Ji-Woo hadn't planned to see Min-Ho that night.
But the world seemed determined to keep crossing their paths.
The school was almost empty when Ji-Woo returned to pick up his forgotten sketchbook. The hallways hummed with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, lockers lined up like silent witnesses.
At the far end of the corridor, he saw him.
Min-Ho.
Leaning against the wall, hands in his coat pockets, like he had been waiting all along.
---
"Why are you here?" Ji-Woo asked, voice flat.
"You left something," Min-Ho said simply.
He held out the sketchbook. Ji-Woo took it but avoided his eyes.
"Thanks," Ji-Woo muttered.
Min-Ho didn't leave.
---
There was a long pause.
Ji-Woo shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the silence. But Min-Ho seemed perfectly fine in it, like he could live there forever.
"You're making this harder," Ji-Woo finally said.
"Making what harder?"
"Everything."
Min-Ho's voice softened. "Maybe you mean everything feels harder because I'm here."
Ji-Woo clenched the sketchbook against his chest. "Maybe."
---
They stood like that — in the half-lit hallway, the smell of old books and winter air clinging to their coats — saying nothing.
But it was too much.
Ji-Woo finally whispered:
"Do you ever wish we'd never met?"
Min-Ho's answer came without hesitation:
"Not once. Not even when it hurt."
Ji-Woo's throat tightened. He wanted to scream, to cry, to run.
Instead, he said nothing.
And Min-Ho let him.
Because sometimes, the most painful truths are the ones you don't force out loud.