The next day felt different the moment I opened my eyes.
Maybe it was the quiet morning light filtering through my curtains.
Maybe it was the memory of his sparkles—white and gold, woven like gentle promises.
Maybe it was the way he asked me, almost shyly:
"Tomorrow… stay a little longer?"
I got ready slowly, brushing my hair with more care than usual.
My hands weren't trembling.
But something inside me was.
Not fear.
Not nervousness.
Something softer.
Something warmer.
I didn't rush to school today.
I wanted to arrive at the exact moment he would.
Not too early.
Not too late.
Just… at the right time.
---
When I stepped through the courtyard gate, my breath caught.
He was already there.
Standing near the same ginkgo tree as yesterday, hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves, head tilted slightly as if listening to a sound no one else could hear.
His sparkles this morning were soft pastel pink.
My heart nearly stopped at the sight.
Pink.
A color I hadn't seen on him before.
A color that carried an unspoken warmth.
He looked up just then—and the sparkles brightened.
He walked toward me, slower than usual.
Almost hesitant.
Almost… nervous.
I swallowed.
"Good morning," I said, softer than intended.
He took out his notebook, writing:
"Morning."
Then he paused.
Wrote again.
"You came exactly now."
I blinked. "Is… that good or bad?"
He pointed at the pink sparkles around him.
Then wrote:
"Good."
Warmth washed up my neck.
"I'm glad."
He hesitated, then held the notebook slightly closer to me, as if wanting me to see something he normally didn't share.
"I waited."
My breath caught.
Again.
"…For me?"
His sparkles answered before he did—pale pink glowing like soft blush.
He nodded.
Everything inside me softened and melted at once.
---
In class, he seemed… different.
Not distracted.
Not tense.
Just something else.
Something warm that kept drifting toward me like a quiet current.
He kept stealing glances—small ones, subtle, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention.
But I wasn't just paying attention.
I was hyperaware of him today.
Once, his knee brushed mine under the table when he shifted in his seat.
He stiffened immediately—eyes widening slightly.
I didn't move away.
Slowly, after a few seconds, he relaxed again.
His sparkles glowed a deeper pink.
---
During break, he tapped his pen twice on my notebook—a soundless way of calling for attention.
He wrote:
"Want to learn something?"
I perked up. "Like sign language?"
He nodded, eyes warming.
I scooted my chair a little closer, and he paused—surprised by how close I got—but he didn't pull away.
Instead, he lifted his hands slowly.
He signed a simple motion, graceful and small.
I stared at his fingers carefully.
"What does that mean?"
He wrote:
"Listen."
I froze.
He looked at me—really looked—his gaze soft but clear.
Then he signed it again, slower.
"So that means… listen?" I whispered.
He nodded.
Then he pointed at himself.
Signed the same word.
My chest tightened.
"Oh," I breathed.
Because for him, listening wasn't sound.
It wasn't ears.
It wasn't hearing in the way the world defined it.
It was paying attention.
Watching.
Focusing.
Understanding.
I signed the motion back—slow, clumsy, but earnest.
He watched me with a look that made the pink sparkles brighten.
Then he wrote:
"Good."
I flushed. "I'm trying."
He added with careful handwriting:
"It matters to me."
The words stole the air from my lungs.
I didn't know what to say.
So instead, I smiled—small and shaky.
His sparkles glowed brighter.
---
Lunch was quiet today.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Just a calm stillness that wrapped around us like a warm blanket.
He opened his lunchbox.
I opened mine.
And for the first time, he didn't immediately try to feed me something.
Instead, he nudged his lunchbox closer, pointing at a small side dish—stir-fried fishcake.
He wrote:
"Try?"
I blinked. "Me feeding you?"
He nodded once.
Slowly.
My heart began to tumble down a hill.
"Oh… Okay," I managed.
I picked up a piece with my chopsticks, leaning slightly forward.
He leaned in too.
Not close enough to touch—
But close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath in the small space between us.
He took the bite gently.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
Then his sparkles exploded softly into the deepest shade of pink I'd seen so far.
He wrote:
"Good."
"I'm glad," I whispered.
He didn't look away this time.
---
After school, we walked out together again.
The sky was pale lavender, clouds drifting lazily. The breeze was cool, brushing our sleeves as if urging us closer.
At the road, he paused and looked around.
No loud cars today.
No crowds.
No sudden chaos.
He let out a tiny exhale of relief.
I didn't say anything—just matched my pace to his.
He walked closer than yesterday.
Not touching.
But closer.
I felt his presence like quiet warmth radiating beside me.
Halfway down the street, he slowed.
Then stopped.
I turned, brows knitting. "What is it?"
He lifted his hands.
Slowly.
He signed something.
A new sign.
One I'd never seen.
Gentle.
Careful.
Beautiful.
I blinked hard.
"…I don't know that one."
He bit his lip—just slightly—
Then he wrote:
"Means:
'I'm comfortable with you.'"
My heart didn't just melt.
It dissolved.
Disappeared.
Turned into soft, trembling warmth.
"…Oh," I whispered. "I'm… really glad."
He watched me with gentle eyes, sparkles shifting deeper, warmer pink—almost rose-colored now.
He signed it again.
Deliberately.
Slow.
So I wouldn't miss it.
I hesitated, then tried to copy it.
My hands trembled a little.
He didn't laugh.
He didn't correct me.
He just watched—like the effort alone mattered more than the accuracy.
When I finished, he lifted his notebook.
"Good."
Then:
"For me."
My breath hitched.
Then he wrote one more thing.
Small letters.
Neat strokes.
Careful words.
"Can I stay longer with you… tomorrow?"
I swallowed thickly.
"Yes," I said immediately.
Too fast.
Too eager.
But true.
He blinked—surprised.
Then the softest smile tugged at his lips.
Barely there.
But real.
His sparkles shimmered like rose petals drifting in warm wind.
We reached the fork in the road.
He didn't sign goodbye.
He didn't wave.
He simply stood there a second longer—
as if waiting for something
or wanting something
but too careful to reach for it yet.
I took one small step closer—barely anything.
His eyes widened.
His sparkles flared gently.
I whispered, "See you tomorrow, Haejun."
He signed my name—
soft, slow, warm—
before turning away.
Only after he disappeared did I finally breathe again.
And every breath whispered:
I want tomorrow to come sooner.