"We grow quietly in the moments no one sees—in classrooms, over coffee, in the spaces in-between."
Monday mornings were hard for most students. For Yuna, they were oddly comforting.
There was a rhythm to campus life she had started to appreciate—the sound of hurried steps across the cracked concrete paths, the soft chatter from under café umbrellas, the hum of life returning after the weekend had softened. Her literature class was first thing, tucked into an ivy-covered building on the east side of Havenbrook University. The walls always smelled like old pages and rain.
Professor Hwang was already writing on the chalkboard when she entered, her steps soft, boots squeaking slightly on the polished wood floor.
"Ms. Park," he greeted her with a warm nod as she slipped into her usual seat by the window.
Yuna offered a soft smile in return, pulling her notebook from her bag. Mina hadn't arrived yet—no surprise there. Mina believed anything before ten a.m. was a form of punishment.
The topic of the day: Character motivation and emotional subtext.
"How we say things," Professor Hwang began, "is rarely as important as what we don't say. Writers, like people, live in the silence."
Yuna's pen froze mid-sentence.
Live in the silence.
Her mind immediately flashed to Eli. The sound of his voice low and steady. The way he didn't fill silence but made it feel like home.
She tucked the thought away and kept writing.
Ten minutes into class, Mina burst through the door, hair in a messy bun, scarf trailing behind her, and a half-eaten banana in one hand.
"Sorry—sorry—alarm died. Or I died. One of those," she whispered, sliding into the seat beside Yuna with exaggerated stealth that fooled no one.
Professor Hwang didn't even look up. "Glad you could join us alive, Ms. Choi."
Mina winked. "Wouldn't miss it."
Yuna bit back a laugh.
After class, they walked toward the student café. The weather had turned colder, and Mina looped her arm through Yuna's with a dramatic shiver.
"So, how's your poetry boyfriend?" she teased.
Yuna gave her a look. "He's not—"
"Oh, don't even say it. You literally glow every time we talk about him."
"I don't glow."
"You do," Mina insisted. "Like a candle. Or a very romantic fire hazard."
Yuna rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away.
They reached the café and ordered matcha lattes. Mina pulled out her sketchbook and started scribbling a design for a winter coat. Yuna watched, admiring the way her friend's fingers moved so freely.
"I envy that," she said softly.
Mina blinked. "What?"
"How you create without fear. You just… let it happen."
Mina smiled. "Maybe because I stopped caring if it was perfect. I just wanted it to be mine."
Yuna fell quiet. The words stayed with her long after they left the café.
That evening, Yuna FaceTimed her mother.
She didn't want to—but she had promised to check in once a week, and she could already imagine the missed calls piling up.
Her mother answered on the second ring. Her hair was perfect, as always. Her voice was polite, distant.
"How's school?"
"Good," Yuna said. "My literature professor is really thoughtful. I think I'm learning a lot."
"Are you keeping your grades up? You know you can't afford to fall behind again."
Yuna swallowed. "Yes."
"Have you decided what you'll do after graduation?"
"Not yet. I think I just want to finish first."
There was a pause. Not long—but long enough to say something unsaid.
"You know we expect you to come back," her mother said, not unkindly. "Once this phase is over."
This phase. Like her pain had been a passing weather report. Like moving to Havenbrook, starting over, breathing again—was temporary. A detour before she returned to the life others had planned.
"I'm not sure I want to," Yuna said quietly.
Her mother sighed. "You always were the emotional one."
And just like that, the conversation ended.
The next day, she walked to campus early.
Leaves crunched beneath her boots as she passed the bakery and waved to the florist. She stopped by the bookstore, flipping through old editions of poetry, and eventually made her way to Mocha Moon—not to see Eli, she told herself, but because it had become part of her routine.
She stepped inside, the bell chiming gently above her.
Eli was there, as always, refilling the pastry case. He looked up and smiled—real and warm.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
"Try something new?"
"Sure."
He reached for a mug. "How's school?"
She blinked. That was the first time he'd asked.
"It's… a lot," she admitted. "But good. I like my classes."
"Literature, right?"
"Yeah. We talked about emotional subtext yesterday. It reminded me of you."
He paused mid-pour. "That's either a compliment or a really deep insult."
She smiled. "A compliment. You… you speak in subtext sometimes. Like you say more than you mean to."
Eli chuckled. "Guilty."
He slid the mug toward her. A new napkin quote rested beneath it.
"You don't owe the world a performance. Just your presence." — unknown
She stared at it.
"That one's for today," he said gently.
She sat at her usual table, and for the first time, opened her journal before even taking a sip.
She didn't write poetry. Not yet.
But she wrote about her mother. About the way it felt to be seen and still not understood. About wanting to be allowed to just be.
And she wrote about Eli.
His calm. His kindness. His quiet.
That afternoon, Mina dragged her to a group project meeting with two other students from their art history class.
One was a photography major who spoke only in metaphors. The other wore flannel and had a deep obsession with ancient Greek sculpture.
Yuna didn't say much, but she listened. And when Mina leaned over and whispered, "We're making you socialize so you don't turn into a romantic recluse," she didn't even protest.
She knew Mina was right.
She needed people.
She needed more than a journal and a warm café.
She needed life again.
That night, she passed Mocha Moon just before closing.
The lights were dim. The door locked. But she paused at the window anyway, watching Eli mop the floor in soft circles, his head bent slightly, his brows furrowed in concentration.
She stood there for a minute—maybe more.
He looked up, eyes meeting hers through the glass.
He didn't wave.
He didn't smile.
He just looked at her, and she looked back, and in the stillness, something settled.
It wasn't love. Not yet.
But it was something.
A beginning.