Liz knew the rooftop was empty at lunch. The usual crowd preferred the cafeteria's warm lights and chatter. But she preferred the sky—wide, open, and honest.
Today, she arrived first. Backpack slung over one shoulder, sketchbook in hand. She pushed open the heavy door, stepped onto the sun-warmed concrete, and settled at their usual spot—a low wall overlooking the courtyard. From here, she could see the city beyond the school's perimeter: rooftops stacked like puzzles, distant traffic humming a lullaby, and the occasional bird weaving its path through the concrete canyons.
She lifted her sketchbook, pencil poised. But she couldn't focus. Her mind wandered to Wonwoo.
He appeared without a sound—his footsteps almost swallowed by the breeze. Dark hair catching stray sunlight. Headphones around his neck, camera slung low against his side. He gave a small nod, and the silence settled between them like an unspoken agreement.
Liz looked down at her sketch. She'd started drawing the skyline, but her lines felt stiff. Her eyes drifted to him. He was already crouched by the ledge, adjusting his camera. She watched the way his fingers moved—deliberate, careful—until he found the perfect frame.
Click.
A soft shutter broke the hush. Wonwoo didn't look at her. He simply stood and walked to where she sat, offering the camera. Without a word, he pressed the screen toward her.
The photo was of Liz, but not as she expected. She wasn't facing the camera. She was sketching—hair falling over her cheek—eyelashes casting a shadow on the page. In that moment, she looked peaceful, lost in her own world.
She felt her cheeks warm.
"Thanks," she said, voice quieter than the wind.
He only nodded and turned back to his vantage point by the railing.
Liz studied the photo, then placed the camera beside her. She opened her sketchbook and began to draw him—his posture, the way he leaned against the rail, the weight of the camera on his hip. She traced each line with careful strokes, almost afraid to lift her pencil.
Minutes passed without a word.
A gust of wind rattled the metal door behind them, and Liz glanced up. A few students wandered onto the roof, looking for space. She shifted, gesturing toward a bench. Wonwoo followed her subtle cue, moving away from the edge while Liz stood and reclaimed her spot on the wall.
The newcomers sat far enough that they couldn't overhear, but close enough to remind Liz that this silence wasn't just theirs. She felt exposed, vulnerable.
She closed her sketchbook mid-page.
Wonwoo paused in his photographing and walked toward her, notebook in hand. His expression was neutral, but his eyes held that rare softness she'd come to chase.
He flipped open his own notebook, revealing a page she hadn't seen before—a simple drawing of two figures under an umbrella. She recognized it immediately: the scene from Chapter 2, when they shared shelter in the rain. Only here, the figures had faces—soft, gentle smiles, eyes closed, a quiet comfort between them.
She met his gaze.
"Why now?" she asked, voice low.
He pointed to the rooftop view, then back to the drawing, and finally to her work in progress.
"Because," he said, "we both sketch what we see."
Her heart thumped oddly. The rooftop suddenly felt warmer, their shared silence more meaningful than words could ever be. She realized they were starting to speak—through pencils, through shutters, through moments where the world fell away and only they remained.
She closed her sketchbook fully and met his eyes. He gave a small, almost-imperceptible nod, then returned to his camera.
Liz exhaled, steadying herself. She opened her sketchbook to a fresh page and began again, this time drawing more confidently, letting the rooftop breeze guide her lines.
And in that shared silence, something unspoken bloomed—a quiet understanding that neither needed to speak to be heard.