(Kang Minjae's POV)
The first day of a new semester always feels the same—too loud, too messy, and too fast. Desks scraping across the floor, classmates laughing about their vacations, the teacher trying and failing to calm everyone down. I sat by the window as always, my notebook open, though I hadn't written a single word. My pen just tapped against the page in a lazy rhythm.
Then the teacher called out a name I didn't recognize.
"Ha-neul. You'll be sitting here. Next to Minjae."
My head lifted without me realizing it.
The boy who stepped forward… he was different.
Light-brown hair caught the sunlight spilling through the window, each strand glimmering like silk. His posture was straight, too composed for a high schooler who was supposed to be nervous about a new seat. His face was unreadable—calm, distant, like he didn't need to belong anywhere.
And most of all—he didn't say a single word.
No introduction. No smile. Nothing.
He walked past the rows of desks without hesitation and sat down beside me. His movements were deliberate, quiet, as if he'd rehearsed them. For a second, it felt like the whole room had gone still, though I knew the noise hadn't stopped.
"Minjae," the teacher said sharply, pulling my attention back, "help Ha-neul with anything he needs."
"Y-yes, teacher." My voice came out too quickly, like I'd been caught doing something wrong.
I sneaked a glance at him. He was already unpacking his things, placing a notebook and a sleek pen neatly on the desk. He didn't look nervous, or excited, or even bored. His face was blank, a mask I couldn't read.
I hesitated, my throat dry. Should I say hello? Should I ask him something? Normally, Na-yeon would chatter endlessly, or Ji-hyun would step in with something practical. But this time, there was no one to save me.
The words stuck in my throat.
Beside me, Ha-neul opened his notebook and stared at the blank page like it was the most important thing in the world. He didn't doodle. He didn't write. He just… looked.
I shifted in my seat, lowering my gaze to my own notes. The teacher's voice blurred into background noise. Instead, I caught the smallest sounds—the click of Ha-neul's pen, the faint rustle as he turned a page.
The space between us wasn't much. Just a few centimeters of shared air. But it felt like a wall. Thick. Uncrossable.
Still, I couldn't stop glancing at him from the corner of my eye. He was too quiet. Too still. It wasn't the kind of silence people carried when they were shy. It was heavier, like he'd locked himself behind it.
When the final bell rang, everyone rushed out with laughter and chatter. Chairs scraped, bags zipped, friends called each other's names.
Ha-neul stood up calmly, slipped his notebook into his bag, and left without a word. Not to me. Not to anyone.
The door clicked shut behind him, and I sat frozen in my seat.
He hadn't said a single thing all class.
And yet, his silence lingered louder in my head than any voice I'd heard that day.