The next day, Ji-Woo didn't show up for class.
His seat by the window remained empty, the morning light pouring onto the cold desk as if waiting for someone to return.
Min-Ho didn't ask where he was.
He just stared at that chair too long. Long enough for his brother, Jun-Ho, to notice.
"You're acting weird," Jun-Ho muttered, leaning over. "He's just a classmate."
Min-Ho said nothing. He couldn't explain it anyway.
Not the way Ji-Woo's wrists had trembled in his hands.
Not the way his voice cracked when he said "no one came looking."
Not the way Min-Ho still felt the warmth of his skin hours later, like a ghost clinging to his fingers.
---
The rooftop was quiet.
Ji-Woo stood near the fence, arms crossed, coat loose, wind brushing his face like cold fingers.
He hadn't planned on skipping class. But his body had brought him here without asking.
It was safer to be above everything. Away from them all.
He heard the door open behind him.
He didn't need to turn to know it was Min-Ho. Again.
Min-Ho didn't speak. He just walked to stand beside him.
Two figures. Side by side. No words.
They watched the city together.
Grey. Still. Heavy.
Ji-Woo finally said, without looking at him:
"You should stop following me."
Min-Ho responded just as quietly:
"Then stop walking toward where I'll always find you."
Ji-Woo bit the inside of his cheek. His throat was tight again.
Min-Ho reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out—a small carton of strawberry milk.
He held it out.
Ji-Woo hesitated. Then took it.
A tiny breath escaped him. Almost a laugh. Almost.
"You remembered," Ji-Woo murmured.
"I remember everything," Min-Ho said. "Even the things you wish I didn't."
Ji-Woo didn't answer. He opened the carton and drank.
The silence between them softened—not vanished, but changed.
It wasn't a wall anymore.
It was a bridge.