a different world.
I unwrapped my sandwich, but I didn't eat. Neither did he. We just sat there, the quiet stretching between us like a thin thread.
"Ha-neul," I started. "Yesterday… when you said I think too much. What did you mean?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the sky, where clouds were moving slow and pale.
Finally, he said, "You look at things like they'll fall apart if you touch them."
I blinked. "What?"
"You hesitate," he said softly. "With people. With yourself. Like you're afraid of doing something wrong."
I stared at him, caught off guard. He wasn't teasing or distant. He sounded… sincere.
"Maybe I am afraid," I admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
"Of what?"
"You."
That made him turn. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face — shock, maybe, or confusion.
I forced a small laugh. "Not in a bad way. It's just… I don't know how to be around you sometimes. You're calm when I'm nervous. Quiet when I talk too much. And then when you look at me—"
I stopped. The words tangled in my throat.
"When I look at you?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
I met his gaze, and for once, didn't look away. "It's like you see through everything I try to hide."
The wind blew between us, tugging at his hair. He didn't move for a long moment, then lowered his gaze.
"…You're not the only one who's afraid," he said.
My breath caught. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated, his jaw tightening like he was fighting himself. "People think I don't care about things. But I do. Too much. I just… don't know how to show it without messing everything up."
It was the most he'd said about himself since I met him.
"Ha-neul…"
He glanced at me then, eyes clear and blue and fragile in a way I'd never seen before. "That night — the dare. You didn't imagine it. I… haven't forgotten either."
My heart stopped.
He looked away, his voice barely audible. "I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. But it didn't."
The air between us thickened, heavy and still. I could hear the faint hum of the city below, the beating of my own heart in my ears.
I wanted to say something — anything — but every word felt too small for what was sitting in my chest.
So I did the only thing I could. I reached out, my hand brushing against his.
He didn't pull away.
For a second, he looked startled. Then his fingers shifted — slow, careful — until they threaded through mine.
It wasn't a confession. Not yet. But it was something real, something raw.
We sat like that, side by side, while the wind moved softly around us, and for the first time in a long while, silence didn't feel like distance.
It felt like understanding.