The next morning felt heavier in the air—almost like the sky was holding its breath.
I hurried through my routine without thinking, brushing my hair, fastening my bag, tying my shoes quickly. Yet each movement felt slower. I didn't know why.
Maybe it was anticipation.
Maybe it was nerves.
Maybe it was something new settling inside me, something warm and frightening at the same time.
When I reached the school gates, my steps slowed on their own.
He wasn't under the ginkgo tree today.
My heart sank a little before my mind could stop it.
I took a shaky breath and looked around.
Then I saw him.
Standing near the flowerbeds at the far corner of the courtyard, leaning slightly forward, his fingers brushing the small white blossoms. He wasn't looking at the flowers—he was watching his sparkles reflect against them, studying the colors.
And today…
His sparkles were pale blue.
Soft.
Gentle.
Almost like morning mist.
Not sad.
Not scared.
Just thoughtful.
When he turned and spotted me, the blue brightened instantly.
Then softened into a lighter shade, almost like a shy morning sky.
He walked toward me with slow steps, his gaze never leaving mine.
Before he even reached me, he raised his notebook.
"Morning."
I smiled. "Good morning."
He hesitated before writing again.
"You looked for me."
My cheeks warmed. "Well… yes. I thought you'd be at the tree like always."
He tapped the page once with his pen, almost like a tiny apology.
Then added:
"Wanted to see something new."
I glanced back at the flowers, their petals trembling in the breeze. "Did you like them?"
He wrote:
"They looked like your sparkles."
I blinked hard. "…My sparkles?"
He nodded.
I hadn't known I had any.
But the way he wrote it—careful, soft—it felt like he wasn't teasing.
Just observing.
Just telling the truth as he saw it.
"What color are mine?" I asked quietly.
He paused.
Then pointed to the tiny white blossoms behind him.
My breath caught.
"…White?"
He nodded, then scribbled something:
"White when you're calm.
Silver when you're thinking.
Pink when you're… happy."
My voice nearly broke. "You… see that?"
He nodded again, shyly.
I didn't know how to react.
So instead, I smiled—slow, warm, maybe a bit shaky.
His sparkles flickered into the softest shade of blue.
---
In class, he seemed more alert than usual.
Not nervous, but… tuned in.
Whenever the teacher explained something complicated, he glanced at me. Sometimes I mouthed explanations quietly, sometimes I pointed at diagrams, and sometimes he just watched my lips move, nodding slowly as if memorizing the shapes of the words he couldn't hear.
At one point, he tapped my notebook.
I leaned closer.
He wrote:
"Your hair is different today."
I instinctively touched it. "Oh—did it look strange?"
He shook his head hard—eyes wide suddenly, sparkles fluttering.
Then he wrote quickly, almost embarrassed:
"Pretty."
Heat exploded in my face. I stared at the page, unable to move for a second.
"O–oh. Thank you."
He lowered his head, scribbling something else.
"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't," I said immediately. "Really. I… liked it."
He looked up.
And his sparkles changed from pale blue to soft lavender.
A new color.
Gentle.
Warm.
Quietly emotional.
He didn't write anything else after that.
He didn't need to.
---
During break, instead of letting the noise push him into his shell, he looked at me first—checking, searching, grounding himself in my presence.
And then he breathed out, steadying himself.
He took his notebook.
Wrote:
"Teach me one word today?"
I blinked. "In sign language?"
He nodded.
I tried to think of something simple but meaningful.
Then I remembered yesterday.
The way his hand hovered between us.
The warmth in his eyes.
The moment when silence felt full instead of empty.
So I signed:
Thank you.
He watched intently, eyes following every motion of my fingers.
When I finished, he reached out.
Not touching me—just lightly cupping my wrist in the air, guiding my hand a little higher.
Then he shook his head and signed it himself—
Beautifully.
Gracefully.
The motion was soft, like giving gratitude shape.
I felt warmth rise in my chest.
He wrote:
"Your hands say more than your words."
I swallowed. "You always say things that make my heart… strange."
He tilted his head.
"Strange bad?"
"No…" I whispered. "Strange good."
His sparkles softened into lavender again.
---
Lunch brought a surprise.
He opened his lunchbox slowly—as if nervous.
Inside were small rice balls, shaped almost like tiny hearts.
My own heart stuttered.
"You… made these?"
His sparkles turned pink instantly.
He nodded.
Then wrote:
"Tried."
I couldn't stop the smile pulling at my lips. "They're adorable."
He shifted in his seat, clearly embarrassed.
Then, hesitating, he pointed at one of the heart-shaped rice balls.
And pushed the entire lunchbox toward me.
"You want me to try them first?"
He nodded.
I picked one up carefully.
His eyes followed nervously.
I took a bite.
Warm.
Soft.
Slightly salty.
A little uneven.
Absolutely perfect.
"It's delicious," I said.
His shoulders loosened.
His sparkles brightened.
His breath exhaled quietly.
Then he wrote:
"I was scared they wouldn't be."
I shook my head. "You don't have to be scared with me."
He paused.
Then, slowly, carefully…
Signed:
I know.
The motion was small, but steady.
And it made my eyes sting unexpectedly.
---
After school, he didn't wait at the courtyard.
He walked beside me immediately, almost as if he'd been waiting for me to pack up.
The breeze brushed between us as we stepped through the school gate.
He didn't seem startled today.
Or overwhelmed.
Or lost.
He seemed…
Peaceful.
We walked in silence at first—but not the uncomfortable kind.
A warm silence, full of things we didn't know how to say yet.
Halfway down the street, he slowed.
I turned to him, heart kicking up.
He lifted his notebook.
Wrote:
"You looked sad for a moment earlier."
My breath caught. "…You noticed?"
He nodded, sparkles shifting from lavender to a deeper purple—concern.
I hesitated. "It wasn't sadness. Just… overwhelmed, I guess."
He blinked slowly.
Then signed something.
Not a word I knew.
It was gentle—two motions, soft and flowing.
I shook my head. "What does that mean?"
He wrote:
"Means:
'I'm here.'"
My throat tightened.
"Haejun…"
His eyes softened, sparkles warming into gentle purple.
Then he signed it again.
Slowly.
Steadily.
I'm here.
My breath trembled.
I lifted my hands, trying to copy the sign.
My fingers shook halfway through.
I messed up the second motion entirely.
I probably looked ridiculous.
But when I looked up—
He wasn't laughing.
His sparkles glowed warm, bright purple—almost shimmering.
He reached forward—
Not to touch my hand.
But close enough that I felt warmth from his fingers as he gently corrected my motion.
And for a second—
Just one beautiful second—
Our hands moved together.
Not touching.
But moving in the same space.
Breathing the same air.
Sharing the same quiet.
When I finished the sign, he nodded.
Then wrote:
"Perfect."
My voice cracked. "You're lying."
He shook his head.
Then signed one more thing—something small, simple, but spoken with his eyes:
You're enough.
I blinked hard.
He didn't wait for me to respond.
He just stood there, sparkles softening into gentle lavender again.
Then he wrote one last line:
"Tomorrow… walk slower with me?"
I nodded immediately.
"Yes. I'll walk as slow as you want."
He smiled—small, real, warm—
And the lavender sparkles drifted around him like soft petals as we parted ways.