(Kang Minjae's POV)
The first day of a new semester never really changes. Same chaos, different year.
The scrape of desks echoed across the room, loud enough to make me flinch. Voices bounced off the walls, overlapping in a messy chorus as everyone rushed to claim their friends before the bell rang. Bags thudded onto desktops, chairs wobbled, laughter rang out in bursts that rose and fell like waves.
Even the teacher, standing at the front with a roll book tucked under one arm, already looked tired—and it was barely the first period of the first day.
I sat by the window, in the seat I always chose, pretending to be busy. My notebook lay open, a new page waiting, but the only thing I'd managed to write was the date in the top corner. The rest of the space gaped at me, a white void I had no energy to fill. I tapped the end of my pen against it in rhythm with my thoughts, as if I could trick words into appearing.
I never liked first days. Too much noise. Too many smiles exchanged too quickly, promises of "let's hang out" that everyone knew would fade in a week.
That was when the teacher's voice cut through the commotion.
"Ha-neul. You'll be sitting here, next to Minjae."
The name snagged in my mind. Unfamiliar. I hadn't heard it before.
I lifted my head before I realized I was doing it.
The boy who walked forward didn't fit the script. Transfer students usually hesitated, shuffling their feet or bowing too low, offering awkward smiles to soften the strangeness of being new. But him? His steps were steady, measured. His expression calm. Too calm, like nothing in this room could touch him.
Light-brown hair caught the sunlight as he passed, strands glinting like polished silk. For a heartbeat, I wondered if it was actually that soft or if it was just the glow through the window making me imagine things.
He didn't greet the class. Didn't bow. Didn't so much as glance at me. He slid into the empty desk beside mine as if it had always been waiting for him, movements smooth and unhurried.
The shift was instant.
The classroom was still buzzing—someone in the back was shouting across three rows, two girls near the door were already whispering about after-school plans—but the air around my desk felt… different. As if he'd carried a pocket of silence with him, and by sitting there, he'd trapped me inside it too.
"Minjae," the teacher snapped, and I jolted upright. "Help Ha-neul with anything he needs."
"Y-yes, teacher."
The answer left me too fast, my voice sharper than I intended. Ha-neul didn't even twitch. He had already pulled a notebook from his bag, flipping it open with a practiced flick. His movements were precise, neat. Not a single wasted motion. The kind of habits that don't come from school but from something stricter.
I thought about saying something. Hi, nice to meet you. Something simple. Something normal. But the words stuck in my throat. Talking was never my strength, and with him… it felt impossible. Like speaking would break some invisible rule, like his silence was deliberate and I wasn't allowed to disturb it.
He stared at the blank page in front of him. Not writing. Not doodling. Just staring, like he was waiting for the page to reveal something to him.
I shifted in my seat, eyes darting anywhere else—the blackboard, the back of the room, the mess of chalk dust near the window—but always returning to him. His posture was perfect, his breathing even. He didn't fidget, didn't moves his fingers, didn't sneak glances at the clock. He barely moved at all.
Almost like he wasn't a student at all, but someone pretending to be one.
I forced my focus back to my own notes, but my ears betrayed me. I picked up every tiny sound from him—the faint click of his pen, the soft rustle when he adjusted in his chair. Even those small noises seemed intentional, like nothing about him happened by accident.
The distance between our desks wasn't even a handspan, but it felt like a wall. Not the kind you climb. The kind you stand before, hesitating, wondering what lies on the other side and whether you should try to find out.
I told myself to focus on the lesson, but the words on the board blurred into meaningless lines. Instead, my mind kept circling the same questions: Who was this guy? Why did he feel so different from everyone else?
The bell rang at last, cutting through the fog of my thoughts.
The room suddenly became chaotic.Chairs scraped back, voices collided, plans spilled out into the hallway—cafeteria runs, game matches after school, whispered gossip already blooming. The energy was wild, a rush of noise and movement filling every corner.
Ha-neul moved differently.
He closed his notebook with a quiet snap, tucked it neatly into his bag, and stood. No rush. No hesitation. He didn't look at me, didn't join the laughter, didn't speak a single word. His steps were steady, silent, and he slipped out the door without leaving a trace, letting it swing softly shut behind him.
I stayed seated longer than I meant to, my bag half-packed. The chatter around me blurred into background noise, meaningless compared to the silence he'd left behind.
He hadn't spoken once. Not to me. Not to anyone.
And yet, his silence echoed louder in my head than all the voices in the room combined.