The lecture hall buzzed with low chatter as students drifted in, shaking off the morning drizzle from their jackets and scarves. Kaya sat in her usual spot near the middle, sketchbook open—not because she intended to draw, but because holding a pencil gave her something to do with her hands.
Professor Lee entered, his voice steady as he began the day's discussion on memory and perception. Kaya listened quietly, scribbling notes, her gaze occasionally slipping toward the windows where droplets slid in crooked trails.
Her thoughts weren't on the lecture.
They were on the sound of piano keys.
On the boy who had asked if she was the one who drew him.
On the way his voice carried no judgment, only calm curiosity.
When class ended, students spilled out into the corridor. Ji-eun looped her arm through Kaya's, as though they were inseparable, even though Kaya often felt like she was only there to fill silence.
"Did you hear? Min-jae wants to write me a song!" Ji-eun beamed, loud enough for the passing students to overhear.
"He said he was thinking of a melody that matches my laugh. Isn't that sweet?"
Kaya forced a smile. "Mm. Sweet."
Her chest tightened, but she didn't know why. Maybe because she remembered a time, years ago, when that same boy had waited outside her classroom with a carton of strawberry milk. She hadn't said anything then either.
Ji-eun tilted her head, studying Kaya with a mock pout.
"You're so quiet these days. You should come with us sometime—Min-jae and I. We could all eat together. It wouldn't be weird, right?"
Kaya looked away. It would be unbearable, she thought, but only murmured, "I'll think about it."
That evening, Kaya retreated to her favorite corner of the library—a quiet nook behind rows of psychology journals. She pulled out her sketchbook, intending to draw something… anything. But her pencil hesitated.
Instead of lines of rain or trees or random faces, her hand drew the curve of a piano key. A hand hovering above it. The outline of a boy's profile, eyes lowered, lost in thought.
She stopped halfway, cheeks warming.
What was she doing?
Closing the sketchbook, she pushed it aside and picked up her textbook instead. But the words blurred. Her mind kept circling back to the same moment: his quiet smile when she admitted, maybe.
Meanwhile, on the other side of campus, Moon Seo-jun sat by the piano again, notebook open. He pressed one key, then another. His pencil tapped against the paper, hovering over unfinished chords.
In the corner of the page, faintly drawn, was the sketch someone had given him.
He hadn't thrown it away. He couldn't.
Because every time he looked at it, he felt the same thing he'd felt this morning, when he caught her watching:
That he wasn't entirely alone.
To be continued...