The days after the willow tree moment felt different—lighter, yet fragile, like walking on glass you didn't want to break.
Areum and I still didn't say much, but the silence between us wasn't empty anymore. It was filled with something new—a quiet understanding.
At school, I noticed how she looked up from her sketchbook now and then, catching my eye with a small, secret smile. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
One afternoon, as autumn leaves drifted like golden tears around us, Areum asked softly, "Do you ever wish you could say things you're too scared to say?"
I thought about the mistakes I'd made, the words I'd left unsaid. "Every day," I admitted.
She pulled out a folded piece of paper from her bag and handed it to me.
"It's a drawing," she said. "But maybe it's also a letter."
I unfolded it carefully.
It was a sketch of two figures standing on a fragile bridge over a river. One was reaching out, the other hesitating.
I looked up at Areum. "Is that us?"
She nodded. "Trying to build a bridge."
For the first time, I realized that healing wasn't about forgetting or fixing everything at once—it was about taking small steps toward each other, even when it was scary.
That evening, I sat at my desk, writing in my notebook:
"I'm learning to build bridges, one quiet moment at a time."