Three days passed. No piano. No boy.
Hae-won wasn't exactly looking for him. But somehow, her ears waited.
She kept walking past the music hall, sketchbook in hand, pretending she wasn't hoping to hear those familiar notes again.
Instead—silence.
Until Monday morning.
She walked into her observational drawing class and took her usual seat by the window. Sunlight streamed in gently, warming her sketchpad. The professor called names from the attendance list.
"Ji Min-jae," he said.
Her pencil paused.
Footsteps.
Then came the voice. Quiet, but firm. "Here."
She turned, just slightly.
There he was. Black hoodie, hands in his pockets, hair slightly messy. The boy from the piano room.
Min-jae didn't look around. He went straight to the back of the room, pulled out a stool, and sat. Calm. Cold. Unbothered.
She didn't know whether to feel annoyed… or curious.
---
Class ended. As students packed up, she felt someone step beside her. She looked up.
Ji Min-jae.
He looked at her sketchbook.
"You draw people well," he said.
"You watch people too much," she replied, closing it.
A pause. No reaction.
Then he said, "I liked what you said the other day."
She blinked. "What did I say?"
"You only listen when the music's good."
A corner of his mouth lifted. Barely.
"You're strange," she said.
"So are you," he replied, and walked away.
---
Later that evening, she found herself sitting alone under the big cherry tree in the campus garden. Her sketchpad was open again, but she wasn't drawing.
Not really.
She just kept thinking about his face.
The way he never smiled, but also never frowned.
The quietness in his eyes.
She sighed.
"Drawing me again?"
She jumped. "You—" Her voice caught. He was standing beside her again.
"You always sneak up on people?" she asked.
"I was just walking."
"Right."
He sat down beside her. No invitation. Just silence.
She stared ahead. "Do you always sit beside people who don't ask for company?"
"Do you always answer with questions?"
She bit back a smile. "Maybe."
He looked up at the sky. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"You don't either."
"I talk when it matters."
She glanced at him. "So does this matter?"
He was quiet.
Then: "I think so."
She didn't answer. Not with words. Instead, she tore out the page she'd been drawing on.
It was a sketch of a boy's hands. Slender, tired, playing an invisible piano.
She placed it on his lap.
He looked down.
"I don't usually draw someone twice," she said. "Unless they stay in my head."
Min-jae didn't move. Didn't speak.
But she swore—his breathing slowed, just a little.
Then he stood. Carefully folded the sketch and tucked it into his pocket.
"You don't have to fix anything," he said.
"What?"
"I just like the way you see things."
And with that, he walked away.
Hae-won sat still, the breeze brushing through her hair.
She wasn't sure what this was.
But it was something.
And something was more than nothing