The bell rang—sharp, metallic, and a little too loud for the tired afternoon—but Min-woo barely noticed. His mind was still caught on Sora: the way her smile seemed to warm the air around her, the softness in her voice when she spoke to him. For the first time in a long while, he wondered if something was shifting in his life.
From the back corner of the classroom, Eun-Jae slouched lazily in his chair, red-permed hair catching the fluorescent light in little flickers. He had the look of someone who was perfectly at ease, but whose attention was far sharper than he let on. His gaze trailed after Min-woo with the patience of a cat watching a mouse. There was no need to rush.
Sora moved differently now. Not obviously—not enough for most to notice—but Min-woo felt it. A folded note tucked between the pages of his literature textbook: You missed a good joke in math class today. A brush of her shoulder as they passed in the hall, followed by a teasing, "Careful, you'll knock me over." The way she borrowed his notes and returned them neatly stacked, with a tiny doodle of a cat in the corner.
Each moment was small, almost forgettable, but together they pressed against the quiet walls he'd built around himself.
Sometimes, when she spoke, her eyes lingered on his just a heartbeat too long, as if she was letting him in on something no one else could see. He found himself watching for it.
Three days later, the sunlight was angling low through the classroom windows, catching dust in the air. Min-woo was packing his bag when Sora slid into the seat beside him.
"You've been quieter than usual," she said, resting her elbow on his desk.
He glanced at her. "Quieter? I'm always quiet."
She smiled, soft and deliberate. "I mean, you're not just quiet. You're different. I like that."
It lodged in his chest like a warm stone. He almost asked her what she meant, but movement at the door caught his eye. Eun-Jae leaned against the frame, hands in his pockets, smirk faint and unreadable.
"Hey," Eun-Jae said casually. "Took you two long enough to start hanging out."
Sora didn't look at him. She only glanced back at Min-woo with a hint of amusement, as if the comment was beneath notice.
The whispers started small. Two girls by the lockers glancing at him and murmuring. A boy from the soccer club passing with a grin that seemed too knowing. His phone buzzing during lunch with an anonymous text: Good luck, lover boy.
He told himself it was nothing. People talked, people joked. Besides, Sora hadn't mentioned anything, and she still greeted him in the corridors, still waved from across the courtyard.
Eun-Jae, though, was always somewhere nearby—at the vending machine when Min-woo passed, leaning on the railing outside the library, lingering by the stairs. Watching.
It was a Tuesday when it happened. Most of the class had emptied out, chairs scraping back, footsteps echoing into the hall. Min-woo lingered, sliding his books into his bag.
Sora was still at her desk, doodling absentmindedly in her notebook. She glanced up, caught his gaze, and her lips curved into a smile.
"Hey," she called, walking over. "Got any plans after school?"
"Not really. Why?"
"There's a café nearby I like. Thought we could get coffee. It's quiet enough to actually talk."
His heart gave a small jump. "Just… us?"
She tilted her head. "Unless you're afraid to be seen with me."
He tried to sound casual. "Sure. Café it is."
"Front gate. Ten minutes," she said, and turned toward the door.
In the hallway, Eun-Jae was leaning against the wall. He didn't say a word as she passed, but his smirk widened.
The walk to the café was slow, unhurried. The sun was beginning to fall, spilling warm light over the rooftops. The air carried the last hints of summer heat, softened by a cool breeze that lifted stray strands of her hair.
They passed the corner store, the florist, a rack of parked bicycles that clinked faintly in the wind. Sora walked a half-step ahead, turning now and then to make sure he was close.
"You always go straight home after school?" she asked.
"Usually. Not much else to do."
"No wonder you're so quiet," she teased, then smiled. "I like it, though. You actually listen."
He ducked his head slightly, unsure how to respond.
They crossed the street. Dandelion Brew sat nestled between two older buildings, its wooden sign weathered but still neat. Warm yellow light glowed through the windows.
Inside, the air smelled of coffee and cinnamon. They chose a booth by the window. Outside, the street was still busy enough to feel alive, but quiet enough to hear the clink of spoons on ceramic.
At first, they talked about light things—teachers they disliked, the time she'd accidentally set off the fire alarm in middle school, how bad the cafeteria bread was. She laughed often, tossing her hair back, leaning in just enough to make him feel like the only one in the room.
When her phone buzzed, she glanced at it briefly before sliding it back into her bag.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Just my brother," she said easily. "He's annoying."
They stayed until the sunlight turned orange and the shadows outside stretched long.
"You want to keep hanging out?" she asked as they stood. "My place isn't far."
He hesitated—not long, but long enough for her to notice. "Yeah," he said.
Her neighborhood was quieter. The sound of traffic faded, replaced by the creak of gates and the soft rustle of trees. A dog barked once from behind a fence.
Her house was small but well-kept, with potted plants lining the porch. She unlocked the door and motioned for him to follow.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of jasmine tea. She led him into the living room, gesturing toward the couch.
