The first time I saw you, you were sitting alone on the rooftop, headphones on, legs dangling over the edge like you didn't care whether you flew or fell. The sky was grey, heavy with late autumn clouds, and the wind tugged at your scarf like it wanted to carry you away.
I didn't mean to go up there. I just wanted a place to think.
But you turned around the second the door creaked open.
Our eyes met.
And for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
You didn't smile—not really. Just pulled one side of your mouth up like you were amused I'd found your secret place. You patted the space beside you, no words, just invitation. I hesitated. You watched.
That day, I sat next to you in silence.
I didn't even know your name yet.
But somehow, I already knew you were going to be a storm in my quiet life.
I didn't ask your name that day. And you didn't ask mine.
We just sat there, listening to the wind and the distant hum of traffic below. I heard the faint sound of a piano through your headphones, soft and slow—like raindrops on glass.
"You like music?" I finally asked.
You turned your head slightly, eyes half-lidded like you'd been waiting for me to speak. "I like sad songs," you said. "They sound honest."
That line stayed with me.
Most people avoid sadness. You seemed to invite it in, let it stay for tea.
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. And you didn't seem to mind.
That became our first routine—sharing silence.
Each day after school, I'd find you there. Always with your music, always at the edge. You never told me to come. I never asked if I could. But we kept meeting like the world had planned it.
It wasn't until the fourth time that I learned your name.
"Yuna," you said, staring at the clouds. "It means 'to endure.' Fitting, right?"
You didn't ask for mine.
So I gave it anyway.
"In-ha."
You smiled then—just barely. "Sounds like a painter's name."
"How would you know?"
"You look like someone who carries too much in his eyes."
You didn't know it, but you hit the truth like a dart. I'd lost my mother two years before. Since then, nothing had color. Not even my paintings.
But you—you were like sunlight slipping through a cracked window. You didn't try to fix anything. You just sat beside the brokenness, unafraid.
Weeks passed.
We talked more.
You told me about the songs you loved, the stories you wanted to write, the people you pretended to understand. I told you about my paintings, the ones I never showed anyone, not even Seojin.
You asked me once, "Why do you paint?"
I said, "Because sometimes words don't work."
You nodded like you already knew that answer. Like you'd lived it.
Then, one day, you didn't show up.
I waited for hours on the rooftop.
The wind felt colder without you. The silence heavier.
The next morning, you walked into homeroom like nothing had happened. I was annoyed. Not because you'd left, but because I had missed you.
"You okay?" I asked.
You looked surprised.
Then you said, "Some days are just heavier."
I didn't ask more. Something told me not to.
That was when I realized—there were parts of you I wasn't meant to reach yet.
But I wanted to.
Maybe that was the beginning of the end.
Because loving you… was never going to be simple.
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