"Sit. I'll make something warm."
From the kitchen came the gentle clink of mugs and the soft hiss of boiling water. He let his eyes wander—photos in neat frames, a stack of magazines on the low table, a folded blanket draped over the arm of the couch.
She returned with two cups. "Careful—it's hot."
They sat, a lighthearted drama playing on the TV. She made little sarcastic comments about the plot, and he found himself laughing more than he expected.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She picked it up, glanced at the screen, and smiled faintly—then flipped it facedown.
For just a second, the name had been visible.
Eun-Jae.
He said nothing. Just sipped his tea, heat curling in his chest—not from the drink.
Min-woo set his cup down, the faint ring of ceramic on wood sounding louder than it should have. Sora leaned back into the couch, legs crossed, her attention half on the TV and half on him.
"You're too stiff," she said suddenly.
He blinked. "What?"
"You sit like you're in an interview. Relax." She nudged his knee with her foot, playful, easy. "This isn't school."
The words were warm enough to disarm him, but that little flash of Eun-Jae's name on her phone stayed in the corner of his mind like an oil stain that wouldn't wash out. He tried to focus on the screen, but the characters blurred into meaningless movement.
Sora took another sip of tea, watching him over the rim of her cup. Her gaze lingered just a little too long before she looked away, as if gauging something.
"You've been hanging out with me a lot lately," she said lightly.
"Yeah," he replied, unsure what she was leading to.
"You're not worried people might… get ideas?"
He thought about the whispers in the hallway, the text messages he'd ignored. "People can think whatever they want."
That earned him another small smile. "Good answer."
Her phone buzzed again. This time she didn't reach for it immediately. Instead, she let it sit there, screen lighting up once, twice, then going dark.
The quiet pressed in. Outside, a motorbike passed, the sound swelling and then fading into the distance.
Finally, she picked up the phone and read whatever was there. Her thumb moved in a quick tap, and she set it down again.
"You have to go soon?" she asked casually.
He shook his head. "Not unless you want me to."
Her lips curved, but her eyes didn't quite match the smile. "Then stay a bit. I like having you here."
She pulled out her own phone again after a few minutes, scrolling through something he couldn't see. Then, almost as an afterthought, she leaned toward him.
"Hey—let's take a picture," she said, already shifting closer.
"For what?"
"Just… memory's sake." She held up her phone, angling it so both their faces fit into the frame. "Peace sign."
He hesitated. The closeness, the faint scent of her hair, the glow of her skin in the lamplight—it all pushed at his better judgment. Slowly, he raised his hand in the gesture.
The shutter clicked. She glanced at the photo, smiled faintly, and set the phone aside.
The TV droned on, but she muted it after a while, turning her body toward him. "You know," she said, "you're not as hard to talk to as you think."
"I didn't think I was," he replied, but there was a softness in his tone.
Her eyes searched his face, and for a moment he felt something almost real there—something beyond whatever game she might be playing.
Almost.
Her phone buzzed again. She leaned away to check it. His eyes flickered toward the screen without meaning to. A single message preview was visible before she turned the phone away: He's there now?
He didn't see who sent it, but his stomach tightened.
"Do you… have a lot of friends texting you?" he asked, aiming for casual.
"Not really," she said easily, slipping the device into her pocket. "Why?"
"Just wondering."
The air between them seemed heavier now, though her voice stayed light.
She stood suddenly, stretching. "Want something sweet? I've got those red bean buns from the market."
He nodded, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
Left alone, he stared at the muted TV. He couldn't hear her in the kitchen—only the occasional clink of a plate. His thoughts spun in quiet loops: the name on her phone, the messages, the odd timing of her invitation today.
And yet, when she came back with a plate of warm buns and that same easy smile, some part of him still wanted to believe none of it meant anything.
They ate, she teased him about the way he held his chopsticks, and for a moment the tension faded into something almost comfortable.
But it didn't last.
A knock at the door startled them both. Three short raps, quick and familiar.
Sora glanced toward it, then at him. "It's probably nothing." She stood and went to the door, opening it just enough to look outside.
From where he sat, Min-woo couldn't see who it was—but he caught a low murmur of voices. Hers was calm. The other was too soft to make out, but there was a rhythm to it that prickled something in his memory.
She closed the door after a moment and returned, expression smooth. "They had the wrong house," she said simply, sitting back down.
Min-woo forced a nod, but the unease in his chest had deepened.
The evening dragged into that in-between time when the sky was neither fully dark nor truly light. Shadows from the window stretched across the living room, pooling in the corners.
When he finally stood to leave, she walked him to the door.
"Today was fun," she said, voice warm. "Let's do it again."
He managed a smile. "Yeah."
But as he stepped out into the cooling air, the unease followed him.
From the sidewalk, he glanced back once. She was still in the doorway, watching him go, her phone glowing faintly in her hand.
And behind her, just for a heartbeat, he thought he saw a shadow move in the hallway—tall, still, familiar.